A very bad weekend

Thursday - 12:45 pm

How depressing it is!

Today it's probably one of the most horrible days of the year!

I'm not talking about being Valentine's Day and that the only chocolate I received has been a mouldy bar. And it's not either about not having a boyfriend or a friend with whom going out or pretending to go out. I can't even afford a boyfriend, let alone! What I really can't stand are the honeyed faces of my colleagues, their sugary speeches in every corner of the editorial office and their stupid questions about your plans for this evening. Angela will go in a very luxurious hotel on the sea with her boyfriend Tommaso. Jessica will share a heart shape pizza - Puah! - with her Marco in an exclusive restaurant in the city centre. And Romina... Romina has begun her Valentine's Day with a huge and expensive box of chocolate on her desk this morning, has gone on with a bundle of red roses two hours later and, just a couple of minutes ago, she received a package with fiery red underwear inside. It's hard to tell who is the "HIM" of Romina. She has probably more than one of it. Maybe even three, but I will not stay here to mull over Romina's sentimental life when I have to think about the looks of commiseration that those three gave me this morning. Nor will I think about the fact that, when I leave the office this evening, I will have to elbow to be able to get a take-away pizza to eat on the cold sofa in my flat. Not at all. I have work to do and I have every intention of showing my boss that Ludovica Germani is a serious and willing employee. Maybe... I don't know... I'll get a promotion or a pay raise.

Well, get to work!

Where was I?

I look back at my messed-up desk and recover a sheet half buried by the avalanche of envelopes that has just arrived.

Oh, right.

Roberto Righi.

Poor man.

Died in Perugia at the age of 45. His wife, children and friends mourn him.

And this?

Blimey! 99 years old! He would wear them well if he had a partner of 24. Giuditta ... Maybe he had a lot of money. Carlo Stefani. His partner and friends mourn him.

I have my doubts.

I finish typing on the keyboard and click Enter, pausing to observe the hourglass of the cursor rotating on itself against the white background of the page.

It wasn't this I was aiming for. Writing obituaries, I mean. In short, when I applied, I was hoping they would take me as a paper pusher in some section. Instead, that distant Friday two years ago, they gave me a big smile and told me to go down to the first floor. I was thrilled. Really. They told me I had arrived at the right time. That a place had just become vacant and they were looking for someone like me. Instead, they threw me into writing obituaries and proofreading. I could have refused, of course. But it's not that I had a line of employers waiting for me with open arms, the rent was always threatening and then... well, I was hoping that, after a trial period, I could get a promotion.

But instead, six months later, the editor-in-chief summoned me and told me, all smiling, that I was doing a really good job, that I was the right person for the section. I still wonder in what sense. I mean, I'm not a sex bomb or a thin model disguised as a manager like Angela, Jessica or Romina or the others, but I don't think I'm the obituary type either, am I?

I snort and start opening folders at random waiting for the lunch break to arrive. I don't have much to do at the moment and, frankly, I have no intention of getting up for a coffee, with the risk that someone will ask me the fateful question: "What are you doing tonight?" Really, it gets on my nerves! It's not that I'm ashamed of not having a boyfriend or something. It's just terribly annoying to see their little faces giggling at you as they pretend to understand you. What's wrong with not having a boyfriend? Oh, come on!