Category: Writing

‘Secret Santa’: 11 Sleeps to Go

Erm… as it turns out, I’m now going to be quite busy tomorrow. So, Dear Reader, here is the second installment of ‘Secret Santa‘ today. Enjoy!

*******

Unexpectedly, Josie called me the next day. She said she wanted a ‘quiet word’, and all I could do was imagine her hot breath in my ear. We agreed to rendezvous in the empty conference room, so I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom en route. Just to freshen up, adjust my underwear, that sort of thing.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table. Her long legs were crossed and her business skirt had ridden up to expose smooth, tanned thigh. She must use an all over sunbed because her tight-fitting, white blouse contrasted nicely with the colour of her caramel cleavage, making the most of her small but perky tits.

“Thank you for coming to speak with me, Harry. I realise you’re very busy.” She waited until I’d closed the door and sat down before continuing. “I need to speak to you about Shazza.”

“Sharon on reception?” I asked with an innocent face.

“Yes. I’m afraid she’s made a complaint against you. Apparently you were very rude to her yesterday.” Josie’s tone and steady gaze was meant to impart the seriousness of the situation. It just made me want to cover her plump lips with my own even more.

“Josie…I don’t know what to say. I’m…Is this about Secret Santa? I know I was a bit short with Shazza, but I was extremely busy at the time finalising our bid for the Clovis account. So this…is this an official complaint?” I enquired, feigning immense concern. Little Shazza’s had the nerve to make a complaint? That’ll be the day.

Josie looked flustered at my reply. A splash of humility can work wonders when you have as prickly a reputation as mine. “Er, no. Not an official complaint per se, but she mentioned the incident to me in private conversation. I thought I should have a word. I could see she was very upset.”

Not an official complaint, then? Interesting. “Let me assure you, Josie, that I’ll apologise to Shazza at the earliest possible opportunity.” I reached over and covered her delicate but beautifully tanned hand with my own and let it rest there.

“Look, I realise I can come off as a bit abrupt but I have a very stressful job. I’ll try to be a little more conciliatory in the future.”

She looked relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I realise Mr Kontrell can be a very demanding boss…”

I didn’t let her finish. “Josie, you’ve only been with F A Kontrell for, what, a couple of months now? We’re an expanding business, so one should expect there to be a little pain.” Time for a little self deprecation. “That would be me,” I said with a cutesy finger wave.

Her giggle was delightful. So was the way she used her free hand to push a lock of shiny, black hair that had fallen across her face, back over her ear. Her other hand was still trapped beneath my own and she seemed in no particular hurry to retrieve it. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair.

“So, how are you finding it here? Are you glad you joined us?” I asked with a rare smile.

Josie smiled back. “Yes. Everybody is very nice and, like you say, it is very busy.”

“Yes,” I replied as I sat back and crossed my legs. “It’ll soon be the 23rd and then we can enjoy Christmas.”

Josie recrossed her own legs, flashing some deliciously tanned inside thigh. An idea came to me.

“Actually, I’m not really fond of the Secret Santa tradition. I never know what to get the person,” I sighed.

“Oh, well who have you got to buy for?” she asked.

I gave her a look of bemused befuddlement. “I can’t tell you that, it’s a secret.”

She frowned and thought for a moment, pulling her shoulders back just enough for me to see a hint of lacy bra, as the buttons on her blouse gaped.

“Without some idea of who it’s for… gift vouchers?” She offered apologetically.

I grimaced. “Oh god no, I get those every year.”

“You poor thing, that’s so boring.” Josie’s hand, the one I’d been touching, moved toward me.

“Maybe you can help me,” I mused, shifting my weight forward. I lent my elbows on the table and leaned in conspiritorially toward her. “You may have noticed the office here is predominantly female. Now I won’t confirm it’s a woman I have to buy a gift for but it’s a strong possibility. I’d like to get something more…personal,” I confided in a hushed tone.

“Aw, that’s really sweet,” she replied, leaning in closer and cocking her head to one side. “How about perfume? That’s personal and functional.”

