An Agents' Birthday

Today is Rhianna's birthday. Who is Rhianna? She is the delightful creature who has replaced Pamela who seems to be always at the dentist/on a course/skiing/up Mount Snowdon when I come in these days. She is much younger than Pamela, and I know I will regret typing this, much more efficient. Yet under her sultry greeting, behind those dark eyes, inside that mysterious feminine mind lies a throbbing, burning, passionate woman. I am sure of it. The way she asks me to sit in reception and then ignores me for an hour or two. It's obvious she likes me, the poor lamb. I made some enquiries and it appears she has changed her name and is now named after a pop star. I cannot remember which one. This just makes me even more intrigued. Who is this bewitching boudica? I need to know all I can.

I have therefore been going in to the office quite a lot, making excuses to be in her presence and watch her. Of course, I don't just sit there and stare. No. I have a magazine in front of my face with one hand and a small childs' periscope over the top. I am not sure she suspects. I have the inspiration for a poem:

Oh Rhianna
You type like Diana
She was a Princess
But you are a receptionist
Oh Rhianna
I hope a spanner
isn't in your works.
Because you wouldn't really need one
In the course of normal secretarial duties.

It's obviously a work in progress. But I am keen to know more about this sultry temptress. Not from a romantic point of view, although that would be nice and mean I hadn't wasted the money on the tablecloth, music and delicious food from the Harvester buffet. No, she has a strange aura.

Oh fickle love, what turmoil you are causing to my delicate, open heart? What strange emotion courses through my veins? This longing, this need, this burning? Although it could be the pickled onion I had earlier.


She coyly sighs when I ring; she seems indifferent when I enter the room; she hands me my script in preparation for my meeting with Audrey (my agent) without even looking up from her burrito.

They always say the ones who ignore you are the ones who like you most and she really, really ignores me. Could she be... the one? Is this the bewitching tickle of love in Tarquins' aching, lonely heart? Could we make it work, against the odds, against society, against the world?
















No.