More sinister developments at work from our onsite "facilities operatives" Peter and Magda (see the previous entry The cleaners, the thief, Stephen Hawking and his lover). I was wandering back from reception past the store cupboard as the door opened and I saw them shuffling out together. There was a slight look of sheepishness, though that's always hard to gauge on a man with a moustache. I got a quick peek into the store cupboard and it's barely big enough to accommodate two people. What are they doing in there? They both had their overalls on and from the size of the cupboard I can't see where they'd have put them even if they had taken them off. Maybe that's what they're into.
I briefly contemplated mocking up one of the room signs in the corporate font saying "FUCK BUNKER" and blu-tacking it to the door of the store cupboard, but quickly discounted it on because (a) I would get caught and (b).
We have a quiz night at work tomorrow night so talk has been rife with the preparations for that. I always find them a bit unnerving. This isn't because I'm not good at quizzes; actually, I'm quite good. The problem is I'm not as good as people think I am. They're expecting Gail Trimble and they get Gail off of Coronation Street. (Actually there's a woman at work who looks just like a turtle in the same way as Gail from Corrie, but that's beside the point). So I go to quiz nights and the first time a really difficult question comes up everyone gives me That Look. That look of expectation followed by crushing disappointment - as if having to see that on most of my dating experiences wasn't bad enough.
Anyway, before that there's the real challenge - a quiz team name. This is hard. My earliest suggestions, like the evergreen "Fact Hunt", were ruled out on the basis of poor taste. So was "Quizteama Aguilera" which has always been a favourite of mine. Worst of all, a quick search on the internet revealed that all of these are deeply unoriginal anyway. And that's worth knowing because there's nothing worse than going to a quiz to find that some wag has called their team "Norfolk and Chance" for the umpteenth time. Any suggestions?
Anyway, I think we are going to settle for "The Guilty Pleasures" following on from a conversation we had at work a while back about guilty pleasures i.e. celebrities you know you shouldn't fancy but you do anyway. The ones you're secretly embarrassed to hold a candle for. To give you an idea of the standard on display someone I work with owned up to Brian May. The horror! Imagine that hair, soaked in sweat... on second thoughts, don't.
I asked a few people at work today who their guilty pleasure was and their answers were very illuminating but for all the wrong reasons. One of my colleagues said Cheryl Cole, another said Ewan McGregor. Hmm. Either (a) these people are really missing the point of what a guilty pleasure is; (b) these people are so repressed that they feel guilty about fancying anyone; or (c) they are too ashamed to admit a secret yen for Gloria Hunniford and David Dickinson. Or possibly Gloria and David at the same time in some kind of sick celeb sandwich.
So who's yours?