As Good as Anne Lister
By Eule Grey
On the walk to work, I drag my boots along pavements glistening with frost and remember it’s December.
As if I needed reminders of last year, a plastic tree leans outside the office. Stood in the very spot my potted rosebush normally takes.
I find my roses behind the bins, bone-dry and bedraggled, and drag the bush into reception.
I’d been expecting everything at work to be the same as ever. Was looking forward to slotting into the orders and lists of the working day as if the last four weeks hadn’t happened:
Water the rose bush.
Identify bleachy scents. Citrus Santa or Minty Rudolf?
Mop floors and clean the bathrooms.
Avoid Len.
Have a sneaky sing on the karaoke machine, and a spray of the ladies’ perfumes.
Avoid Len.
Go home alone.
Avoid L
