Every day is groundhog day. The only way I can even distinguish between the days is by the conversation and casual Fridays. Mondays are obvious enough as it’s the beginning of yet another painstaking five-day drudge, but Tuesday through to Thursday is one blurred long uni-day. Usually, there are some hints to the day’s identity in some of the templates thrown out, but even this can be misleading. If it’s a Wednesday or a Thursday people tend to ask you “any plans for the weekend yet?” but occasionally this can be asked even on a Tuesday by some social retard trapped in the confined space of an elevator, or tea station. Some TV shows also help, like if the girls are talking about Coronation Street in the morning then I know it must be a Tuesday or Thursday. Sex in the City confuses the hell out of me as it seems to be on every night of the week. I can’t actually remember the last time I had breakfast with the girls though, because they always stampede down to the canteen at 9.30 on the dot, and I haven’t been in before 10.00 in weeks now.
I try to stick to my daily routine to break up the monotony of the day as much as possible.
A typical day would consist of the following;
I come in no earlier than 10:00(usually 10:20) and spend the first half hour of my day going from desk to desk chatting to the lads. Depending on an exciting match or juicy gossip this can be pushed out to forty-five minutes.
I then have some breakfast in the canteen and read the papers which generally takes me through to 11.15 – 11.30.
Next, I trawl through all my various daily websites-Skysports news, Football 365, BBC news, the Mirror, the Sun etc…for a good twenty minutes. Once this is complete I keep up on email correspondence or forward joke emails. This will usually keep me occupied till 12.30 taking me right through to lunch.
Lunch is never less than an hour and a half, during which time I eat in the canteen, and then go for a walk around the IFSC and its surrounding areas.
Lately, after lunch I’ve been sneaking in a quick blow job off Joanne in either the large boardroom or the training room, and sometimes the odd shag if the mood strikes me.
This is followed by a cup of tea and another series of chats. In most cases this will take me through to 15:00 and it’s here when I take care of any piles (on the off chance there actually are any). The rest of the afternoon is spent accompanying people on smoke breaks, taking solace in the toilet, or regurgitating some of the previous steps until the 16:30 – 16:45 mark when I finish up for the day.
Martin’s avoiding me full stop, as to tackle the situation now would be a huge admittance of failure on his part. Whenever he wants me to collate some piles he simply leaves them on my desk when I’m not around.
Judging by the sheer frequency of questions surrounding what I’m doing for the weekend I can only assume it’s Thursday. Only for the fact I’m wearing my suit and tie I would have sworn it was Friday. Joanne sends me an email asking me to follow her straight down to the training room. Jesus it’s not even twelve o’ clock so she must really be gagging for it. I head straight down to the training room and she’s already there seated behind one of the desks. Before I even have the door closed she informs me “we need to talk”. Talk, no not on my watch we don’t. I proceed over to her and begin to undo her jeans until she forces me away repeating her earlier statement.
“Anthony there’s something we need to talk about.”
Not again. Anything but this.
“Look Joanne I’m just not ready for a relationship, I thought this is what you wanted?”
“That’s not want I want to talk about…” she pauses. Fuck sake does she always have to be so dramatic?
“I think I might be pregnant.”
I try to reply but there’s a lump in my throat and I silently choke on my own words. Suddenly my eyes seem to catch up on the initial shock and begin to water. After what seems an eternity I finally digest my words and blurt out a sentence.
“What do you mean think? Either you are or you aren’t? You can’t exactly sit on the fence on this one. And hold on, you told me you were on the pill?”
“I am, It’s just that I haven’t had my period in weeks now.”
“But that’s what the pill does, even I know that.”
“Not exactly, every three weeks I take a one week break and have my period as per normal.” She dangles this over me like a royal flush and I can tell she’s savouring this moment. She doesn’t seem flustered or even slightly panicked.
“Well have you taken a pregnancy test?”
“No, not yet.”
The vindictive bitch has to be playing me. Why else would she come to me without taking a test unless this is her only hand?
“Well let’s go get one now.” I say in an attempt to call her bluff.
“I can’t just leave the office.” She says and I can detect a level of uncertainty within her voice.
“Fine, well I’ll go over and get one myself.”
“That really isn’t necessary…I’ll get one at lunch.”
“Sure it’s not as if I have anything better to be doing.” I suddenly notice how animated my body language is. My arms are flailing around manically like a puppet missing strings.
“Okay, I’ll go now.” She says while contorting her face.
“I’ll come with…for moral support,” punctuating the sentence with a weak smile.
We leave the training room and I accompany her across to the pharmacy much like a father bringing a truant child to school. When we arrive I give her a tenner and wait outside tapping my foot impatiently against the shop’s marble front. She returns two minutes later, and I ask her how the test works as an excuse to allow me search the bag, and confirm she has in fact bought one. We hurry back to the office and once there I demand she takes the test straight away. I’m not letting her hold this over me for more than a second longer than necessary.
“Okay okay I’ll take the test now. I’ll mail you as soon as I’ve got a result.” and with that she strops off to the ladies toilet.
I amber back to my desk, and it’s only now that I’ve settled into my seat have the potential consequences begun to unravel-what if she’s actually pregnant? My heart is thumping and I suddenly feel very dizzy. My mind is swimming with endless possibilities so I summon all my energy to concentrate on the most important; if she’s pregnant my life is over. At twenty-four I’m not ready for this. Fuck it, this problem has nothing to do with age if I was fifty-two it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. This could kill my mother. I know she had me at eighteen but she at least loved my father. I don’t even like, never mind love Joanne. She’ll probably demand the child be called Stella if it’s a girl or Jack-Daniel if it’s a boy after her favourite drinks. Stella Thompson. If ever there was a child born to be a pornstar it would be her. I’m drunk with emotion and the more I try to focus the more my head starts to spin. Time seems to hang still while I sit consumed by the monitor awaiting my impending fate. Every joke email or correspondence coming through only acts to infuriate me further, why the fuck hasn’t she mailed?
Twenty minutes go by until Joanne’s name finally shows up in my mailbox. I double click in a frenzy almost breaking the mouse in the process;
“Meet me down in the training room.”
This only confirms my earlier suspicions-not only is Joanne loving this, she’s milking it for all it’s worth. I bolt down the stairway only to find the training room empty when I arrive. It’s another ten minutes before Joanne decides to grace me with her presence.
I do my best to suppress my anger and let her awkwardly fumble through what she has to tell me. She fidgets with her hands and equips her best poe faced expression before finally delivering her Oscar-winning performance-“I’m not pregnant”. I’ve used up far too much energy to be excited or happy-I’m simply relieved. I immediately motion to leave and hear Joanne exclaim, “That we need to talk” before slamming the door behind me. I run straight to the toilet and throw up.

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From the beginning.

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