Chelsea Marsh laid down her basket and
sighed. Another four items spilled into it, making the total of her
hand basket
up to twenty four. Wrenching her arm out of her socket as she picked
the basket
back up she headed toward the trolley bank and, removing one with a
tug, she
hurled the contents of her basket into it.
It hadn’t been a good day. No, in fact, it
had been an almost diabolically BAD day, and now that it was over all
she could
think about was going back to her flat in London and slipping onto her
couch with a hot
drink and some chocolate. Make that a vodka and some
popcorn. Actually, a bottle of wine and some crisps. Grunting she threw
all of
the items into her trolley, figuring she’d need something else to
settle her
the following night.
She yanked the trolley down another aisle,
glancing at the late night shoppers around her looking dazed and
expressionless
as they threw packets of digestives and pots of Ovaltine
in their trolleys. So this is what it is to be single, she thought as
she
continued down the freezer aisle, her eyes straying heavily on meal for
ones
and buy one get one free offers. She knew she was turning into her
mother, but
it wasn’t as though anyone were with her to notice. It didn’t matter
that her
fridge contained the vast majority of ASDA whoops items, or that her
cupboards
were laden with packets of rice for one, and tins of soup she ate all
in one
go. Or the fact that her entire social life could be written
on the back of a pigmy playing card. No, she told herself, none of that
mattered.
It was gone nine o’clock and she was out doing her weekly shop.
Not out partying or drinking, nor snuggled up to a boyfriend or
husband, and
not even exchanging words with a handsome face at a bar. No, Chelsea
was shopping. The one thing in all of the world that drove her mad to
the point of
distraction. The one thing she had asked her mother to do for her that
morning,
only to be told at 3 o’clock that afternoon that she wouldn’t be able
to make it
that day.
Chelsea threw in random packets of pasta and
sauce in the vague attempt to look nonchalant about the whole
experience, but her
face said it all. She hated shopping.
“Excuse me,” said a small voice behind her,
and Chelsea turned her head sharply to see who it was
that was interrupting her whilst she was rummaging for some frozen
chips.
The gentleman that stood before her looked
cute. No, in fact, he was downright gorgeous. His brown wavy hair was
dark, and
framed his boyish face, complete with kind green eyes and dimples. When
he
smiled at her shyly as she stood there staring at him, she jumped and
quickly
turned right round. She checked his hands for rings, or any sign of
other
female attachment and she sighed inwardly. He was probably gay then. No
one
that good looking who was not married or attached in some way had to be
gay.
Resting a hand on her hip she suddenly became
aware of the way she was dressed. Her long dark hair was greasy and
needed
washing, and she had absentmindedly pulled it into a funny knot over
her
shoulder. Her blue eyes were ringed and tired. Her blue top had coffee
stains
on it and she was wearing her least flattering skirt along with a pair
of
tights that had gained four ladders just getting off the train in the
morning.
All in all she was scruffy and disgusting, and here she was faced with
a
virtual God. There was no way she was going to triumph.
She feigned complete lack of interest as the
man stood waiting for her to ask him what he had come over for.
“Excuse me,” he said again, “but I was
wondering if you’d……” he trailed off as he saw a slight frown appear on
her
face, but then decided to carry on. “I was wondering if you realised
that you
had a piece of toilet roll attached to your tights.”
Chelsea felt squashed. All attempts to seduce
flew out of her mind, and she considered feigning complete and utter
lunacy.
She continued to stare at him and she realised that her bug-eyed
appearance was
making the God nervous.
He wrung his hands and looked away. “I
thought you ought to know that’s all. I’m sorry.”
He quickly slid back to his trolley and
disappeared around the corner of the aisle, leaving Chelsea to stare
into space like she was in a
trance.
Snapping to, she looked down and sure enough,
on her right leg, was the largest piece of toilet paper she had ever
seen in
her life. It was so huge you could wipe a giants arse
with it.
Grimacing and pulling it off her tights,
causing another huge ladder to appear, she screwed it up and put it
into her
jacket pocket. She made a mental note to burn it in a heretical ritual
when she
got home.
Throwing another meal for one in her basket
she headed for the checkouts, suddenly sick to the back teeth with
shopping,
and not really caring that she probably needed more than she had got.
What
could go wrong with twelve tins of beans and four loaves of bread,
three meals
for one and some ice cream, vodka, crisps, popcorn and chocolate?
Glancing up and down the checkout aisle Chelsea tried to spot a gap.
She laughed at
herself as she headed toward one, making mental note of how many
shoppers were
actually in the store.
In checkout 3 and 4 there were 2, and in
aisles 5, 6 and 7, there were no customers, and checkout attendant 6
looked as
though he had passed out with his face on the conveyor belt. Assistant
number 7
hand his finger up his nose and assistant 5 was staring into space, her
head
held in one hand and her hand fingering the plastic bags hanging from
the rack.
