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CHAPTER TEN

         All the other new comers with their business minds are like ducks in water. Their desks uncluttered and ordered, pens poised and ready for action. But I am trying and so far failing to get a grip. I’m feeling like a tragic heroine in a Kafta novel who has to battle single handedly in a threatening and hostile paper jungle. There is this policy and that policy and if it isn’t that it’s another one. White forms, blue forms, pink forms. This is a living hell.

         We listen to Connor as he shows us how to fill in Life cover plans. I sit back while I admire what I observe. I notice his made to look casual Italian suits that emphasise his firm, taut buttocks and broad manly chest. I observe the self- conscious way he runs his fingers through his hair as he explains in simple terms the questions we need to ask our clients. He is soo attractive and sooo sexy but crap at getting through to my withering brain cells. He makes it sound so easy, like abc but that’s the thing with clever people, its easy for them yet when I look at the form in front of me the abc becomes jkz. I don’t want to ask if there are some special remedial classes for people like me who have poor logic, form phobia and a bit slow on the uptake. No indeed.

         I am pathologically allergic to forms which I suppose isn’t good in my chosen career. It’s not so bad the name, address and date of birth part. but I hate the bits that get complicated and you have to make up things about your previous employment or where you have lived for the past three years and if it isn’t where you are now you have to give your previous address. I was black listed by a catalogue company when I lived in Galway so I never say I lived there. See what I mean, the whole thing gets too confusing. We tell so many white lies in the course of our days that we need to remember who we told what to and then record this on the forms. I am a formless free spirit who should be unfettered by this useless procedure.

         Thank you Suzan for being as gormless and half witted as myself asking that stupid question ‘cos I was just thinking the same thing. All eyes on Suzan as she blushes uncontrollably but Connor answers her question in a voice that encourages rather than disparages so he must be one of these sensitive new men. I wonder if he’s single and looking and maybe longing for Miss right. Look no further sweetie it’s me Anna Millenium girl with a smile and great tits once you commit. Poor Suzan she must be a bit slow like me so maybe I will have a kindred remedial spirit within the company. I make a note to ask her to lunch some day and see what’s the story if there’s any.

         Life cover is the policy that gets paid out if you die. So in simple lay man terms you have to oblige by dying for the next of kin to benefit. I mean what is the point of somebody else benefiting from your death? " I’m insured for £100,000 and Wilma gets it if I die" says the stoic caring but rather foolish Fred. I know what I’d do if I were Wilma and I hated Fred’s guts. He’d be immediately dispatched to the after life while I got myself the loot.

         Mmmm. It makes me think about the strange accidents that befall people every year. Of course we are led to believe they’re freak accidents but for all we know the spouse or partner left is laughing their way to the bank. Look at the farmers that fall into slurry pits while some greasy Joans become wealthy widows. I suppose how can you prove they were shoved in when falling in is effectively the same thing. The wife must only have an alibi so she could be anywhere like plucking headless chickens or slaving over a hot slave for the ungrateful wretch who as she stirs the gravy is in the initial stages of rigor mortis. Easy do it but the fault must ultimately lay with The insurance company who acts as the corporate temptress. Life policy is after all an effective euphemism for "there is a way out".

         Great form filling techniques are history. I still haven’t a clue but I smile and figure I’ll learn as I go along or else the client can show me how to do it. No hassle in my castle as all is well in my corporate executive world. We are now onto the hands on experience of tele sales. Great I love the phone, can speak for hours so this should be easy to learn. To begin with we are taught the standard technique of introducing ourselves to prospective clients and trying to convince them to let us into their homes in order to introduce them to our range of services.

         "Hello this is Anna Moran from Apine Insurance. I’m ringing to see if you’re interested in some of our very competitive insurance policies, especially designed to suit your needs. We have a range of policies to choose from, life cover, insurance policies, pension plans."

         Most of the people I dialled hung up before I even had a chance to draw my breath. I try not to take this personally but as I am pre menstrual I take it as a slap in the face, a total rejection of my sincere attempts to sell. I want to cry especially when I hear Ruth confirming her fourth appointment. Ruth has a lovely Scottish lilt which must endear her to her clients or else the gods are on her side while they have forgotten all about me.

         I could have kept going with my spiel until a spoilsport supervisor pulled me up for my unethical and un professional approach to tele sales. Miss Keane a 50 year old spinster devoted to the company type person is my assigned supervisor and with devotion comes a slight form of insanity don’t you think.

         Oh no! All eyes are upon me as I followed her stiff unyielding body into her office and found myself face to face with Miss Keane. Straight away the old wagon began to froth uncontrollably berating me for degrading her company. Like who did I think I was changing the professional telephone formula to mindless chit chat. I either had to follow the standard protocol or leave. Maybe that’s the punishment for not finding a man, you shackle yourself to a career instead and take it far too seriously entirely.

        "Steady on Julia" I wanted to say " no need to get your knickers in a twist you ridiculously un poked dragon."

