A Brompton, please. Ice and a slice...

I learnt today about the so-called ''Brompton Cocktail''.  It's powerful, it's illegal and its deployment is probably obsolete now (thanks for that, Doctor Shipman) but I would willingly have supped one down this afternoon.  There is fuckwittery afoot,  fuckwittery of a fucktangular nature, and which I can't go into detail about until after someone has had a chance to try and sort it out.  That may be tomorrow, it may be on Monday, but let's just say...there was A MEETING about it in the ''break-out'' area...I am not in trouble, nor am I at fault - no worries on that score.

In other news, my delightful deskmate has been at it again.  She arrived at 9.30.  She played with her phone, she wandered about with her bucket of coffee and a cookie. She checked her emails.  She flipped through the pages of the mysterious ''blue file'', which sits on her desk and, like her fan, may not be moved, touched or even glanced at - unless you're her. 

Then she chowed down on:

A box of mini wheats.  A whole one.  Probably for the fibre.
A pint of milk.
A mug of tea.
These were accompanied by the first can of a four-pack of Fanta.
Two donuts.
A bar of chocolate.
Two tomato cup-a-soups
A packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
Another can of Fanta and a cup of coffee.
A foot-long sub from Subway.  The one with the meatballs and cheese and gallons of tomato sauce. The meatball Marinara?
A big bag of  Haribo Tangfastic
A bag of cheese Doritos
Another can of Fanta
A KitKat
Two bags of crisps.
A can of Fanta
A Plate of cake - someone was leaving.  Everyone else had a slice of something.  She came back to the desk with a paper plate, piled high. There were LOTS of cakes.  Lots and lots.  She had one of each, as far as I could see.

She left at 3pm.   I'm not sure she'd done anything constructive, except emptying her carrier bag of food, and eating cake.     She had, however, at 30-minute intervals, rummaged about under her clothes and sprayed herself with deodorant.  It doesn't work.  She actually reeks, and it's really not pleasant.  We all know what a grubby armpit smells like. Yes, like that, but with overtones of something chemically floral - like the green water in the bottom of a vase after the bouquet has died.  She's off for ten days now.  Perhaps I'm missing something.  People keep coming to her desk and asking her, in quiet tones, and with their heads cocked to one side, ''You okay today, (insert name here)?''.  She usually says, through a mouthful of something, that she's hot.  Sometimes, she's tired.  Sometimes, she's both.  Other than that, she doesn't say anything much. 

That's probably for the best. 

There are a LOT of weirdos in this office.  I'm not sure where I fit in...