Believing the latter would probably help her
more than the other two, who were obviously so busy, she headed toward
5,
lugging her shopping trolley after her.
A gust of wind passed her as she started
forward and she saw the flying shape of a gentleman stumble forward
before
finally lurching to a halt in the aisle she was heading for. A scowl
tweaked at
the side of her mouth and she felt her blood begin to boil.
Three fucking checkouts free and this asshole
had to come riding along into the one she was headed
to. It was typical. And when he looked up, a small apology on his face,
she
realised it was the toilet roll guy and felt her anger turn to angry
embarrassment. Not only was he content with publicly embarrassing her,
he was
now trying to steal her checkout.
With determination she headed towards
checkout 5 and slammed her trolley into the side, waiting for some sort
of
response.
The Assistant looked slightly comatose and
the toilet roll guy didn’t seem to be paying any attention.
Chelsea felt a tap on her shoulder. “There’s a
checkout over here that’s free madam.” A voice said, and without
turning Chelsea smiled and looked dead at the toilet roll
man in front of her.
“That’s ok, I’m fine here.”
“But,” the voice said,
“there’s no queue over here madam.”
Chelsea shrugged, continuing to look at the
toilet roll man, trying to bore into his head, or get some sort of
reaction.
“I’m ok here, honestly.”
The voice seemed to be slightly awed by the
prospect of a customer actually wanting to wait in a queue, and became
more
persistent.
“You won’t have to wait over here madam, it’s
not a problem, it’s already open…”
Chelsea turned around with a sardonic smile and
stared directly at the puny little teenager that stood cowering under
her
wrath.
“I said I’m fine here. If I wanted to go
straight through do you think I’d still be here? I’m trying to make a
point and
how can I make it if you’re stood here embarrassing me and making me
look
stupid?”
The teenager began to quail and his hands
began shaking as he ran his hand through his greasy hair.
“So beat it!” Chelsea said, and watched as he scampered off,
glancing back with almost fright.
Turning back around Chelsea was astonished to
see that the toilet roll man was gone, and she felt embarrassment well
up
within her again as she looked at the checkout assistant, mouth open
and glazed
eyes suddenly anxious.
“Some people,” Chelsea muttered as she began to fill her bags,
suddenly tired.
****************************************************************************************************************
Slurping the last dregs of her pot noodle Chelsea sat back in the
squishy armchair and sighed,
hurling the empty contained into the bin by the sofa.
The television played to itself and she
closed her eyes. Another day at work had come and gone, and now all she
could
think about was relaxing, and resting her head for another night.
It seemed that her life was becoming as
monotonous as hell ever since she had taken the job in the finance
section of
the BBC. It was so irritating, all day looking at figures, working them
out,
sending out graphs and files of figures to programme planners, bosses
and
directors, producers and artists. When her friend Janet had said that
there was
a job going at the BBC this wasn’t what she had had in mind,
particularly as
there were a lot of exciting projects being brought into the BBC all
the time.
Chelsea grimaced. Her first four weeks had come
and gone in a flash, and now she was treated pretty much as furniture.
But her
computer screen had begun to stab her eyes when she looked at it, and
the
organised chaos that accompanied her job was beginning to really piss
her off.
It was pushing paper, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after
day. She
could go on, but the prospect was too grim to even contemplate.
Shifting in her chair her eyes flickered open
and she sighed. The News had just finished, and now a new show was
flitting it’s way onto her screen.
She opened her mouth as she saw a bedraggled
and battered character emerge from the sea and crawl up the beach.
Grabbing the remote she turned the volume up
and watched in awe as the character began to lurch and then finally
dropped to
his knees.
“It’s.”
Chelsea blinked as the title music began to
play and she felt a small laugh escape her lips. What the hell was
this?
She grabbed her TV schedule and looked it
over.
“New comedy Monty Python’s Flying Circus is
brought to you by Michael Palin, Eric Idle, John Cleese,
Terry Jones, Graham Chapman and Terry Gilliam.”
Chelsea blinked again. “Nothing else?” she
asked the empty flat and glanced up at the screen again.
Flowers were popping out of people’s heads, a
man’s face was stretched, naked women were flying on trains across her
screen.
Chelsea couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She recognised the music
as
Sousa’s Liberty Bell March, one of her ex boyfriend’s had been in a
regimental
band and had played it as a classic Army tune. Gaping at the TV set now
Chelsea
couldn’t imagine it ever being played again, especially not with the
kind of
comedy it was going to be associated with at any rate.
The music finished and suddenly she
recognised John Cleese, a comedian she’d spotted from
other shows like the Frost Report, and he was dressed up as Mozart.