        But true to my Kerry nature I bit my tongue while planning my future revenge. Pmt is a handy devise to get one in touch with a lot of inner rage. I wanted right then to pull off her stiff dyed to henna death hair and to say stuff your stupid job. I bit my tongue til I could taste the coppery taste of my own blood. Her voice grated on my taut nerves until I was close to snapping. She kept going on in her clipped English accent about how girls like me used their female guile and emotions in work that demanded logic, organisation, and structure. It was the way she said those words, "Logic, organisation and structure" that allowed my inner rage to go public forcing me to think aloud.

        "Mrs Keane I’m a human being with a highly developed emotional nature. Now if I am also dealing with humans, don’t you find that they respond more to the human touch than to the robotic monologue that not only bores them but intimidates them and ……"

        Mrs Keane looked strangely like she was about to spontaneously combust which really would have solved all my problems just then. From a deathly lifeless hue her face changed to a piebald shade of pink and purple. A single vein throbbed in her fore head, like a demented serpent in search of prey.

        As if on cue Connor Fitzpatrick came in and asked Mrs Keane if she had any problems with my performance.

        And so I escaped from Mrs Keane’s acidic and overwhelming dragon breath. No wonder she’s un married and sexually frustrated. Just cos she has a sad life gives her no right to upset mine. And it was Connor my branch manager and knight in shinning armour who said whatever works. That surely gives me licence to do this selling game my way. Sudden feeling of being in charge of my own destiny comes over me. I want to cry with gratitude to the Gods.

        I am whacked by my first day at work. This is the high pressure executive life and saying you are pressured and harassed is a mark of hard work and sheer dedication to your job. I personally couldn’t’ give a monkey’s toss about the job. Besides it’s not a job it’s a game and seeing as I am creating my own rules it’s fun and doesn’t feel like work. I think I’ll keep that to myself and just complain like the rest of them about pressure and deadlines. Me I wouldn’t give a shit if the sky fell down so what’s the big deal. Too many people make such a big deal out of work but maybe they are all faking like me. There’s a thought.

        My P.M.T. is full blown by the time I reach home. I went into the local store and bought a large box of tampax and some pads. Assumpta had asked me to get her some lilets so I looked like I was in urgent need of a blood transfusion. The owner, a short squat perverted looking frog faced nosy parker gazed wistfully at my purchases. I had suddenly become part of his sick sad fantasies. I could see him handle the goods with his hairy paws and saw sweat form on his brow tricking over his mean small lips.

        For all I knew he was probably thinking about a football match or what his wife was cooking for tea but before my time of the month I suffer from delusional paranoia. Sad but true. This can manifest in many forms, like for instance I can think people are plotting behind my back or I conjure up some serious violent thoughts that I live out in the privacy of my own mind. Now if I took out an insurance policy on Cecil and he named me as his next of Kin then well I might act out my inner rage and kill. This is why not many women are world leaders or at least I couldn’t be. There would be no peace treaties, no exchange of hostages, no compromise only my finger on the button. Stand clear for full nukage and total annihilation.

        When I get home horrible, puny, rat faced Cecil is happy cooking in the kitchen. His idea of living dangerously is having the same thing to eat every night so you can imagine how he appears to me. The Angelus is chiming in the background as he busies himself chopping and garnishing. I want to chop and garnish him and baste him in the oven. There is a lot to be said for cannibalism but I wouldn’t eat Cecil. No I’m not being suddenly benevolent as I’d just feed him to Homer instead.

        I get a sudden urge to run upstairs and wolf down all three turkish delight bars one after the other. If I cannot destroy then I tend turn rage inwards and eat myself to death. My life is so sad and so crap and I fucking want to die. If only I could bleed I'd be fine and psychologically balanced. It’s as simple as that. There is a lot to be said for the olden remedy of leeches. That must have been their equivalent to prozac. What Jane’s delusional ? Yeah bleed her a bit and she’ll be right as rain.

        I think my Pmt has increased with age so guess my eggs are plotting against me and getting more and more enraged on account of not being fertilised. Therein is the curse of the modern woman for her body betrays her big time. She has all these wasted eggs, all the boxes of tampax, all the bottles of feminax year in year out and it’s not what nature intended for Christ sake. I mean I should have been fertilised before now and what if my eggs are past their sell by date or are not as good looking as their predecessors. I might just give birth to a mole. Women do that you know. I read about it in a magazine how some women give birth to mole like creatures with teeth and hair. Congratulations dear on the birth of your mole.

        My paranoia is seriously out of control now. I’m better off going back to the leech thoughts and before I go in search of one I meet Elliot as he waltzes into room from the bathroom. He’s too cheerful and happy for my current state of mind. I hate it when I am totally and I mean totally miserable and there is someone smiling and giving cheerful advise. It not only sucks but makes me want to drag them down into the gutters of my leaking rage.

        "Hey Anna how was your big day?" said in a too cheerful tone. Not good. Already I am adding Eliot to my hit list.

