Confessions of a daydreamer

Despite reaching the ripe old age of 23 Pollyanna McLintoch was a day dreamer. That's not to use that term contextually to suggest that people who knew her thought she was being overly ambitious and setting goals she'd never achieve. No she was in the quite literal sense of the definition just that, a day dreamer, happily spending hours lost in her head far away from the distressing realities of her surroundings. One day during her usual solo musings she'd reached the conclusion that the reason for her love of daydreaming was rooted from her parents inexplicable decision to give her a name that made her sound like she was named after a character in a 18th century Russian fairytale. Therefore she reasoned to herself that it was only natural that she fulfil a pursuit which had surely been her destiny since birth. 

During other such musings Pollyanna had surmised that all English children have it coded into their genetic DNA that from the time they can speak their first words that poo, bum and willy's were hardwired as trigger words to initiate a built in gag like safety reflex of giggling. Well something like that anyway. It had come to her after her sixth flaming sambuca on a night out on the wrong side of the River Thames. Which is the wrong side and which is right will depend on whether you were brought up in the city of London, or Larndaan Taan, or maybe just whether you actually gave a fuck about these types of things which to be fair to Pollyanna she didn't really. Well maybe she did a little bit, but it only came out after her tolerance to alcohol had long slipped away into the night and someone from the wrong side pushed her buttons.

She'd hated her name throughout her childhood but somehow learned to embrace it in her late teens / early 20s when everywhere she went she encountered a succession of cunts called Louise, Emma, Gemma, Clare and of course those even worse than Clare's, the Claire's with an i. Like it makes any fucking difference when you're meeting someone new. "Hi, I'm Claire," insert a little pause "with an i," and maybe a zany shake of the head or giving it the old Jazz hands as an accompaniment to the statement and definitely a stupid fucking smile that needed to be wiped off their faces as far as Pollyanna was concerned. You had to muster every sinew in your neck, clench your fists tight and grind your teeth so as not to spew up the word "CUNT!" loudly and forcefully in anger with a wedge of flying spittle added in for good measure. Pollyanna was definitely a nicer person when lost in her daydreams then during a night out on the pop it's fair to say. More connected with the inner child who laughed at words like poo, bum and willy versus fighting the urge to shout CUNT loudly at Claire's with an i. This connection to her inner child was she reasoned why she found it highly amusing every time her boss Desmond O'Leary would use the word farkin. Usually it was followed by the word hell. You might know that same word better as fucking. But Desmond was from sarf of the River Thames and whilst his surname was clearly of Irish descent, when he opened his mouth it certainly convinced you very quickly that his accent was nothing of the sort. She'd brought the subject of accents not marrying up to surnames one night at some bar she couldn't remember the name of now just because she'd run out of interesting things to say to a guy who kept buying her drinks thinking he was going to get into her knickers later. More fool him she'd thought - I'm not wearing any so he's wasting his time. "Oh like that Jack Grealish fella or your man Declan Rice. Cool," and he nodded his head as if in the presence of genius. Einstein had knocked her drink back in one or maybe she was more Pavlov as he brought her another drink in response to the sound of her empty glass thudding against the bar. 

She'd known instantly that her and Desmond were going to get along famously when at her job interview the woman sat next to him knocked a half full cup of water onto her leg and he'd responded with a 'farkin hell you dozy mare, you trying to grow an extra foot by watering yourself geal?' Pollyanna couldn't help but giggle out loud. Desmond turned to her and asked her straight "d'you think this is funny?" and rather than lie she nodded and he just replied with "I think you'll fit in here perfectly. You'll do for me," clapped his hands and walked out. Whatever the ladies name who spilt the water was she never found out because she was long gone by the time she started her first day with the company. Clearly Pollyanna doesn't work for MI5 before anyone starts to panic. Neither is she a rocket engineer. Mostly she runs errands totally unrelated to the companies line of work, like fetching 20 Bensons every day from Mr Singhs newsagents which is a 15 minute round trip and costs an extra £2 a pack but Desmond refuses to contribute a penny to any of the major supermarkets who have outlets roughly every sixth premises down the High Street. Those same outlets which make a mockery of the law on buying more than one box of paracetamol at any one time because realistically in the space of ten minutes you could have brought six packets from six different stores and a bottle of Vodka to wash them down with. If you were really set on topping yourself all you had to do was cross the zebra crossing at the end of the High Street and double up as you made your way back again. Still she didn't mind. It gave her time for daydreaming and she wasn't sat at a desk glued to the phone like the other schmucks in the office having to do some real work. She did try to draw the line when it rained mind you which in this country was a lot of the time. Feminine charm didn't work on Desmond and neither did calling him Dessie in a sultry voice trying to show a bit of tit as she leaned across the desk. "I'm not a fucking orchid or a lecherous old bastard so fark off and get my fags before I fire you… oh and Pollyanna, if you come back close to bone dry I'll know you fucked off to Tesco's or some other carnting shit hole down the High Street and I'll still fire you."

