It wasn't my fault. Okay, it was, but that doesn't help me, does it?
"How long have you had to do this?" he asked, sounding so bloody resigned and weary as he shuffled my papers into some semblance of order that I felt horrid.
"'It'snotmyfaultwaschattingandtimejust-"
How a person can slap you on the arse and disconnect the keyboard at the same time is beyond me. Maybe he has had practice. Wrapping the cord around the offending item (the keyboard, that is, not me) he nodded at the mound of paperwork.
"Go on, you'll feel better when it's done, love."
"Reckon?"
No comments:
Post a Comment