“Perfume?” I appeared to weigh up the idea. “I don’t know, I like that idea but I wouldn’t know one perfume from another without asking first, and that would give the game away. I think I’d like to get this person something fun.”

“Chocolates,” she offered emphatically.

“Er, chocolates are fun?”

“You can never have too much fun with chocolate,” Josie replied with a wink.

Saucy minx! “Well, you’re lucky in that you have a lovely physique, Josie. Not everyone is as blessed as you,” I countered.

She blushed. Dear sweet Josie, I could have eaten her up right there and then.

“Okay then,” she continued, “it has to be personal, functional and definitely fun… although not chocolates or perfume.”

“How exactly are chocolates functional?” I asked with a quizzical lift of my eyebrows.

“Er, to have fun.”

“Right, I will remember that,” I replied with a low chuckle. “Personal, functional, fun…chocolate is optional. You’ve been a great help, Josie. Thank you.”

She stood up and I allowed my eyes to wander over her body for a moment, admiring the way her hipbones thrust forward and accentuated the tautness of her flat tummy. She could have been a model. She should have been a model. It’s not often an angel crosses your path.

“And you’ll apologise to Shazza?”

Would I fuck! “Of course. Consider it done.”

We left the room together. I held the door open with one hand, cradling the small of her back with the other as I ushered her out before me. She was a honey all right and I knew exactly what Secret Santa would be giving her this Christmas…

*******

Part three will be along at the start of next week, Dear Reader. Until then, have a Song…

*Ha! Good choice, Clicky… /thinks… this would be an ideal opportunity to remind Dear Reader they can get a copy of The Underdog Anthology immediately on Kindle…*

*Oh you… /blushes…*

 

‘Secret Santa’: 12 Sleeps to Go

secret (n.) late 14c., from Latin secretus “set apart, withdrawn; hidden, concealed, private,” past participle of secernere “to set apart, part, divide; exclude,” from se-“without, apart,” properly “on one’s own” (see se-) + cernere “separate” (see crisis).

As an adjective from late 14c., from French secret, adjective use of noun. Open secret is from 1828. Secret agent first recorded 1715; secret service is from 1737; secret weapon is from 1936.

Dear Reader, I’m given to understand that sales of The Underdog Anthology have been ‘brisk’, which is very heartening – it’s an ideal stocking filler or Secret Santa gift…

*/sharp intake of breath… That’s a good idea, Clicky! I could definitely do that… /pats snout…*

I have a Christmas tale that I wrote for the ‘Christmas Underdog Anthology’, but that won’t now happen until next year. So here, Dear Reader, for your entertainment is the first installment of ‘Secret Santa’ by Roo B. Doo…

a-storyteller-needs-a-pipe

*******

I’d been watching her do the rounds all afternoon. She was shirking again, moving from desk to desk as slowly as she possibly could, irritating the hell out of everyone with her silly bloody ritual. Eventually, she got round to me. It was inevitable really. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the explosion of seasonal bonhomie.

“Hi Harry! How’s it going?” Shazza gaily chirped from behind a stack of reports I’d neatly stacked along the edge of my desk. She was gripping some red velvet tat between nervous fat fingers.

“Shaz. What do you want?” I replied. For once my curtness was justified; I was actually quite busy formatting and pivoting tables on my computer screen.

Shazza briefly frowned but quickly recovered. “It’s Christmas in two weeks,” she smiled brightly, holding up her hands to reveal the tatty Santa hat she’d been holding.

“Really? Who’d have thought? Why don’t you come back in two weeks then?”

I really was very busy and not in the mood for another of the ‘bonding’ activities that the Fat Kontroller dreamed up to keep our airhead receptionist entertained. If you’re in need of a raffle, bake-off, dress up, dress down or sweepstake, especially if it’s for charity, then Shazza’s your man.

“Ooh, looks like we’ve found our Scrooge!” she squealed for the benefit of the entire office. “We all have to play our part, Harry,” she continued in that irritatingly positive sing-song voice of hers, “and I’ve been chosen to organise Secret Santa this year.”