        "Awful. I’m just about to bawl and stuff my face with chocolate so please leave me alone."

        "No way you and I are going out to celebrate your awful day and to stuff our faces with tacos and popcorn. You want to see the Patriot? Mel Gibson ?"

        Elliot knows I love Mel Gibson. Sudden melting of inner barriers allowing some light to penetrate through and convince me that life has some compensations. Mel has 7 children so he’s the epitome of a productive virile and strong man. Feel sudden biological urge to copulate with such a manly creature. I absolutely adored him in Brave heart so as an alternative to damaging myself I agree to go along. I will have to sublimate my rage for the moment but it will be back. That is as sure as night follows day and gravity exists. It will go underground and re emerge when I least expect it.

        Elliot had the fore sight to buy the tickets before hand so we don’t have to join any queue other than the one for the munchies. I order tacos and dip and a large coke and popcorn. This is a food addicts palace. You can crunch and eat in the dark with nobody watching so that in itself deletes the calories and the guilt. Fantasy breaks the link between cause and effect allowing me to indulge and gorge and not give a hoot.

        I love the previews, the dramatic music, the thoughts of yes I’m definitely going to see that and you never do cos most of them are crap and they only show the best bits anyway. But while you’re there the films coming next week are fucking unreal and amazing and you even plan to book a ticket they’re that good. Elliot got himself some Haagen Daaz, chocolate flavour with a coke so big it looks like its in a bucket. Yippee it’s for sharing but he’s not getting any of my pop corn. It’s mine all mine. PMT gives me terrible carbohydrate greed so I’m excused.

        Mel Gibson, fantastic, he’s divine. We see him looking in on his children as they go to sleep by candle light, the caring sensitive man, the new man who tucks in his children at night and seems to like doing it. Great I’m in love already and the film has only just started. His son a fellow Australian Heath Ledger is equally divine but he’s too young for me and lacks the experience that I admire in the older man. All is well in my world until goes well until Mel’s family help the wounded soldiers and a pompous, cruel and totally barbaric English officer William Tavington comes along and shoots one of MeL’s sons not the divine one but a cute youngish one. In the meantime the divine one is off to be hanged for treason so things are not looking good.

        Mel turns into an Arnold Swartzneigger commando psycho killer who single handedly murders the English legion who had his son. His two young sons help but it was Mel who killed most of the bad guys and rescues Gabriel. My inner rage is already making its debut in reaction to the injustices of the English who think they can just come into a place and plunder and acquire as their own. My ancestral genes are joining in and make me want to take up arms and scalp and gore the stupid who do they think they are bastards. My heart is beginning to pound uncontrollably as I enter into the spirit of the movie.

        The final battle scene is for me the fight between good and evil and how two wrongs can sometimes make a right. Mel Gibson makes me want to take on American citizenship there and then as he places the flag of stars and stripes on the top of the bombed out building. I am proud to be a citizen of the land of hope and glory. The climax of the film is when pompous officer is killed by Mel and he and his soldiers win the war. Hollywood must have realised by now that the classic tale of the goodies killing the baddies is the most effective formula. By the end of the movie I feel like I’m returning from battle, weary, wounded but victorious. Thank you Hollywood.

        At least my inner rage had an outlet with this rather epic battle so do not feel as uptight and murderous. Although I hasten to add that my compassion for mankind is reduced to zero and for myself it is sub zero. Elliot likes to afterwards discuss the attributes of each movie but I abhor his vivissectionist tactics. He said that the film was historically inaccurate and without those facts the film didn’t depict the whole truth. I don’t want the truth. All I want is to ride on the waves of revenge and desire to kill and hack with the best of them.

        Despite the presence of Elliot I feel sadly alone, dejected and hopelessly unfertilised. I picture me in bed eating all three chocolate bars together and not enjoying a single mouthful as I hate myself big time, full time and for all of eternity. Men don’t realise what it’s like being a woman who has sinned against nature and who pays the price month after month, year after year. Elliot is a man, the enemy who tries to calm and diffuse a rage that doesn’t want to be halted on it’s destructive track. What men don’t realise is that women do not need placating nor do we want constructive advice when we are hopelessly and desperately irrational and violent and murderous. We want to shoot to kill and right now I want to shove Elliot under a passing car and chop his head off to quench his happy smiley self. Or become a Hannibal Lector and rip his face off. I am capable so beware. Do not look at me. Do not talk to me. Whatever you do not smile or you sign your death warrant. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you stupid fucking inconsiderate, don’t give a shit about how I feel bastard.

        At four o'clock in the morning I get the familiar tugging ache in the pit of my stomach as yet another egg makes it’s journey to it’s final resting ground. Amen. Adieu world of silent killings, stabbing and bloodbaths, insane voices that scream and cry whose intensity now fades and slowly disappears. In some strange way I feel more liberated than bereft which makes me wonder if I really know what it is I want at all. Relief- for some unknown reason it’s still my favourite emotion.

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