Alexander
BRENDA, my assistant, has a voice that makes my ears bleed. I’ve pondered it a great deal during idle minutes, and the closest comparison I’ve so far drawn is that of a poorly tuned trumpet, played through the nose.
It would be comedy if she weren’t so thoroughly f*****g prissy with it.
It would kill me to hear her squeal my name in the bedroom, and since my assistant is the very last person I want in my bedroom, that is fortunate. And quite possibly one of the main reasons I decided to hire her in the first place.
That and the fact she’s f*****g good at what she does.
Mr Austin is here to see you.
I’m sure her voice sounds even worse through the internal telephone system, as though some of the depth of tone is lost in transmission.
Believe me, she finds me as unbearable a