I sat back in my chair and swivelled round to face her. “Sharon, you’re chosen to organise Secret Santa every year. Look, I’m up to my arse in it at the moment, I don’t have time for this shit.”

I must have hurt her feelings, because she suddenly came over all professional. “You are required to select a name from the hat to buy a gift for. Minimum £10 spend. Wrap and label it with your recipient’s name, and place in under the office tree, no later than 23rd December as they will distributed at the Christmas party at The Exchange that night.”

She thrust the Santa hat toward me. It was the same cheap hat she used last year. A threadbare velour Poundland job that was probably past its ‘sell by’ date on the day she bought it. Its fur trim was meant to be white but was tinged grey from the entry and exit of dozens of grimy wrists. I really didn’t want to put my hand in there, but the sooner I got it over with the sooner I’d get Shazza out of my face. I winced and took the plunge.

“You do know my great-grandfather was half Jewish, don’t you? Next year, Shaz, I’d appreciate it if you used a yamaka, so my cultural sensibilities aren’t infringed.”

The hat felt empty. I rummaged around until I felt a slip of folded paper that had worked its way down into the pointy end. I pulled it out, looked at it, and held it up for Shazza to see. “It says ‘Harry’,” I sighed.

“No! You have to buy for somebody else!” she cried, snatching back the hat and peering inside. Her dismay quickly diminished as she spied another slip of folded paper wedged in its grubby depths. She took it out and handed it to me.

I opened it out, read it, put it in my pocket and turned my attention back to my PC screen.

“Who did you get?” Shazza asked excitedly.

“It’s secret,” I replied, focusing on the numbers on my screen.

She looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to know who’ll get you?”

I slid the slip of paper with my name on across the desk toward her. “No. Now piss off. We must be missing tons of important phone calls because you’re fannying about over here. We’re a very busy company. Chop, chop.”

Shazza scowled, turned on her heels and left. A few heads from neighbouring workstations bobbed up and quickly lowered. People walking away from my desk in a huff is not an uncommon event.

I thought about the name in my pocket. I hate the Secret Santa ritual – in the two years I’d been at the company I’d selected the Fat Kontroller from the hat on both occasions. The score so far was two bottles of malt whiskey for him and two £10 gift vouchers for me. They were from Boots and had all the hallmarks of an afterthought purchased whilst out buying haemorrhoid cream or a sandwich.

I hadn’t gotten my boss this year though. No, I’d picked out Josie’s name instead. Lithe limbed Josie in HR, with an elfin face, raven hair and legs up to her armpits. She was new to the company and the only honey in the office I’d even consider getting my fingers sticky with. Unfortunately, she came with baggage in the form of a muscle-bound boyfriend called Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from the office. With the visage of an Easter Island statue and phyisque large enough to affect gravity, Alfie would have no problem effecting profound change on the features of any love-struck suitor.

Still, an anonymous gift given legitimately might just open some doors, maybe some legs too. My mind began to whirl as I considered the possibilities. I checked the time: just 45 minutes until close of business. There was no point continuing with what I was doing now that Shazza had so inconsiderately shattered my concentration. A little Christmas gift web browsing might help me wind down and would, in all honesty and with hand on heart, be completely work-related…

*******

The second installment of ‘Secret Santa’ will follow in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dear Reader, have a Song…

 

 

Underdogs are GO!

At last! Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology is available for you to read…

the-underdog-anthology-front-and-back

In paperback or on Kindle, even a hardcover version is available if you’re feeling rich and saucy…

32 stories by nine authors across a wide range of genres – most of which are certainly not suitable for children. Sex, violence, blood, gore, booze, drugs, cowboys and smoking – this book has it all. The first anthology of Underdogs contains something for everyone and a few things that are probably for nobody. It’s a lucky dip… If you’re feeling lucky.