There were
Pigs, and shootings, and Italian lessons, and 2 sheds Jackson and
before
Chelsea knew it she was laughing outright.
With a start she caught a glimpse of one of
the comedians. She blinked again and realised that she had seen that
face only
that evening, in the supermarket, telling her she had toilet roll stuck
to her
leg. Feeling the embarrassment creep up into her face again it was
quickly put
aside by the hilarious antics this man was getting up to. Yet there was
no way
of telling what his name was.
And then the programme had ended. Watching
the credits scroll upwards she tried to work out who was who, but the
only one
she knew was John Cleese. The other names didn’t mean
a thing to her, and she couldn’t possibly find out, not at this hour
anyway.
Glancing around her flat as if suddenly
realising she was by herself again, Chelsea smiled and made a mental
note to
watch it again the following week. She hadn’t laughed so hard in
months,
probably even years! Well actually, that was lying because she had
laughed just
the other week when one of the Executive Financiers fell down a flight
of
steps. And anyway, that toilet roll man was so cute, and she had been
really
harsh earlier in the shop, and had let her hatred for shopping take a
hold of
her senses. Perhaps she’d see him around the BBC building, perhaps
there was a
way she could hunt him out. Switching off the TV Chelsea set about
planning mentally
what she was going to do the next day to find the mysterious toilet
roll man.
***************************************************************************************************************
Chelsea looked up from her stack of write-off
papers and grimaced as Harold stamped down the corridor towards the
office, and
she quickly glanced around, hoping the floor would swallow her up so
she
wouldn’t have to deal with Kinky King. Not only did Harold King have a
reputation as a bit of a girl groper, he also had seriously bad breath
and
liked to spit at people as far away as ten metres, just in case they
hadn’t
showered that very morning.
Gripping the desk she swung her wheely chair out from underneath her
and threw herself
under her desk, glad that there was no one else there to see what she
had done
in a vain attempt to allude the Kinky King. His thunder steps stopped
outside
of the door and it swung open, jangling on it’s hinges and causing the
desks of
Chelsea’s co-workers to bounce.
“Miss Marsh!” Harold boomed as he stared into
the office. He could’ve sworn she’d been here just five minutes ago
when he had
strolled past her office on the way to the Accountants office. He
wanted
serious discussions with her about the charts on the Wildlife show
she’d handed
in.
“Miss Marsh!” he shouted again and Chelsea
quivered under the desk. She really didn’t want to have to explain why
she’d
written the entire Wildlife graphs in pink pen, nor did she want to
talk about why
she was under her desk with no excuse for being there. And most of all,
she
didn’t want Kinky King touching her arse or looking down her top, or
spitting
in her eye or putting his hand on her back.
She heard footsteps approach and squeezed her
eyes shut, reminded suddenly of hiding from the bully at school and
being found
all scrunched up in a toy box she had managed to squeeze herself into.
Chelsea
pushed herself as close to the back of her desk as possible and prayed
he
wouldn’t come around.
Instead she heard heavy breathing and that
wheezy noise of someone with too much catarrh, and then she thought she
could
see his foot, and he was leaning his weight onto the desk. She heard a
click
and then held her breath as he made to come around the desk. And then
he
stepped away and stamped back out of the office, leaving a smell of
stale water
and cigarette behind him.
Chelsea peered up and over her desk and
glanced around for signs of intruders. When she thought the coast was
clear she
looked up and saw the note scribbled on her desk pad.
“Please see me ASAP – need to discuss
reports. Harold.”
Chelsea picked up the paper with one finger
and screwed it up, tossing it nonchalantly into the waste paper bin, as
though
the last fifteen minutes under her desk had been spent some other way
other
than in fear.
The door burst open and there was her demon.
Harold, who had crept back around the corner suspicious that he was
being
ignored, stared angrily at Chelsea, who had thrown the piece of paper
in the
bin just as he had appeared at the glass.
“Well Miss Marsh, we see what you truly think
about your job don’t we?”
Chelsea felt her insides begin to churn and
she backed against her desk. There was no one here, it was lunchtime
and the
offices around her were more or less deserted. She was going to get the
bollocking of a lifetime with no one to save her.
“I’m sorry sir. I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”
Harold looked incredulous. “I saw you throw
my note in the bin, seconds after I wrote it in this very office!” he
threw his
arms in the air. “Where you were HIDING!”
Chelsea tried to compose herself but she knew
she wouldn’t be able to. There are certain men in life that had that
air of “no
one in the world can touch me so you can fight but never be victorious”
about
him, and it made Chelsea more angry than afraid of him. It frustrated
her to
tears sometimes, and although she would never let him see her cry, she
was
shaking with fury that he mistook as fear.
“I wasn’t hiding sir.”
Harold gaped. “I saw your foot!”
