Mac and I are getting along like a house on fire. When there’s no one else in the office (which is a fair bit) we spend the whole time laughing. He’s totally neurotic about absolutely everything but in a funny, loveable way. For instance, there was a spider in the kitchen today, not even a big one. He screamed like a girl and came running out flapping his arms around shrieking, “get it away from me or I swear I’m going to pass out!” I nearly fell off my chair laughing. He also loses things all the time. We’re on our third big box of pens. Somewhere in this office there must be hundreds of them but goodness knows where. I can give him a pen while he’s sitting at his desk and by the time I’ve got back to my own desk he’s shouting out, “Sweets, I need another pen, I’ve put it down somewhere and I can’t find it.” Maybe he’s eating them, who knows. Still all the walking up and down is probably good for my weight loss. His desk is like a rubbish dump so they’re probably all sitting under piles of paper or in one of his drawers (which are filled to overflowing with discarded ties and moisturisers).
The funniest thing is his homophobia. I mean, who ever heard of a gay homophobic? He really can’t stand flamboyantly gay behaviour (although the spider incident proves he can do it himself) or gay guys that act or dress like women. He calls them ‘creepy gays,’ and he despises them. We had a client come into the office yesterday after a position in retail, “preferably fashion.” He was wearing a pink floral shirt and a grey suit, the trousers were frighteningly tight and the jacket looked like a woman’s, he also appeared to be wearing some kind of lip stain and eye liner. After he’d been interviewed and left the office, Mac came and sat on the corner of my desk.
“Don’t even bother Sweets, too queer,” he said, “even Jean Paul Gaultier would call that creepy gay and that’s saying something.”
The only arguments we’ve had are over cakes. Every morning he tries to talk me into going to the Tesco garage to get cakes and every morning I have to talk him out of it. He can get quite stroppy when I say no and he stamps his foot and says, “who’s the boss?” He reminds me of a petulant five year old when he does that. He’s always going on about his double chin and his belly fat though so I usually win the argument. On Friday I’m going to give in and let him get his own way. I figure I’ll be walking it off over the weekend when I do my Race For Life training so once a week won’t hurt.