Sunday 22 November 2009
18:13 | Posted by
Dale Darley |
The voice belongs to a 50 something bimbette. Blond hair threatened into place frames the face with gold clad bulging eyes and pink lipsticked mouth, out of which comes the ceaseless noise. I wonder why it never stops, endless mumbles which get louder when it wants us to snap to attention.
Too many years of loud music have rendered me somewhat hard of hearing. I always tell the voice I wasn’t aware that it was addressing me, so that I don’t have to be drawn into its shapeless world.
The voice troubles me, I can’t place its owner who lives in Bristol but doesn’t have that West Country twang. There’s a falseness, its hiding its origins, I know because, because is becoorse.
I learn to hate the voice, it criticizes my clothes, tucks me in and its hands touch my body uninvited. Its only been sending shrill messages for a week and I already need to escape. The pink hole is open more than it is shut and after a short while I move my desk to the other side of the room, for some much needed peace. The voice mutters under its breath only to rise to a nasty hiss when it demands ‘how dare I move’ it snarls and threatens me.
It’s too late I lose my temper; its snotty falseness grates me. The voice has landed on a nerve and jars me; the code imprinted on the ganglia, bullets in place the voice pulls the trigger. I can never hear it again without the bile rising.
Its another day, I am deliberately ignoring it. It rises higher lamenting the journey to work, no one is listening, the monkey screeches louder as if to declare ‘you will listen to me’. We all, my colleagues and I continue to tap tap on our computers; no one lifts their eyes, for to catch its eye will give it life. Its stops, silence, but the lingering echo wraps itself around each of us, rubbing harsh salt into our ears. I daren’t look up, until the extra tap tap of its keyboard is added to ours.
Eventually my bladder betrays me and I try to sneak across the uncarpeted room, past its desk. No chance. ‘Oi missus’. The pink circled hole opens and the brittle irritating false notes clatter out. The commentary on the inadequacy of the last person it had barked at flies over my head. I rush by and out of the door. Silence. The temptation not to return is great and I linger by the coffee machine, take a deep breath and eventually head back, I fly through the door and straight to my desk. Tap tap.
We place bets on when will the voice leave, its only been with us a few months. I write its name on a piece paper and stamp on it, then burn it gleefully hoping that my magic incantation will bring the leaving date closer. No such luck. In the office voice speaks differently to the men it wants to manipulate, its light and fluffy, it tinkles girlishly and coo coo’s like a dove. To the women who its thinks are beneath it, it is harsh and wintery, sharp like broken glass as it cuts you with its demands. To the women it perceives as equal it rallies along with jokey anecdotes and giggles sympathetically to their problems and plight. People complain about the voice, it is shocked and sniffles to show that it has feeling. No one cares, too late the damage is done and the voice must leave.
Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008
Too many years of loud music have rendered me somewhat hard of hearing. I always tell the voice I wasn’t aware that it was addressing me, so that I don’t have to be drawn into its shapeless world.
The voice troubles me, I can’t place its owner who lives in Bristol but doesn’t have that West Country twang. There’s a falseness, its hiding its origins, I know because, because is becoorse.
I learn to hate the voice, it criticizes my clothes, tucks me in and its hands touch my body uninvited. Its only been sending shrill messages for a week and I already need to escape. The pink hole is open more than it is shut and after a short while I move my desk to the other side of the room, for some much needed peace. The voice mutters under its breath only to rise to a nasty hiss when it demands ‘how dare I move’ it snarls and threatens me.
It’s too late I lose my temper; its snotty falseness grates me. The voice has landed on a nerve and jars me; the code imprinted on the ganglia, bullets in place the voice pulls the trigger. I can never hear it again without the bile rising.
Its another day, I am deliberately ignoring it. It rises higher lamenting the journey to work, no one is listening, the monkey screeches louder as if to declare ‘you will listen to me’. We all, my colleagues and I continue to tap tap on our computers; no one lifts their eyes, for to catch its eye will give it life. Its stops, silence, but the lingering echo wraps itself around each of us, rubbing harsh salt into our ears. I daren’t look up, until the extra tap tap of its keyboard is added to ours.
Eventually my bladder betrays me and I try to sneak across the uncarpeted room, past its desk. No chance. ‘Oi missus’. The pink circled hole opens and the brittle irritating false notes clatter out. The commentary on the inadequacy of the last person it had barked at flies over my head. I rush by and out of the door. Silence. The temptation not to return is great and I linger by the coffee machine, take a deep breath and eventually head back, I fly through the door and straight to my desk. Tap tap.
We place bets on when will the voice leave, its only been with us a few months. I write its name on a piece paper and stamp on it, then burn it gleefully hoping that my magic incantation will bring the leaving date closer. No such luck. In the office voice speaks differently to the men it wants to manipulate, its light and fluffy, it tinkles girlishly and coo coo’s like a dove. To the women who its thinks are beneath it, it is harsh and wintery, sharp like broken glass as it cuts you with its demands. To the women it perceives as equal it rallies along with jokey anecdotes and giggles sympathetically to their problems and plight. People complain about the voice, it is shocked and sniffles to show that it has feeling. No one cares, too late the damage is done and the voice must leave.
Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008
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