The exercise:
Write about: a flashback.
Our receptionist had the day off today and I was covering for her. Was definitely having 'it's too busy to get any actual work done' flashbacks to my time in that position in Osoyoos.
Was a good reminder, I suppose, to fully appreciate my current position, which generally sees me at the front counter only very occasionally.
2 comments:
Ah, reception is one of those jobs where if you do it well no-one appreciates how much work you actually have to do, and if you do it badly the complaints are never-ending. I'm glad you're only doing it to fill in for the usual receptionist, and that you appreciate your own job a little more now as well :)
Well, the flashback fitted rather well with the direction the Pooh story was taking, so I've taken another day of our usual entertainment to continue that for the moment:
A flashback
Fenchurch was sitting on an old wooden chair that creaked whenever he moved, outside the back door of a small house in the Cotswolds. It was, in his opinion, not that much different from the Hundred Acre Woods -- a small town filled with busybodies. He eyed the Marmalade sandwich on a plate next to him, the ketchup dripping slowing on to the floor and drawing a cloud of tiny, midge-like flies.
"Paddington," called a voice from indoors, and he ignored it. "Paddington? Paddington, where are you?"
A red-face woman with the physique of an ironing board came through the back door and stopped, looking startled. "Paddington, there you are! Why didn't you answer?"
"The name's Fenchurch," said Fenchurch. "Fenchurch Street."
A look of incomprehension crossed the woman's face and then cleared up like the clouds after a burst of rain. "Oh, yes," she said. "Silly me, I always get the names of London Stations confused. Who thought to name you after a station anyway?"
Fenchurch had a flashback to the witness protection programme's interview room; a solitary, alabaster-walled cell with a single chair, bright lights and an intercom that relayed the interviewer's questions. He shuddered a little as the memories emerged like cicadas after seventeen years. The voice had demanded first to know who had named him Pooh and then become increasingly curious about who 'Christopher Robin' might be and where they were now. Pooh had averred as deeply as he could that he had no idea, and hoped just as devoutly that they never investigated the Bridge where they played Pooh Sticks as the skeleton was easily visible in the water on a sunny day. Shortly thereafter he'd been informed that his new name was Fenchurch Street and that if he dared to answer to anything else there would be tasers, baseball bats and beatings in his future. And Pooh had seen, so many times, what such things could do in the hands of an angry bear... or a professional.
"My mother," he growled, just a little defensively. His paws clenched tightly, though the woman seemed not to notice.
"Oh, well, I'm sure she had her reasons," said the woman. "My own mother decided to name my sister Hascox for no readily apparent reason and I don't think the two of them talk to this day. Anyway, I was just coming to tell you that the neighbours have lost their cat again, so if you see it you should let me know." She looked about and saw Pooh's sandwich. "Oh, that's making a mess," she said, "I'll get you a napkin. What is it, it looks delicious!"
"Marmalade sandwich," said Fenchurch. His stomach rumbled.
"What a coincidence," said the woman, "what with us just talking about names and all! The neighbour's cat is called Marmalade too, you won't have any trouble remembering!"
Greg - I think you've summed up the position quite nicely. We're very lucky at the RDOS to have someone who has been in that position for a very long time and knows the place like the back of her hand. I suspect there will be great difficulty involved in finding her replacement when she eventually retires.
Hah. So... innocent on the surface, so disturbing only a thin layer below. Masterfully done.
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