the privet hedge man
It was 11 o’clock
We were all kneeling on our desks in our fourth floor office
Leaning out the window
All looking in the same direction
like circus clowns at a side show
As Baker Street disappeared into a funnel
in both directions
Sure enough
There he was
Same time
Everyday
The privet hedge man
He would walk down our side of the street and whirl around
Sometimes a few times
every single street lamp
just like Fred Astaire
always
Dislodging his topee with the energetic gyrations
Sometimes
he would notice
stopping and standing to attention
with co-ordinated precision
of both hands
realign the topee
Other days
He simply would not notice
Pirouetting down the street
Totally obvious
From our height
All eyes followed the anticipated slide
The rotation of the topee
the bearing of the bald
it was positively tantilising
Every day
No matter the outcome
it cracked us up
it was that kind of office
run by an alcoholic Scotsman
I don’t know how we found time for work
as the day was dotted with rituals
the privet hedge man was one
the lady in the apartment across the street
was another
usually about three in the afternoon
she had different men over each day
some really big black guys
who proceeded to launch into an orgy of sexual gymnastics
as if it was an Olympic sport
always
not drawing the blinds
obviously aware that
in the darkened pits of our office
feet up on the desks
all our eyes followed every move
every gyration
in silent admiration
with occasional gasps of collective breath at each staggering feat
we felt like giving them a standing ovation on some days
but due to a fear of attracting attention
we settled for rating each performance
As this ritual usually followed on from the other lunch time ritual
The pub
We were all in the right space for the afternoon voyeuristic delights
Usually cut
The four of us
Together with the raunchy secretary
Filled the time in between rituals
creatively?
We would crush the sugar cubes
Sprinkling them on the floor
Opening our umbrellas
Arm in arm
We performed a soft shoe shuffle
Our version of singing in the rain
Emulating the privet hedge man in our spiralling pirouettes
That usually ended on the floor in a pile of heaving bodies
hysterically laughing
The sugar cubes came in handy
As the South African and I
Licked the cubes and made our own chess pieces
Then the board
Which evolved into an ongoing game that would last days
The moves being interrupted by the daily rituals and the very occasional
Work
Over the game
We both spoke in a longing way
About the sense of space of our respective lands
And how
Once that sense of space entered your soul
Europe
Was claustrophobic
Interesting, exciting
But hemmed in
the secretary
had been married for 7 years and was feeling the itch
which everyone tried to scratch
usually with little results
just alcohol fuelled
rampant flirting
after one
particularly onerous sessions of soft shoe shuffles
not to mention the aforesaid, ritual drinking
I staggered to the tea room
Really a tea cupboard
For another stimulant
The secretary was there
She looked seductively over her shoulder
In man speak
The come on
taking half a step
I placed my hands on her hips
Kissing her gently on the nap of the neck
My hands following the curve of her body
Slowly up and down
graduating to nibbling her ear
Putting her head
back on my shoulder
Eyes closed
she whispered
In a slow monotone
What would you do with me if we were alone
She turned
Leant against the sink, with her legs apart
With one hand sliding around my neck
She guided me into a sustained, penetrating kiss
Before I could climb out of her mouth
The door swung opened
Thudding into my back with great ferocity
The Scotsman
Eyes askance
Apologetically withdrew
Shaken
With a quiet smile
I sheepishly withdrew
The only impression that I was left with
Was the door knob in my back
We had often mused
that the Scotsman
being married with children
you know experienced?
may have
scaled the heights??
the Scotsman
being the boss
would often stand in the middle of the office
usually around 4.30 in the afternoon
with his hands on his hips
looking around
rocking backwards and forwards
then
emphatically announcing to the gathered multitudes
fuck it!
Let’s go to the pub
which initiated the stampede
like buffalo to a watering hole
in the final ritual for the day
the pub
as we marked another day
in our own personally induced London fog