200 Degrees

Hot hot hot. Too hot. So hot that our shirts sucked sweaty to our backs and our feet slip-slid in our shoes. The ceiling fan folded the air like cake mixture. The fax machine had a binary breakdown, 011100001110101000111. Lucy Miller pretended to clean the fridge, rearranged the shelves like tetris. We all commented that Dan Pearson smelled like crushed cabbage. The office manager flipped about in sodden sandles, then tossed them under her desk and pitter-patted wet footprints across the kitchen floor. And one by one the permanents left, in a haze of languid grumbles and ice-cube fantasies. The temps that remained contemplated creating office chaos. Shaving crop circles into the carpet. Messing with the franking machine, replacing the company logo with an obscenity. Putting cheese behind Hated Harriet’s radiator. Jack Doherty told us he dreamed of hiding all the staples but not the staplers. But no. Too hot for mischief. The heat stung and no desktop fan could sooth. Ellie Marr logged off. Sam Callar pressed a pack of frozen peas to her forehead. We wondered where she had got them from. Paul Hammersmith loosened his tie and said, ‘it’s got to be at least two hundred degrees’.