*You what? …/concentrates on assistant’s clicks… No, really? What is it, fucking Christmas or something? …/sigh… No matter…*

Dear Reader, apparently if you avail yourself of the ‘Look Inside’ feature from Amazon, you will be able to read my three Anthology stories in full. However, if you want to find out what happens at the end of John Duffy’s story ‘The Wheel’, you will have to buy the book…

*Oh give over… /rolls eyes…*

*******

the-fall-by-frank-davis

‘The Fall’ by Frank Davis

‘Til the Fat Lady Swings

“They’re at it again!”

John’s eyes briefly flicked up from his newspaper, taking in the bulk of his wife peering through the net curtains, before returning to yesterday’s racing results. You’re at it again, he thought but decided it was safer to respond with “Who are?”

“Next door.” Sheila pursed her lips. “They’re having another one of their gatherings,” she hissed.

Sheila craned up on the balls of her feet and twitched the curtain back further to get a better view. Oh how she wished they lived in something taller than a bungalow. The fence and bushes obscured most of the neighbour’s garden but she could just make out the tops of two heads moving toward the rear. Toward the shed. She could hear the low drone of their conversation but not their words. The shed door first creaked, then thumped.

She turned back toward her husband and snorted impatiently. “Are you listening to me? Next door have got people in their shed again. They’ll be burning things, you mark my words. Goodness knows what they’re up to.”

John put down the paper and reluctantly turned his attention to Sheila. It hurt to look at her; he had no idea where the beautiful, happy girl he’d married had gone to, but he suspected the spectacularly fat harridan stood in front of him had abducted and eaten her.

“I am, and I think you’re overreacting. In all likelihood it’s nothing. It’s just people living their lives.”

“Nothing?!” Sheila squealed incredulously. She brandished her notebook at him, the one she’d been detailing all their comings and goings in. “Strangers traipsing through the garden at all hours of the night, bonfires – that’s nothing? The noise and smoke? That’s nothing?” She resumed her watchful position at the window. Whatever the reasons for next door’s social gatherings, it was bound to be no good.

John caressed the plump armrest of the sofa with the palm of his hand. There was no point arguing with Sheila when she had a bonnet full of bees. He stood up and puffed out his cheeks. “I think I’ll go to The Crown.”

“Go on then, go. Leave me here alone with that lot,” Sheila spat out contemptuously to the retreating figure of John. She heard the front door rattle shut. “Coward!”

John stopped to light a cigarette before strolling into the balmy evening light. The sun was just setting and he was in no rush to get to the pub. Custom at The Crown had dwindled a lot in recent years, especially in the winter months, but there might be some in tonight. He lived in hope. In any case it was better than sitting at home with Sheila and her paranoid fantasies. Just about.

His hopes were dashed as he stubbed out the last of his smoke and entered the cool interior of the pub. In one corner a group of teenage boys stood huddled round the fruit machine, whooping and smashing buttons. In another, Tom and Barry sat silently nursing their pints, but apart from them The Crown was empty except for Alice. The landlady stood behind the bar, dressed to her usual nines, polishing glasses. She saw John and smiled broadly.

“Evening John. Usual?”

John sat on a bar stool and watched Alice pour him a pint. She always looked good, despite her advancing years. Fitter than Sheila, who was half her age. “Quiet in here,” he said. “It’s a lovely night, I thought it would be busier.”

Alice frowned and cocked her head. “No darling, just the boys’ brigade and dad’s army in tonight.” She set a full glass in front of John and took the fiver from his hand. “I’m not going to be able to retire to the Algarve on them.”

John pulled deeply on the frothy liquid; Alice always pulled a good pint.

Her long, manicured fingers wrapped round his wrist as she gave him his change. “Say, I’m dying for a whiz and a fag, John. You wouldn’t keep an eye on the bar for me whilst I pop upstairs? Len’s off night fishing, so I’m on my tod.”

Alice disappeared and John surveyed his local. Time was when The Crown had full time bar staff, and Len and Alice would sit out with the customers all evening. A time when the fruit machine’s pings and whirls were mere background noise and the kids with soft drinks sat outside. Now they made do between the two of them, with occasional staff at the weekend. For Len and Alice, Portugal couldn’t come too soon.

