Mysterious orig snippet the second
Mar. 5th, 2008 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Sequel to the first .
By the time, Philbert reached the Newmarket roundabout, the rain had turned to long hissing strings. He lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped, all the way up East Road in a cavalcade of gnarled traffic, and manoeuvred the hatchback into his secret parking slot at the back of the Grafton Centre.
The rain was thin and sharp. It was like running in nettles. Philbert turned up the collar of his navy duffle coat and sprinted through shallow puddles and across three streets to the entrance lobby of Shire Polymathic University.
In the lift to the fourth floor, he fished his staff card out from his pocket and draped the chain around his neck.
Sylvia at reception turned a jaundiced eye in his direction. "What are you doing here?"
"Morning, Sylvia." He followed his briefcase into the office.
"Didn't you get my text?" Her décolleté heaved.
"Text? What text?" Philbert was already past the office pot plant and half-way to his desk in the cubicle nearest the window: the top cubicle. He'd waited five years for this cubicle, and finally, last summer, after the retirement of Norrington, he'd got it! Of course, that double-breasted Tallulah Banksie-Cheung and also red-faced Emma Floss had had their beady eyes trained on the spot of triumph but no! Philbert had seniority, Philbert was Norrington's rightful successor, Philbert had been in the administrative department of assessment modulations the longest, Philbert was the one who'd argued his case the most persuasively at the annual monitoring and ascertainment meeting.
So it was Philbert who'd clawed his way to the coveted window-cubicle spot.
He sank into his high-backed, five-wheeled office upholstered and sprung ergonomic office chair with a sigh of contentment.
"No, no." Why had that irritating Sylvia Whatsername followed him all the way to his desk?
"Yes?" he said in a curt tone and clicked the 'on' button of his Dell 350.
"You're not supposed to be here."
He swivelled on his castors and found himself confronted by Sylvia's bosom at eye-level. Emma Floss from the cubicle across the aisle craned her neck.
"There was an email about it." Sylvia forged on. "Didn't you get it? It's about being seconded for three days a week to the Other University."
"Oh that. Sylvia, that was only for junior admin staff." He tapped his staff card. "Doesn't apply to me."
"But..." She looked around for confirmation. Emma Floss ducked behind her computer screen. "There was a follow-up memo because Tallulah's still off sick, and Mike's on leave, and Derek Shawcross had to go to Luton to be an external examiner or something, and that other department sent an email, and they also rang just now, and they desperately need someone over there right now."
Philbert stared at her blankly.
"Right now," Sylvia repeated. She had an automatic pencil in her hand and clicked it as if for emphasis.
"Let me check this," said Philbert.
He opened his email account, passworded himself past the watchdogs of internal vigilance and server suspicion, and scrolled through his 'Incoming Mail' folder.
There it was.
'Received: Last week.
From: DAD.
To: Admin-list.
Subject: University secondments.
This is to let you know that we have come to a final agreement with C--- University's administrative management over the issue of staff secondment.
As was agreed at the last meeting of the Department of Administrative Departments (minutes uploaded to Intranet, Folder 'Committees', File 'Minutes', agenda item 4.5), the scheme of mutual secondment has now been initiated. This is part of the Regional Project for Inter-Scholastic Co-operation, funded by a grant from the Cambridgeshire Administrative and Support Services Monetary Initiative Scheme. The project will affect all junior administrative staff (Level 5.5 and below).
A list of all secondments are to be drawn up by the departmental management teams by the 15th of Feb at the latest, to be implemented by 1 March.
Please cascade down to all involved.
H.M.'
"See?" said Philbert and pointed a smug finger. "Level 5.5 and below. Not relevant for me. Now, we need to see about getting these minutes done for next week's collegiate away-day--"
"But I've just explained." Really, close-up Sylvia looked remarkably similar to one of those stubborn flat-nosed dogs in that TV show Pets Win Prizes. "They've had to expand the scheme. I texted you specially! You have to go over to the Other University this morning!"
"Oh, who told you this?" He grabbed the top folder in his intray.
"Hank." Sylvia floundered. "Hank told me himself."
"Hank!"
Hank Musgrove! H.M. himself!
He might have known.
A pit of wet dread opened up in Philbert's lower intestines.
This was too much.
"Yes. You want to ring him?" Sylvia placed a pointed nail onto the receiver of Philbert's desk telephone. There seemed to be something wrong with her finger but at second sight, it was only that she'd had some sort of manicure done to it: there were twinkly bits stuck all over her orange fingernail.
