It’s my colleague Leanne.
‘Ready for a brilliant day? I’ve been up since six – already been for a jog.’
Leanne’s a morning person.
‘I’m starving. I was going to . . . Look at that man over there. Is he wearing tweed? It’s too hot for tweed.’
Leanne is easily distracted.
‘Oh, you’ve bought the last chocolate croissant. Bugger. Split it with me? I really don’t have time to wait in line somewhere else.’
Leanne can go and fuck herself.
‘Oh, go on. I’ll give you one of those hot-chocolate sachets I keep hidden in my drawer.’
I’m tempted to tell her that I’m already aware of her hot-chocolate stash and have been raiding it for the past year – and can she stop buying the hazelnut ones as they taste like shit – but instead I nod and reluctantly hand her a torn-off corner of the pastry as we walk towards the station exit.
I walk. She bounces. It was one of the first things I noticed about her when she joined the company last year. Everything about Leanne is bouncy, from her personality to her curly black hair. She’s not so much a glass-half-full kind of girl; more of a girl who’s simply excited to have a glass in the first place.
We stop at the traffic lights on Union Street, crushed between the other Monday-morning losers.
‘Good weekend then?’ she continues, stuffing the pastry in her mouth and brushing the crumbs off her navy suit jacket. ‘Charlie and I went to Ikea. He bought a new computer table; hideous red thing, but it’s for his office. I got—’
‘Meatballs?’ I interrupt.
‘Ha! Of course. You can’t go to Ikea without having meatballs. But I also got a new rug for the bedroom. It’s so fluffy.’
‘Does Charlie like a fluffy rug?’ I enquire, wondering why I feel the need to turn everything into a euphemism when I’m bored.
She giggles and shakes her head. ‘No, he hates them. He likes a clean area to work with. Bare floors, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do, and now I’m sorry I asked.’
She giggles again before her brain takes off in another direction. ‘I wonder if they’ve restocked the vending machine.’
The green man appears and we head down Gordon Street towards our office near George Square. I know the words ‘LEANNE’S BARE FLOORS!’ will now appear in my mind’s eye every so often, flashing in neon seedy strip-club signage. It’s going to be a long day.
The Scottish Tribune’s new, swanky offices are located near the squinty bridge on the picturesque banks of the River Clyde. They are expensive, clean, modern and unfortunately still being built, which means staff who write for the Lowdown continue to work from the third floor of the elevator-free ‘Trade House’ office block, while the main-paper journalists, sales and production staff are still at their comfy but crowded headquarters in Finneston. The powers that be are building the new block because they think it will be more cost-effective and productive if we are all based in the same building, but the schedule is delayed and, to be honest, I’m not there often enough to care.
The trudge up three flights of stairs never gets easier, but we’ve learned to cope. I plod along slowly while Leanne takes the steps two at a time because she’s a fucking show-off. Her legs are in great shape though – if I put as much time and effort into fitness as I put into being a smartarse, I’d probably be leaping up the stairs too.
I swing open the office doors and I’m greeted by the usual sight of messy desks, strewn newspapers, PR freebies and the wall display of our magazine covers, which could use a good polish. Five of us work for the magazine, but it appears that only three have made it in so far today. I smile over at Gordon, our music editor. He’s already on Twitter and downing a Red Bull.
‘Morning, Gordon. Good weekend?’
‘Nope.’ He continues typing. His red hair looks as if it has been lovingly ruffled by a shark.
‘Anything you’d like to share with the group?’ I ask. The room smells musty. I get up and open a window.
He stops tapping for a minute. ‘My fucking in-laws came to stay. How the hell my wife turned into the well-adjusted woman she is, I’ll never know. Her mum and dad are in-sufferable. Thank Christ they live three hours away. Here, did you see that cabinet minister got caught in a brothel on Saturday? Clown.’
At my desk it looks like nothing has been touched since last week, including the coffee cup I forgot to put in the sink. Even the cleaners here are shite. I turn on my computer. Nothing happens. Oh for God’s sake.
‘Yeah, I heard it on the news yesterday,’ I reply, thumping the side of my PC. ‘Do me a favour, Gordon, and stick a journo request on Twitter for me? I need to speak to women who’ve had facelifts before fifty, and I can’t get this bloody machine to switch on again.’
I hear him laughing. ‘Is this for the magazine or for you?’
‘It’s for your mum.’