Chelsea cocked her head. “My foot?”
Harold nodded.
“Oh my foot! I’m sorry I thought you said a
goat.”
Harold’s jaw dropped and he looked
disbelievingly at her. “What?”
“I thought you said a goat. I thought it a
bit odd that you started talking about a goat, especially here in the
office!
Well yes if it was my foot then I must’ve been here.”
Harold spluttered. “Precisely. So why were
you hiding from me?”
Chelsea looked down at her desk, searching
for something to say. “I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t? What were you doing then?”
Her eyes scanned the desk and her eyes caught
her pen pot. “I was looking for my pen.”
“Your pen?”
“Yessir!”
“Well why didn’t you present yourself when I
called you?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was hiding from
you.”
Harold’s face took on a strange shade of red
as Chelsea looked up innocently.
“You didn’t want me to think you were hiding
so you hid from me?”
Chelsea pretended to think about it and then nodded,
smiling as naturally as she could force.
Harold’s face grew a deeper and deeper red
until he coughed and then turned about and walked out of the office.
Before he
left down the corridor he turned back and pointed at her.
“We will discuss the report later. You
haven’t heard the last of this Miss Marsh!”
And with that he stormed off down the
corridor, leaving Chelsea to breathe out and try and control her
shaking. She
sat back on her desk, pushing pens and paper off it as she did so and
she closed
her eyes, pressing her hands together in front of her face and praying
thanks
to the Lord for getting her out of that one for now.
A small cough in the doorway roused her and
she managed to peel her eyelids apart and get a hold of herself before
looking
at the new intruder on her lunchtime privacy.
Chelsea thought she recognised him from
somewhere and as he entered the office her mind flashed up an image she
couldn’t quite place.
He approached her desk as she returned to the
seat behind it and looked up at him, trying desperately in her mind to
work out
who the hell he was and why she recognised him. Perhaps the incident
with Kinky
King had haddled her brain and she was now a
psychotic who was responsible for the money spending of the BBC. She
laughed
inwardly. The BBC may as well have a lunatic finance section to
accompany the
barmy programming section.
She looked over the man stood awkwardly at
her desk. Tallish, wavy shoulder length hair, green eyes, cheeky
looking face,
thin, in his early twenties by the looks of it. She recognised him from
somewhere. He looked down at her as she stared at him before coughing
and
causing her to jump.
“Excuse me I’m looking for the Finance
Section.” He said, his voice carrying a sharpness about it that cut
right
through her thoughts and caused her to sit up.
“Well you’ve found it, although I might not be
able to help.” Chelsea waved her arms around. “There’s only me and I’m
just a
nobody graph maker.”
The man smiled gently. “Not the greatest job
huh?”
Chelsea sat back in her chair and motioned
for him to grab one himself. “When my friend said there was a job going
at the
BBC I didn’t have pen-pusher in mind.”
The man grinned. “Something a bit more
upmarket perhaps?”
Chelsea smiled, feeling at ease with this
stranger and she leant her elbows on the edge of her desk. “Well I
think the
station of toilet cleaner was filled at the time, so they put me on the
next
rung down.”
The man laughed and Chelsea joined him,
before motioning to the paper he was holding in his hands.
“Is that bundle of joy for me?”
He shrugged. “Depends whether you can help me
or not.”
Chelsea motioned for him to give her the
paper and he handed it to her. She looked it over and smiled to
herself. Wow,
another grant request. She scanned the reasons for the requests and was
about
to hand it back saying she wasn’t part of the grant request scheme when
something caught her eye.
The title of the page swam into her view and
Chelsea flicked the papers over in her hands, and grinned as she saw
what she
thought she had spotted. Monty Python’s Flying Circus stared up at her
and she
smiled wholeheartedly, knowing that she would grant this request even
if it
meant losing her job.
She looked up at the man and suddenly his
face was clearly familiar from the previous night. He was one of the
performers
she didn’t recognise, and as she smiled happily into his face he smiled
back
slightly awkwardly.
“So you’re one of the Pythons?” she asked.
He nodded and held out his hand. “Eric Idle.”
She took it and shook it. “Chelsea Marsh.”
She said and laughed gently. “I thought the show last night was
fabulous. Real
genius.”
Eric looked slightly incredulous. “You do?”
Chelsea nodded. “Yeah, I was laughing so
hard.”
He seemed consumed with incredulity and she
smiled honestly at him. “I can’t wait for the next installment.”
He didn’t seem to know what to say as she
handed him the finance grant and as she waved him goodbye he slipped
out of the
office with a look of shock still caressing his cheeks.
Glancing at the clock as she headed towards
the coffee machine Chelsea realised that she was going to be late for
an
appointment with the BBC 2 researcher and, picking up her small bag,
skipped
happily out of the office.
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