Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 72
help but question - considering everything else the woman has to put up with - whether
she really should have to endure Rachel's eye-watering account of the night when she
took it up the bum in a car park?
Two weeks ago, Elaine told me how she was trying to find the money to buy her
youngest son new football boots. He's got some talent, apparently, but he'll need the
right kit if he wants to make the school team. I’m not sure if it was because I was feeling
particularly delicate and hungover at the time but, when I heard this, well it almost
broke my heart.
***
You know where you stand with a good kicking. Oh yes, you’re under no illusion to what
it’s all about. Feet fly in, punches are thrown, you curl up into a ball and pray that they
don’t seriously damage your face or testicles. I collapse to the tiled floor of the Context
Industries reception area toilets as the first strike busts my nose. In all brutal honesty,
I’m just glad to get it over with. I’ve been waiting for this; it’s played on my mind for days.
I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even think about anything else. At least now a nice,
bold concluding line can be drawn beneath this anxious chapter of my existence. So I
decline to offer any defence or retaliation. It would be a futile gesture anyway. I haven't
the first idea what to do in a fight, and my attacker also carries the unquestionably finer
physique. Knocked to the floor, I’m punched repeatedly before getting kicked with a
gleeful generosity. My face smacks off the unforgiving stand of a sink. There’s a
surprising amount of blood and a sickening, survivalist panic surges through my body.
The thought that I may not get through this alive, shades my mind like dusk. Between
blows, an enquiry is aired as to whether I want to stick my nose into anyone else's
business. If I was able to reply, the answer would be an unequivocal “no“. Unfortunately,
a kick to my jaw negates all faculty of response. I suspect the question is rhetorical
anyway. No sooner has it arrived than another follows: why can’t I just leave people
alone? I must admit that it’s something I’m beginning to wonder myself.
Eventually, two of my colleagues enter the Gents and are no doubt surprised to
witness the visceral display before them. Much to my relief, they manage to drag the
screaming assailant from my limp mass before restoring a shaky calm to proceedings.
When the Health and Safety Officer and HR Manager finally arrive on the scene, I spit
out one of my back teeth and the general consensus dictates that at least three of my
ribs are broken. As the company First Aider dabs around my eyes with a stinging piece
of antiseptic-soaked cotton wool, I hope that this has all been worth it.
***
The final member of my team is Mike. Mike, in my sheltered opinion, has had something
of a life. At twenty-three, I can honestly say that Mike has seen it all.
Two years ago, he was called via his involvement with the Territorial Army to serve in
Afghanistan. Apparently, he even wanted to go. I’ve spoken to him about this on a
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