"Wanker."

"Thanks for noticing. Toodle pip and fark off out of my sight."

She liked Mr Singh a lot. He didn't find it racially offensive when she'd see him and burst out with a quick chorus of Travis 'For the love you bring won't mean a thing. Unless you Singh, Singh, Singh, Singh, Singh, Singh, Singh, Singgggghhh," topped off with a big smile and a waving of jazz hands. Funny how when Claire with an i did the jazz hands it evoked rage inside her but when she did it to Mr Singh there were no issues whatsoever. Anyways each time she did it Mr Singh would give her a little round of applause and his face beamed as if her visit was the highlight of his day. To be fair it may well have been because as multicultural a city as London is, it's still packed full of scummy little racist pricks who felt they had a right to call Mr Singh a Paki just because they'd been born in England. Mr Singh explained he wouldn't mind if he'd even been to Pakistan let alone actually been born there. What really got his goat was the term "You're alright though Mr Singh, not like the rest of those bastards." For them there was no smile and round of applause. Just a mental note for the day of the uprising when he'd wreak revenge. Also like Desmond, Mr Singh wasn't interested in Pollyanna's tits and that made him another one of the good guys. That was the other thing London was full of besides racist pricks, men that stared at her tits as if they were another one of the landmarks that you could stand and stare at for free. Tourists weren't adverse either. Maybe she was on a map somewhere which she didn't know about as one of the top ten attractions to visit and stare at for free. She'd rather have the dirty pigeons flock about her taking a dump over her new threads than some old bastard copping a view for free. Perhaps if she ever went to Tesco's on a rainy day and got fired for the insubordination and dereliction of duties that's what she'd do, simply take a pitch down at Covent Garden, put a hat down and see how many marriages she could ruin by lunchtime. No gold paint or standing still like those other idiots trying to eek out a living by not working and pretending to be a statue. Nope, just a low cut top and some jiggling that would be all the act she'd need. Wouldn't need to work in the winter either she'd have raked in the money by then. Autumn would be a winner as the cold air put the literal cherries on top. 

But for now her day was still running errands, mostly putting files in the wrong place and going "What dickhead put that there," and rolling her eyes when something had gone walkabout. She'd take minutes in meetings where she'd lapse into daydreaming in the first five to ten minutes and then spend the first hour after the meeting having to ask other people who were paying attention what was discussed. She learned pretty quickly not to ask Marcus because he'd told her something that hadn't been discussed and she'd written it down and looked like a twat when she'd sent them out to everyone. That was Marcus's idea of humour. Occasionally he could actually be quite funny. Well if you had a sick and warped sense of humour that was and Pollyanna wasn't exactly adverse to laughing at the darker side of life. The brunt of the joke was often June who at 65 wasn't set to retire anytime soon despite looking like she was on her last legs. "Living in London is only easy when you're old and grey if your surname is Windsor!" That was one of her favourite missives. Still despite looking like she was always closer to death than retirement, she was incredibly caring and would take time to ask about how your day was going or how your weekend had been. You did have to speak up though and repeat yourself - quite a lot. Marcus took full advantage of that situation. In the staff canteen one Monday morning she'd asked him how his weekend was and deadpan he'd replied "I spent all of Saturday in a big fur coat in knee high boots and nothing else on, dropping to my knees and sucking cock for fifty quid a time. I properly CLEANED UP JUNE!"

"Oh you cleaned up. Good lad Marcus, glad you're a modern man not like my late husband. Lazy bastard he was. Well enjoy your day," and she shuffled off back to sit at her desk, another minute closer to death and none the fucking wiser she'd once more been on the end of Marcus's evil games. 

"You're fucking evil Marcus. One day it won't be me that hears you saying this shit to her and you'll be out of a job."

"Why? It's the truth."

"Fuck off you saddo bastard you'll have had to take the kids down the park and then listen to your wife nag about all the things you're doing wrong whilst watching some shite on Prime Time ITV most likely presented by those two little Geordie twats."

"Have you been stalking me again Pollyanna?"

"You fucking wish. Besides, what size are your feet?"

"12s why?" 

"Because you've all the grace of a Swan off its tits on coke and if I ever find a pair of knee high boots in a size 12 I'm going to buy them, get you to walk in them and see how quickly you break both your ankles just for the fits and shits of it."

"You do know that first part reads more like your eulogy when you're dead and buried?"

"Well…yes… granted that might be true but it sounds to me like I'm not the one living a lie with your closeted fantasies."

"Who says they're closeted?"

"Your size 12 feet and lack of grace for one. Jesus Marcus either you're getting the onset of dementia or your hearing is getting as bad as poor old June's!"

She shook her head in dismay, he flicks up his right leg in a 'hello sailor' manner before picking up his coffee and leaving without uttering another word. You didn't need to be on drugs Pollyanna thought to herself, you could just come and temp here for a day or two and feel like you were Alice buzzing your tits off in Wonderland.