Beautiful Belgian haired Katrien slowly walked towards her office, passing through the darkened and deserted ticket department. Thursday already, where had the week gone!. She continued upstairs, past the armed guard preventing unauthorised lift access to the upper floors, and into her office, he spotted her and gave a V sign. Sighing quietly to herself she looked out her window to the scene outside. A man with a small bag of cement was walking around inefficiently filling in potholes in the car park, he looked up saw her smile at him and gave her the finger, The chip delivery for the next match was being unloaded by the caterers who carried the family bag of oven chips inside. A small crowd wearing anoraks, waved flags and hurled sexist abuse in her general direction, it was just another day. The acrid smoke from the burning of a huge pile of unsold programmes, and effigy dolls, drifted across from the club superstore, whilst the mournful sound of a lone lady DJ could be heard coming from Crossbars. She wiped away a silent tear.
The eyes of the portrait on the wall suddenly flashed, and the painting slid upwards to reveal a TV screen. An inscruitable looking man stroking a cat gave her his latest instructions in Flemish, another small step towards the success of his ultimate master plan. She pressed the remote control and the painting slid silently back into place. She could feel her heart beating strongly, and a thin layer of perspiration clung to her skin. Next door she could hear that the current manager (if only she could remember his name) was cursing her name while clearing his desk, his replacement has due on that mornings Eurostar. Steeling herself she turned on her PC, and unconsciously deleted the days abusive, as well as all the other eMails. Work, Work, Work, was it really all worth it.
When she had first arrived it had all been so different, HE had been here. She walked back downstairs, and onto the pitch. Here at least they had really made a difference, a legacy, a tangible achievement to be proud of,... the DFS sofa. She sat down, it was wet. The ground staff looked up and cursing under their breaths, gave the pitch a violent prod. The latest batch of network players had arrived and were going through their paces on the Valley pitch, running around bumping into each other, jogging in circles, falling over, feigning injury, bending over wheezing for breath, and coughing. If only HE had stayed! what a difference it would have made!.
Where had it gone wrong? Why did he have to leave?, If only her mobile hadn't run out of charge on the train, she might have persuaded him to stay!. Oh Yann why did you have to go?............
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Comments
/ˈflaks(ə)n/
adjective
adjective: flaxen
made of flax.
•literary
(especially of hair) of the pale yellow colour of dressed flax.
Chief Executive Officer
Swans around looking important whilst systematically ripping the gizzards out of a much loved but sadly now down at heel organisation.
otherwise a good start ...are you looking for an Agent ?
Absolutely hilarious , I loved it the laughter brought tears to my eyes !