Lost in Wanderlust

Chapter Two - Chris

There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page.

Scratch that. There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page when you have a deadline.

And there is nothing more piss-your-trousers, fetal-positioning, terrifying when you have a blank page, a deadline, and a boss called Joe Bradley.

I have all three of those things. I haven't pissed my pants yet, but if I have another cup of coffee this becomes more of a possibility. As for the fetal position, I've learned there is just enough room for that under my desk. Unfortunately, crawling under your desk rarely makes your problems go away. It only worked that one time when I faked having a delirious fever and Marilyn sent me home from work. God bless that woman, there's a special place in heaven for secretaries who know you're lying and still go along with it.

The article I have to finish is a piece on the economy. Oh, I know. How unique. Another expose on how screwed Britain is and how the whole world is screwed and how the newspaper is screwed because no one buys newspapers anymore because of the damn economy (and Internet of course, but Joe's Jurassic way of doing news is about as useful as the arms on a T-Rex). But for some darn reason, people like to hear about how fucked up everything is and these articles keep coming out. And I'm the one writing them, which leaves me tremendously depressed every time I hear an investor talk about the sorry state of affairs. Actually, they aren't sorry. They are the ones with the money. But the rest of us suffer.

Especially me. Because if I don't produce the article in the next 20 minutes, that's one more excuse for Joe to kick me out on my arse. Then I'd be out of a job. And without a job, I wouldn't be able to save just enough to buy Alexa her desired engagement ring and I certainly wouldn't be able to afford the vacation we're supposed to be taking tomorrow.

Ugh. The space under the desk is starting to look particularly inviting now.

Somehow though, I manage to pull myself out of my nightly spiral of shame and loathing and the article gets done. It's not my best work...actually I'm pressed to find any of my best work lately. But it is something and something is what The London Herald needs. Or, at least, gets.

I eye the clock. It's already one minute late.

I hop out of my chair and walk past the row of cubicles across to the other side of the office. It's amazing how something so large and open, with buzzing fluorescent lights everywhere and blinking computers, can feel exactly like an oppressive, dank cave.

As usual, I'm the only one here working late. Well, me, Joe and Marilyn. We used to have a few beat reporters who would put in the long hours but Joe let them go a few months ago. Was a real shame too, one of them, Pat, lived just down the road from me and would often give me a ride home. Now I see him on the way to the tube in the mornings and he won't even look at me. Losing your job can make you forget a lot of people.

I pause in front of Joe's office. Marilyn sits to the right of the door, eyebrows furrowed as she types furiously at her computer.

I reckon Marilyn would have been quite a stunner back in the day. For someone in her 60's, she's quite a stunner now. She's gained a few pounds over the years I've known her, but the weight keeps her looking youthful and smoothes out the "beak-face" older women get when their noses get longer but they pull their cheeks back with plastic surgery. Marilyn just has a warm, if somewhat anxious, visage, with friendly eyes that she denies behind cat-eyed glasses. She keeps her grey hair a rich brown and dresses in thick materials that seem opulent and itchy at the same time.

She pauses in mid "clackity clack" and glances up at me with a stern, motherly face.

"You done?"