I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
A favour was called in and this week I have found myself being Secretary Fee. A humourous thought you are right to think but it’s true. I had major panic attacks when told that the ‘dress’ was smart/casual as really my wardrobe consists of scruffy/tinky and perhaps casual at a very hard push so clearly I welcomed this opportunity the way I would welcome a man into my bed. When the word 'skirt' was mentioned I flew into a rage and tantrumed like a 3year old in a toy shop till all involved relented. I managed to piece some sort of outfit together and was not completely happy with the results, as were none of the other staff I was to be working with who kinda looked at me as though I was to be pitied, a poor orphan who has no pretty clothes, who needs alot of love and who could do with good wash. But, despite my thrown together appearance, boy did I have shiny gorgeous nails and beautiful sparkley eyes. SO, I'm working in a museum, also a bit cultured for the likes of me and you probably think I fit in as well as I do on a sports team but you'd be wrong. I'm the youngest staff member by at least 2 decades so as well as having adopted a further 8 bellies to my every growing collection of chubs, I have also accumulated about 14 other grannies who all want me die of obesity before I'm 24. IN short, I love it. So far all I do is answer phones despite the fact that I can help no one and distribute their calls anywhere and everywhere, I type from a headset which is very fetching and emphasizes my triple chin and most importantly I get to feast on leftover lunches and homemade cakes. What more could an overeaters not-so-anonymous lesbo want? More fish possibly?
I work with ladies in the shop who have names like Muriel, Maud and Myrtle and whose husbands are Majors and Generals with curly white mustaches that clearly hinder their speech as I cannot make out a word they say as they 'good day' me with their frightfully posh accents. Working here has given me much opportunity to not only eat but to work on my 'proper' acccent as here no one understands the dulcet Aberdonian tones so I don't have a choice but to pronounce every 't' and not use the word 'eh?' for pardon. It's either that or I sit there while everyone looks at me through their bifocals as if I am a foreign being albeit far more uncooothe.
So, if the delicacies of the tea shop wont kill me then politeness defintely will. Never before have I had to say good morning to so many people who all look so much alike and never before have I shook so many hands without being accused of being a lesbo with a big man handshake. It's all very peculiar having to smile graciously and mean every 'please' and 'thank you' to people 5 times your age who don;t know how to use computers and prefer typewriters and shorthand but at the same time it's done wonders for my confidence. Now when the phone goes I answer it with a cocky ease instead of leaving the room and going redder than clotted blood. I know this sudden self-assured attitude will last as long as my periods but to know it's there when I need it is comforting.
Anyway, more important than my ability to make friends with my elders, let's talk jam. I have been privy to all manners of jam since my arrival. The favourite so far was wild cherry on an Abernethy biscuit which was washed down with teapot tea with a dash of milk. I hope I never have to leave. Actually I have to leave next week. It's sad but with the amount of profits I have shoved in my ample gob they have no choice but to let me go. It's just a shame that Fat Camp has finished for the summer. I could be the newest and largest recruit who would go to fat camp and still come out 5 times bigger. Anything's possible with me and fatty foods.
Back to jam, which comes in flavours I could only dream about (unfortunately 'lady parts' jam is yet to be invented but I'm working on it. You just gotta get the fruity consistency right) and I have been welcome to not only taste them all but to take home jars for my parents who sadly like jam as much as I like low fat foods. It's a very crucial part of the job you know... I mean how offended would these ladies be if I refused their kind offers of more cream with that scone and more fairies with that cake. I really am in heaven and if anyone is ever in the vacinity of this Museum please call in advance for a visit as at present they are having problems with a stuffed lesbian who has taken up residence in the main dining area and cannot get her fat ass out again. Just please don't throw ryvita and gerkins at her, cheese and biscuits only please.
Off I go to try and get back to my desk but the flight of stairs is very daunting after yet another free buffet of cream cheese and bagels, especially when Mabel is tormenting me with an urn of raspberry and lemon jam dripping over a large fruit scone on a bed of clotted cream. Old people can be so cruel.
9/19/2002 01:07:00 PM
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