"No," Philbert said. He placed his palms flat on the edge of the desk. "No, I do not want to ring him." He cast a quick glance over at Emma Floss's desk. All that was visible were a pair of black buckled boots and the hem of Emma's long Goth skirt. Frantic typing could be heard from the other side of her computer.
"You better go now." Sylvia flapped her twinkly nails. "You're late!"
"Okay," said Philbert, mustering a tone of suave dignity. "Very well then. No problem. I'll email Hank later on." He tugged at his tie knot. "No problem at all. You'll just have to do the away-day minutes on your own. And the bi-weekly audit. And input the excel statistical data for the faculty surveillance exercise. And also the--"
"Here." She thrust a print-out at him. "That's where you're supposed to be. And you have to report to a..." She squinted at the sheet. "... Mrs Thorton."
"Yes, yes." Philbert hit the 'log-off' key, snatched the paper from Sylvia's hands and jumped to his feet. He grabbed his briefcase, duffel coat, plastic 500 ml water bottle, and, for good measure, a pad of A-8 post-its and a pink highlighter pen that were lounging round on his desk. "Good-bye, Sylvia." And, more pointedly, "Good-bye, Emma."
"Bye-bye, Philbert." That was Emma's voice from behind her computer screen. It was a high, nasal voice, and it always spoke very fast. It also seemed to be suppressing a chuckle. "Oh, and Philbert."
"Yes, what?"
"Seeing you're not going to be here today, or maybe tomorrow, or maybe even Thursday-- you don't mind if I use your desk, do you?"
Philbert, on his way down in the lift, studied the address on the bit of paper through eyes hazy with a mist of red. What to do? March up to Hank's office straight away? Compose a cutting email? Copy it to everyone in the department?
And then there was the question whether to take his car into town or whether to walk the distance or whether just to turn left into the staff loos and stick his head in the disabled toilet bowl.
He scrunched the print-out up in a mute fist. 'H.M.', was the tagline that grinned up at him from the bottom of the memo.
What Philbert Mills didn't know was that this was not the end of it yet. His day, his entire life, was about to get even worse.
Much worse.
© Lobelia. Posted 5 March 2008.
By the time, Philbert reached the Newmarket roundabout, the rain had turned to long hissing strings. He lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped, lurched and stopped, all the way up East Road in a cavalcade of gnarled traffic, and manoeuvred the hatchback into his secret parking slot at the back of the Grafton Centre.
The rain was thin and sharp. It was like running in nettles. Philbert turned up the collar of his navy duffle coat and sprinted through shallow puddles and across three streets to the entrance lobby of Shire Polymathic University.
In the lift to the fourth floor, he fished his staff card out from his pocket and draped the chain around his neck.
Sylvia at reception turned a jaundiced eye in his direction. "What are you doing here?"
"Morning, Sylvia." He followed his briefcase into the office.
"Didn't you get my text?" Her décolleté heaved.
"Text? What text?" Philbert was already past the office pot plant and half-way to his desk in the cubicle nearest the window: the top cubicle. He'd waited five years for this cubicle, and finally, last summer, after the retirement of Norrington, he'd got it! Of course, that double-breasted Tallulah Banksie-Cheung and also red-faced Emma Floss had had their beady eyes trained on the spot of triumph but no! Philbert had seniority, Philbert was Norrington's rightful successor, Philbert had been in the administrative department of assessment modulations the longest, Philbert was the one who'd argued his case the most persuasively at the annual monitoring and ascertainment meeting.
So it was Philbert who'd clawed his way to the coveted window-cubicle spot.
He sank into his high-backed, five-wheeled office upholstered and sprung ergonomic office chair with a sigh of contentment.
"No, no." Why had that irritating Sylvia Whatsername followed him all the way to his desk?
"Yes?" he said in a curt tone and clicked the 'on' button of his Dell 350.
"You're not supposed to be here."
He swivelled on his castors and found himself confronted by Sylvia's bosom at eye-level. Emma Floss from the cubicle across the aisle craned her neck.
"There was an email about it." Sylvia forged on. "Didn't you get it? It's about being seconded for three days a week to the Other University."
"Oh that. Sylvia, that was only for junior admin staff." He tapped his staff card. "Doesn't apply to me."
"But..." She looked around for confirmation. Emma Floss ducked behind her computer screen. "There was a follow-up memo because Tallulah's still off sick, and Mike's on leave, and Derek Shawcross had to go to Luton to be an external examiner or something, and that other department sent an email, and they also rang just now, and they desperately need someone over there right now."
