Mood: Apprehensive, mortified
Style: Chic, elegant
Listening to: Jo Whiley on Radio 1
What’s coming up today: Work retirement meal – 7:45pm @ The Quorn Grange.
Work parties. What a bloody waste of a weekend. I spend ALL WEEK with my colleagues; I only like 25% of them, therefore why would I choose to sacrifice my precious weekend in favour of being, once again, in their company?
I usually manage to wriggle out of work-related gatherings but when one of the longest-serving nurses is retiring, I kind of feel obliged to go. And Mr P gets to come with me. Lucky old him.
The Quorn Grange is a grand old house set in wonderful gardens. It’s geared more towards weddings and indeed, there was a wedding party there when we arrived. It causes some amusement when you’re standing elbow to elbow with the best man and he’s racking his brains trying to remember your name / what branch of the family tree you sprout from. I’m not sure I’d like random strangers encroaching on my wedding reception, to be honest.
For starters, I had mushrooms a la creme. This was nice (mushroomy and creamy, as you may have guessed) but the toast it was dolloped on was made from stale bread and almost impossible to cut through.
I had stone bass(?) for my mains which was nicely cooked with a crispy skin. The veggies were a bit disappointing; I like mine with plenty of bite but the broccoli was practically raw and the new potatoes weren’t quite done enough.
Pud was the best bit of the meal; cheese, biscuits, grapes and celery featuring an unctuous brie, unctuous Stilton and a nutty red Leicester. Yummingtons.
When it came to saying our goodbyes, Dr Gorgeous grabbed me and kissed me on the cheek. This is rare. I don’t get touchy-feely, kissy-cuddly with any of my co-workers, let alone one of the doctors (by the way, please have a gander at Dr Gorgeous’ description on the Who’s Who page; Dr Hilary Jones / Dr Karl Kennedy he ain’t). The thud of embarrassment was cushioned somewhat by the quantity of red wine I’d imbibed so I soon got over this and Mr P and I tottered off into the night to carry on our Friday.
Monday morning stumbles around. I’m at the bus stop, wallowing in my hangover, when Dr Gorgeous pulls up in his flash, red sports car / penis-extension-on-wheels and offers me a lift. It’s a split second decision: do I stick out my arm and hail the yellow bus trundling towards me, or swallow my fears and accept the lift from the smiling doctor? I could play the eco card and state that I prefer the bus because it’s kinder to the environment. I could just lie and say that I’m meeting someone on the bus. I could even pretend I haven’t noticed him. But I don’t, of course.
I unfurl myself into the tiny car. He fumbles with his bag to get it out-of-the-way of my knees. A car behind us beeps. It’s awkward, so very awkward as I mumble my thanks and struggle to inject a semblance of graciousness into my voice.
It’s small in that there cockpit. We’re millimetres apart and centimetres above the ground. I think back to the inappropriate kiss on the cheek. Our typical Brit conversation starters include the weekend and the weather. The 10 minute journey cannot end soon enough.
We reach the surgery and I have to fold myself like origami in order to extricate myself from his little car. I’m 5ft3 and I find it difficult. He is 6ft-odd. Clearly, the guy’s cock is miniscule.
Anyway, I survived and rushed in to tell my colleague all about it:
COLLEAGUE: What if he makes it a regular occurrence?
ME: I’ll find another bus stop.