Adam ‘I’d like to join NKOTB’ Hills… hott.
So, despite having preached and gloated with the vehemence of a born-again Christian non-smoker to the proverbial cows and all my colleagues about how, as the sole recipient of the office flu inoculation, I’d be the only person not to get sick all winter and would pretty much be running the world as they coughed up their TB-riddled lungs whilst simultaneously drowning in molten phlegm-lava from the volcanic eruptions which spurted from every orifice, it would appear that I’ve been struck down by the dreaded ‘lurgy’. Why do people say that, anyway? Does it even mean what I think it does? It means, flu, right? Flu, cold, type chest coughy fever dying but not really thingy? Yes? Ok, cool. As you were.
Incidentally, it turns out the shot I had is for the really bad flu, and not the run-of-the-mill quotidian flu that everyone gets. Great, huh? So if I get exposed to horse flu, avian flu, or the flu-that’s-carried-on-the-fleas-of-pidgeons-and-eats-your-brains-flu*, I’ll be fine! Yay!
Never one to pass on an opportunity for prime-time martyrdom (with my feverish incandescence lending itself to the overall dramatic effect – I even bloodied my feet and donned a thorny crown – it was totally fierce! Rrrrr… What? I mean in a meek way, duh), I dutifully hauled myself into the ‘ffice yesterday, fully prepared to undertake all duties and generally dispel the rumours of my obsolescence which may have been floating about, like foul miasmas, if miasmas were made of words instead of being the vaporous substances that Early Moderns believed caused diseases to spread. Ha! I said ‘spread’! That’s totally dirty.
I drove into the work car park, a little high from general sickly delirium, and it was really full as it always is on a Thursday, and I’ll now switch to the present tense to heighten the sense of drama of what is essentially an action interlude about driving in a car park:
I see a tough park to get into but there’s this guy who’s tail-gating me so I skip it and it all gets quite stressful and I’m going around and around in circles down though the building’s intestines or whatever, and it feels like the guy behind me’s getting closer and closer but it’s probably just the parking-induced performance anxiety I suffer from, which my boyfriend thinks is due to my having learned to drive too late in life. And I’m nearing the dead-end, dead-bottom of the car park, nowhere left to go, when I notice the car behind me’s found himself a nice little reverse-a-spot, one I’d accidentally passed, and it’s just me now, and there’s a commodore up ahead doing a fifty-point turn in order to head back up and try again, dead-end, dead-end! So I quickly turn my Honda around and, surely breaking the lot’s 15km speed limit, head back up to the original spot and park comfortably, the new angle facilitating a hitherto unimagined ease of manoeuvre, thank you very much. Phew!
Relieved, I got into the lift to go up to my floor and there was this guy standing there, who I didn’t really look at because I was sick and weak and also carrying a huge tray of sushi which was rather heavy.
‘I feel really bad, because I sort of stole your park’, says the man, and I look up and it turns out the driver behind me was Spicks and Specks host and general nice-guy-of-comedy, Adam Hills, and, more than that, he’s pretty hot, which I never would have expected from seeing him on television, but he’s tall and a bit buff and tanned and generally soigné, in the manner of most celebrities. What’s more, I think he’s wearing eyeliner, but I’m not sure, because his intensely friendly eye contact is very distracting, and also because my prior mental image of him is from the cover of Rolling Stone he did recently with the other Spicks and Specks peeps, in which he’s wearing heavy-yet-ironic glam-rock eye makeup.
‘That’s ok’, I say. ‘I didn’t even notice.’
‘It’s really kill or be killed in this car park.’
We reach the ground floor and the lift doors open.
‘After you’, says Adam Hills, all warmth and smiling politesse.
‘Oh, I’m going up.’
And then he limped out of the elevator, and, my life.
He may have stolen my car park, but let’s face it, I’d taken way too much pseudoephydrine to really mind, or actually notice. And the glow I felt was payment enough for a whole parking station of purloined parks.
Or maybe that was just the fever. (*sighs*)
* I heard about that one where all good lessons take place – outside the Multi-Purpose Hall in at lunchtime in Year 7. Ah, the Multi-Purpose Hall. Let’s now take a moment to appreciate its utilitarian poetry.