go away, I’m updating the stylesheet. go on, get that face and hair of yours out of my office and leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you gawping over my shoulder when I’m trying to amend the dynamic press release indexes to incorporate feedback from the central web publishing team, who incidentally are looking for a compelling reason for extra country specific venues to migrate their operations to their centralized model for hosting, maintaining and supporting the business requirements for a worldwide authoring community and so we’re trying to meet in the middle with the globalization programs for FY06 based on the common web platform architecture but we can see some potential collisions with field requirements and the approach I’m already taking with the centralized model because we both know the product set we need is ages away and so with 5 staff in iberia where’s the value add?
so having you with your breasts and the rest barely contained in that outfit and your holster strapped to your thigh that looks like it must contain an experimental ice ray gun or something, is frankly a bit unnerving. I’ve spent 9 perfectly good productive months sat in this office with my window on the world unsullied by nefarious distractions or instrusions until the day that some halfwit bill poster decided that actually the ITV celebrity wrestling adverts should go on the side of the phone box that faces directly across the street at our row of genteel victorian terraced town houses, as opposed to the side which faces into the traffic where it didn’t matter to me that “he’s finally taking her up the aisle”, because I couldn’t see it unless I popped out to M&Ms for a ginsters and some thai sweet chicken mccoys. but now, whatever I’m doing, whenever I’m doing it in this room, there’s always you, victoria, draping yourself over my shoulder like some drunken slapper from down riverside on a friday night, pressing into my back while I’m trying to work out the non-locale-specific version of Logged in as:, or sticking your thigh-length boots into my arm when I’m figuring how we’re going to tackle the issue of the syndicated catalogue. I can’t even write a meaningful email without your ridiculous hair tumbling over my keyboard while I type. so just go away and leave me alone. get c4 to stick up an advert for cheese or desperate housewives or something instead. I’m trying to concentrate.
get distracted yourself. its friday and you need a reason to look at something inconsequential and rubbish.