On lacking tact
A phone rings in an office in 1987.
"Hello, Department of Cow Counting, how can I help you?"
"More to the point, who are you?"
"It's Nikki. Oo are you?"
Nicola, six foot of blonde, face like a slapped arse, and a frightening love life that involved just about every married and soon-to-be-divorced man South Reading had to offer. Also: Not one of the Ministry of Cow Counting's more reliable assets.
"It's Scary. And I take it you're not coming in today."
"'Ow did you know that? You psychic or summat?"
"It's Monday. You never come in on a Monday."
"Naaah, tell Jan I can't come in today. Me boyfriend done me up the bum hole on Friday night, an' I haven't been able to walk since."
If I had a computer monitor on my desk, I dare say I would have spat coffee all over it. Instead, I emptied half a bottle of Tipp-ex all over six months' worth of European Union cow-counting statistics.
"Riiight… I'll tell her you've had an accident. Any chance we'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah, but you'll have to get stores to send up a cushion. There's no way I'm gonna sit on one of them cheapo office chairs. It still hurts when I go to the shitter. You won't tell anyone, will ya?"
Another poor unfortunate who uses Fairy Liquid for lubricant.
"No. No. Of course not. See ya."
"HEY! You'll never guess what…"
Tactless, that's me.