So this is the Friday that's Pam's last day at work and for this event our team is going out for lunch, a lunch where I have some chicken breast with salad and chips (hold the chips) and a pint of Timothy Taylor and three gin and Slimline, or gin and skinny tonic as A Girl orders them.
After this lunch, Pam, A Girl, my boss and I find ourselves in a pub and this is when everyone is starting to get quite drunk, uninhibited and revelatory.
At this pub is where my boss decides to recite the story of how he saw me on the AXM magazine cover in a pair of white briefs jumping mid-air a couple of months after I had started working there, a number of events that - apparently - followed the following sequence:
- My boss is queuing in a newsagent to buy some fags
- My boss catches sight of a magazine cover on the shelf and does a double take
- My boss goes back to the office, thinks over this for a few days, passes the story on to some other Directors in the company
- My boss and another Director walk down to WH Smith one lunchtime, locate AXM,
go through page after page evaluating the carnage
But on this drunken Friday afternoon this is just a story that cannot, will not affect me anymore and I am only 87% hoping the earth will open up and swallow me. And as I point out to my boss "if you don't do things like that, how boring would life be". And as my boss points out to me "this is the most exciting thing that's happened to him for a while and he was telling the story to his
wife and friends for months". So it's win-win really.
Then we go back to the office, then not just our team but everyone goes drinking, then I have another two gin and Slimline, then I go to the gym.
But on Saturday morning...it happens.
Everyone knows that nothing, never is meant to go well. Every day is a disappointment, every hour is a slap in the face, every minute that ticks off is a new punishment. However, occasionally, naive people like me will let their guard down and think that maybe, for once, there can be hope out there, maybe things will turn around for you and not everything will blow up in your face. That's when reality decides to check in again and stab you in the back with a rusty sword.
This is what happens on Saturday morning, and this is what reminds me that you can't trust anyone, everyone is an enemy, you will never really have no one ever:
During a text conversation with Anthony, he asks me what I'm up to this weekend and, in a jokey way wanting to let him know that I've dyed my hair black, I reply: "this weekend I'm mostly trying to get rid of the deep black dye in my hair, so I can look normal again"
And Anthony - a person I considered a friend, somebody I used to like, somebody I dared trust - punches me in the face with:
"Your hair couldn't get much darker, could it?"
As I'm typing this 37.5 hours later, I'm still trying to pull out the dagger from my heart.