by Jo Edwards
FOGGY’S BLOG
Jo Edwards
Published by Weasel Green Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FOGGY’S BLOG
Copyright © Jo Edwards 2013
Cover Art by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design
Edited by Mike Rose-Steel
Interior Text Design by Richard Edwards
ISBN: 978-1-908212-17-7
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to [email protected]
First Edition:
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Seaweed
Table of Contents
Weighing it up
Cost of living
Sickness entitlement
Practice makes perfect
Banking on it
Foggy & Son
Disciplinary action
I love Lucy
Investment opportunity
Dare to dream
A very civil partnership
Counting the cost
Dress rehearsal
Northern lights
Opening night
Also by Jo Edwards
About the Author
Other by the publisher
Profile: Morten Astley Fogarty
DOB: 22/11/1988
Works at: Perypils Insurance Call Centre, Customer Account Handler
Studied at: Shodsworth Comprehensive, Shodsworth Amateur Dramatic Society
In a relationship with: Myra
Likes: Katy Perry, happy customers, Cheesy Wotsits, singing and dancing and all that jazz!
Weighing it up
I would have to have been Lance Armstrong to make it in to work on time. If only I could pedal as fast as he could; how on earth did he do it? He must be extremely fit and probably ate a vast amount of carbohydrates. I made a mental note to stock up on Pot Noodles. I was running late because I hadn’t been able to get into the bathroom; Mr Ryder from next door was in there fixing our shower. It wasn’t an easy job judging by all the grunting and groaning I heard, but I think he was eventually successful because he shouted “yes, yes, yes!” as he finished.
I didn’t see Mum before I left, so I assumed she was still worn out following yesterday’s visit to Job Centre Plus. She said it was exhausting having to make up ten things she’d done to find herself a job each fortnight; she used to write them all down on a spreadsheet but now she just handed her shopping list over instead. No one had noticed.
I pedalled furiously to work, waving to Mrs Ryder as she returned home after another night shift at the hospital. She was such a generous woman, letting her husband do so many jobs for us and always completely free of charge. Ever since Dad had left, Mr Ryder was always popping in and out, tools at the ready. We were so lucky to have such obliging neighbours.
Although I was late, I still arrived at work before my team manager, George, so I got away with it this time. I smiled at Lucy, but she was busy texting and didn’t see me. She looked lovely today in her short blue dress with the low back that partially revealed her Cupid tattoo. At least, I assumed it was Cupid – it might well be Robin Hood, but every time I managed to get close enough to see, she always had to rush off to do something really urgent. She’s such a hard worker!
There were forty-nine calls queuing – Monday morning is by far our busiest day at Perypils Insurance, so it’s all systems go from the minute you get in. Jess, who sits next to me, was browsing Primark Online, while on the phone to Barclays, berating them for bouncing her direct debit to Vodafone again. She’s a brilliant multi-tasker. I carefully untangled my headset, cleaned my work station very thoroughly with our Eco Tech antiseptic wipes, tested several pens to find one that worked, read Friday’s emails and checked my bank account on Internet banking. A quick look at Facebook on my phone, reply to a few messages and I was good to go!
My first call of the day was from a customer who wanted to know how much it would cost to add his schnauzer to his policy. I told him we didn't cover individual body parts. I put him on mute while he was shouting and listened to Cathy and Nick gossiping about the weekend. Cathy was saying: “He was snogging the face off that girl who works in the canteen! You know, the one I had a go at for picking her falsies off over the lasagne.”
“Not Chlamydia Lydia?”
“Yes! You wait; he’ll be back at the clinic again soon. My auntie works opposite, at the library, and she tags him on Facebook each time he goes in. Everyone must think he does a lot of reading! Ha ha! Shh - he’s here!”
I saw George come in and show something on his iPhone to Lucy, making her laugh out loud. She had lovely white, even teeth; she should be in an oral hygiene advert. Lucy doesn’t take many calls these days, not since George made her his deputy, and now she has to do lots of complicated things with the team’s admin. I know it must be very complex because when Cathy asked George to explain exactly what Lucy did, he really struggled. Cathy had organised a team meeting on Friday to discuss it with George but unfortunately, he was off sick again, and so the meeting couldn’t take place.
Our department manager, Kate, walked past and said something to George. I think they might have been discussing sport, because I thought I heard her say the word “O-lym-pic”. I did think for a moment that she’d said “Oi, Limp Dick!” How funny! As if Kate would ever say something like that, she’s far too professional. I noticed that everyone in the team had suddenly picked up a call, even Lucy. It’s great how the team pulls together when the number of customers in the queue reaches treble figures.
Myra texted just before lunch - she wanted me to go to Weight Watchers with her, for support. I said I would, although I had been planning to go to Boots to get some nasal hair clippers. I’d been examining my reflection in the side of the stapler as I waited for a customer to stop crying, and I could clearly see a hair protruding from my left nostril. Where had it come from? I Googled: ‘Why is hair growing from my nose’ on my phone, making sure I held it under the desk. The top answer was: ‘It’s God’s way of saying he hates you’.
At Jubilee Hall, I held Myra’s handbag when it was her turn to be weighed. For the fourth week running, the poor thing was suffering from severe water retention, which makes her heavier than she actually is. I wanted to be encouraging so I urged, “Keep on trying; you’ll get there! You’re doing really well.”
“Doing really well?” she wailed. “I’ve been bloody starving myself for the best part of a month and I’ve put on five sodding pounds! How is that doing really well?”
“Perhaps you could try a little exercise,” I suggested gently. “Maybe you-”
“I’m always bloody exercising!” she yelled. “We walked all the way to the cinema last week didn’t we, because your bloody chain had come off again. That must have been the best part of a mile! And I had to watch you stuffing your face with a hot dog, when all I could have was cheesy nachos and sour cream. You’ve no idea what’s it like; I try so hard with my diet but all that effort comes to nothing. It’s utterly soul destroying.” I tried to take her hand as we left the hall, but she was too upset to be comforted and we walked to Burger King in virtual silence.
When I got back to my desk, I found a yellow Post-it note stuck to my screen. It was a drawing of a man’s face, with a spider crawling out of the nose. It was extremely good, so only Lucy could have done it; she’s the most artistic perso
n in the team. How sweet of her to do a drawing for me! She was probably trying to make me laugh, sensing I was having a bad day. Did the picture have some sort of hidden meaning? I smiled at her conspiratorially but she quickly looked away. She really was a very sensitive girl. I sent her an email to say thank you, originally putting a couple of x’s after my name, but deciding, at the very last minute, to change them to smiley faces. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of office sex pest.
Mum was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown when I got home, listening to her Soft Cell play list. I asked her if she was ill and she said she was undressed because she’d been trying on outfits for Auntie Trisha’s civil partnership. I was impressed she was so organised, as that was weeks away. Mum had missed a couple of empty wine bottles when she’d been doing the recycling, so I took them outside to add to the crate and heaved it down to the gate, ready for collection.
I checked through the post, as I always did, to see if there was anything from Dad. He said he’d write when he was settled somewhere; I really wished I could call him but he didn’t have a phone.
“What are you looking for, Morto?” asked Mum.
“Oh, you know, I wrote that letter of complaint to Morrisons, do you remember? After I discovered that their own brand natural yoghurt looked very similar to my E45 cream. I was just wondering if they’d replied.” I hated telling lies but Mum always got upset if I mentioned