Philbert stared at her blankly.
"Right now," Sylvia repeated. She had an automatic pencil in her hand and clicked it as if for emphasis.
"Let me check this," said Philbert.
He opened his email account, passworded himself past the watchdogs of internal vigilance and server suspicion, and scrolled through his 'Incoming Mail' folder.
There it was.
'Received: Last week.
From: DAD.
To: Admin-list.
Subject: University secondments.
This is to let you know that we have come to a final agreement with C--- University's administrative management over the issue of staff secondment.
As was agreed at the last meeting of the Department of Administrative Departments (minutes uploaded to Intranet, Folder 'Committees', File 'Minutes', agenda item 4.5), the scheme of mutual secondment has now been initiated. This is part of the Regional Project for Inter-Scholastic Co-operation, funded by a grant from the Cambridgeshire Administrative and Support Services Monetary Initiative Scheme. The project will affect all junior administrative staff (Level 5.5 and below).
A list of all secondments are to be drawn up by the departmental management teams by the 15th of Feb at the latest, to be implemented by 1 March.
Please cascade down to all involved.
H.M.'
"See?" said Philbert and pointed a smug finger. "Level 5.5 and below. Not relevant for me. Now, we need to see about getting these minutes done for next week's collegiate away-day--"
"But I've just explained." Really, close-up Sylvia looked remarkably similar to one of those stubborn flat-nosed dogs in that TV show Pets Win Prizes. "They've had to expand the scheme. I texted you specially! You have to go over to the Other University this morning!"
"Oh, who told you this?" He grabbed the top folder in his intray.
"Hank." Sylvia floundered. "Hank told me himself."
"Hank!"
Hank Musgrove! H.M. himself!
He might have known.
A pit of wet dread opened up in Philbert's lower intestines.
This was too much.
"Yes. You want to ring him?" Sylvia placed a pointed nail onto the receiver of Philbert's desk telephone. There seemed to be something wrong with her finger but at second sight, it was only that she'd had some sort of manicure done to it: there were twinkly bits stuck all over her orange fingernail.
"No," Philbert said. He placed his palms flat on the edge of the desk. "No, I do not want to ring him." He cast a quick glance over at Emma Floss's desk. All that was visible were a pair of black buckled boots and the hem of Emma's long Goth skirt. Frantic typing could be heard from the other side of her computer.
"You better go now." Sylvia flapped her twinkly nails. "You're late!"
"Okay," said Philbert, mustering a tone of suave dignity. "Very well then. No problem. I'll email Hank later on." He tugged at his tie knot. "No problem at all. You'll just have to do the away-day minutes on your own. And the bi-weekly audit. And input the excel statistical data for the faculty surveillance exercise. And also the--"
"Here." She thrust a print-out at him. "That's where you're supposed to be. And you have to report to a..." She squinted at the sheet. "... Mrs Thorton."
"Yes, yes." Philbert hit the 'log-off' key, snatched the paper from Sylvia's hands and jumped to his feet. He grabbed his briefcase, duffel coat, plastic 500 ml water bottle, and, for good measure, a pad of A-8 post-its and a pink highlighter pen that were lounging round on his desk. "Good-bye, Sylvia." And, more pointedly, "Good-bye, Emma."
"Bye-bye, Philbert." That was Emma's voice from behind her computer screen. It was a high, nasal voice, and it always spoke very fast. It also seemed to be suppressing a chuckle. "Oh, and Philbert."
"Yes, what?"
"Seeing you're not going to be here today, or maybe tomorrow, or maybe even Thursday-- you don't mind if I use your desk, do you?"
Philbert, on his way down in the lift, studied the address on the bit of paper through eyes hazy with a mist of red. What to do? March up to Hank's office straight away? Compose a cutting email? Copy it to everyone in the department?
And then there was the question whether to take his car into town or whether to walk the distance or whether just to turn left into the staff loos and stick his head in the disabled toilet bowl.
He scrunched the print-out up in a mute fist. 'H.M.', was the tagline that grinned up at him from the bottom of the memo.
What Philbert Mills didn't know was that this was not the end of it yet. His day, his entire life, was about to get even worse.
Much worse.
© Lobelia. Posted 5 March 2008.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-05 10:57 pm (UTC)And now - I just know Emma will be trouble. And "much worse"? Ngaaah.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-06 11:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-06 10:34 pm (UTC)Goodie. Because I won't stop doing it. Heh.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-06 03:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-06 11:17 pm (UTC)