Wednesday, January 06, 2010

Jizz on the kaftan (love and peace, man)


A bit of snow and the whole country grinds to a halt. Well, that's easy to say in central London where it's pretty and white but not crippling and nothing's not working, except I could not get on a train this morning for love nor money.

So to take our minds off the weather, it's time to tell the Walthamstow Bus Station story.

I worked with this woman, about whom I won't be too cruel because there are some people who read this blog who are friends wither still, but there was no love lost between us. From day one she stood in my way and it was like that until the day she left.

She had been here for years, was pushing 50, her desk was like a rubbish tip. Half-eaten sandwiches were found in drawers years later. She was like Mr Trebus. She looked like a cross between Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and Timothy Spall as Fagin. And I'm not joking. She had the world's worst plaquey teeth, she smelled, she fell asleep at her desk and she went out every night, which was a waste of time because she couldn't remember anything she'd been to. I once spotted her in a TV show at some recital at Cecil Sharp House, and she had no knowledge of it whatsoever. She dropped off in most things, though she did win a prize for ringing a cowbell at an opportune moment in Sing-A-Long-A-Sound-Of-Music.

Anyhoo, some years back we had a work party, held at a swanky club in Mayfair. She scrubbed up rather well, but as usual had far too many red wines and when the time came to stagger home she somehow managed to get on the Tube and that was that.

She was late coming in the next day, not that she cared particularly as it was a regular occurrence. When she arrived she recounted a tale of how she'd woken up at Walthamstow Bus Station to find someone wanking into her handbag. It went all over her kaftan, too. Everyone recoiled, horrified, not least when she confessed the bag she had with her was The One. I was nearly sick.

But the oddest thing about the whole affair was that she said she was rather flattered that someone was cracking one off over her. But I suppose if you do go out with a button salesman who's half your size you have to take what you can get.

Someone rinsed off the handbag for her.

Funny woman.

11 comments:

Cocktails said...

Mmm, I assume it wasn't cold and wintry that night then.

Ishouldbeworking said...

"Someone"?? I mean, who? I know there's such a thing as Diesel Penis but who on earth would be so afflicted as to take a quick public shuffle into a stranger's handbag? Was it something about the quality of the leather?

Bloody hell.

Five-Centres said...

It had easy access.

Red Squirrel said...

Ugh.

Anonymous said...

Classy folk you work with, F-C. Are they all like that round your way?

Five-Centres said...

In the main, anon, yes they are. Including myself.

Mondo said...

Ugghh - I wish I'd waited until after lunch. But there's probably not a best time for this tale..

I once knew a hairdresser who noticed a rhythmic shuffling under her clients courtesy gown. He'd been knocking one out under there, but was chased from the shop before reaching final meltdown.

Anonymous said...

Thought as much!

A Kitten in a Brandy Glass said...

In Walthamstow bus station's defence, I will point out that this was clearly some time ago, before the shiny new(ish) station with CCTV cameras was put up. Not that I shall be loitering there much if I can help it, however.

According to my brother who works in HMV, those "listening post" things are a popular spot for dodgy blokes to engage in a quickie, particularly if the CDs in there are by Britney Spears or some other jailbaity type.

Bright Ambassador said...

Have you got her number?

LF Barfe said...

Other delights of Walthamstow's public transport interchange include a pipe-smoking derelict in a wheelchair.

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