On lacking tact

On lacking tact

A phone rings in an office in 1987.

"Hello, Department of Cow Counting, how can I help you?"

"Oo's that?"

"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."

>CLICK<

"HEY! You'll never guess what…"

Tactless, that's me.