John sighed and sipped his pint. He was wrong; this was worse than being at home with Sheila. She may be a bit crazy but this felt like sitting in a rotting corpse. At that thought, the fruit machine burst into a frenzy, pumping out a stream of dirty coins to the teenagers’ delight.

Jackpot! John sneered to himself.

When Alice returned he bid farewell to her bright, stiff smile, and tried to ignore the hurt in her eyes that he was leaving so soon.

“Sorry Al, I only came in for one. I’ve got to get home to Sheila.”

John shrugged and laughed with embarrassment. “She thinks next door are domestic terrorists or something. I dunno.”

“Didn’t she think they were devil worshipers?” Alice tried to entice him to stay with her playful reply but John was resolved to leave.

“No, that was last week. Next week they’ll be cannibals.”

Happy to leave on Alice’s bark of amusement, John waved from the doorway before lighting a cigarette for the return journey. Darkness was now falling but the night remained warm. With any luck Sheila would be in bed by the time he got home. If he walked slowly enough.

Sheila wasn’t asleep when John got back. As he turned the corner of his road, he spotted her rapping smartly on the neighbour’s front door. He stopped and quickly retreated; he didn’t think she’d seen him.

“Fuck!” John whispered furiously to himself. The last thing he needed was Sheila making a scene. For a moment he wished he’d stayed in the pub. He decided to sneak a peek and caught sight of his wife’s ample rear entering next door’s house. The door closed and John breathed out heavily, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

What to do? John lit another cigarette and considered his options. He could go back to the pub and come back later. Sure, Alice would be pleased to see him, but he’d already used Sheila as an excuse to leave. No, best get home unnoticed and feign ignorance when she returned from her rant. Finishing his smoke, John walked briskly home, hands in pockets and head bowed, as if it somehow made him invisible.

Safely inside, he rushed to Sheila’s favourite position, the lounge window overlooking the garden. Parting the net curtain, he peered out.

There was nothing to see – just the garden, fence and bushes. And the roof of next door’s shed. He took a step back when he heard its door creak and thud.

Tired of the drama, John slumped down on the sofa and felt something dig into his backside. He pulled Sheila’s spiral-bound notebook out from under his bum and opened it. He’d not looked at it before; she always kept it close.

The room was dark but he could make out his wife’s neat block capital writing against the white pages. He flicked through them with growing dismay. Times, dates and descriptions gave way to suspicions, theories, lamentations and solutions. Sudden fear gripped John’s stomach as he read the last entry:

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!

“Oh, you’re home early.” Sheila’s greeting was flat but her eyes looked white with surprise against the gore streaking her face. John shrieked and turned in his seat, pointing at the bloody weapon in her hand.

“It’s next door’s axe for cutting up firewood,” Sheila stated dully.

John cringed away as his wife waddled past, on toward the window. Sticky fingers smeared the net curtain as she twitched it aside.

“It’s okay now, John.” Sheila reassured him as her eyes scanned the garden. “We don’t have to worry about the neighbours and their smoke any more.”

*******

There, Dear Reader, my efforts are quite tame compared to the rest of the stories in the first Anthology volume from the Underdogs. No, it’s really not a book for children at all…

Have a Song ❤

Who Knows What, Clicky?

*A game, Clicky? /sigh… I am trying to put a post together… Okay, go on then; you go first…*

*No. My turn. I’m I Sherlock Holmes?*

HqoRPw8

*Alright, okay. Look now I’ve got one for you. I came across a site today that analyses your writing and describes your personality. This is me apparently…*

Watson's diagnosis of Roobeedoo's personality from her text

The IBM Watson Personality Insights service uses linguistic analytics to extract a spectrum of cognitive and social characteristics from the text data that a person generates through blogs, tweets, forum posts, and more.

*Now look at this one; this one wasn’t me…*

Watson's diagnosis of Maquis de Sade's personality from his text

*Similar, no? Guess who that writer is. I’ll give you a hint; he’s mentioned in this interesting talk…*

*It came as a bit of surprise to me. Go on have a guess…*