Relatively Speaking, No.1

The head of human resources is a young woman of pleasant appearance, not drop-dead pretty but she does possess spectacular proportions. I don't mean out-size, I mean Hollywood-siren statistics, the shoe-horned-into-a-tight-sweater, kind. She is the owner of an outline usually only found on maps of the Alps. If she never moved, she would be a cartographer's wet dream.

But move she does, and in consequence, most male staff become momentarily frozen by the invisible pause button of life. Heads might not turn, but keyboards, if they had feelings, would feel neglected. Pens pause over paper and those of acute hearing might just imagine they can hear the swiveling of a myriad male eyeballs. Every bounce and jiggle is noted, filed and probably later retrieved for quiet contemplation and reflection somewhere private.

I've never seen her legs as she always wears trousers. I think it's a power play or maybe some kind of feminist statement, but baggies they're not. They're sheer and tight and, as she strides imperiously, show off a remarkable backside seemingly consisting of two nicely rounded creatures engaged in a never-ending wrestling match.

When she marches past our desks, professionally unsmiling, arms swinging militarily in step with long legs, eyes focused on the far horizon of the manager's office, her breasts bounce in that special way only naturally firm breasts can. And always, almost ritualistically, the ranks of surreptitious observers are imperiously ignored.

She actually passes my desk close enough for her slipstream to ruffle my paperwork and her perfume to tickle my nose. In the early days, I would look up, smile and try to catch her eye in what I assumed was correct etiquette towards alien visitors to our office. But I have yet to receive even a flicker of recognition, never mind a smile. I simply don't exist. But I'm not offended because none of us exist.

Months previously, I did speak with her, away from my office, in a corridor near her desk, at the water cooler. But I can't for the life of me remember a word spoken. I think she gave me a polite nod and a slight smile after I said, ‘Good morning'. So I have yet to discover whether she sounds like Marlene Dietrich or Minnie Mouse.

This is important. No fantasy can survive an inappropriate voice. Unless that is the chipmunks are your thing or Minnie Mouse presses your buttons. Neither do it for me. But give me a sultry, throaty voice, full of emotion and promise, and I can overlook any physical imperfection. The voice engages something deeper within the mind. So I don't care if I'm ignored. I'm happily imagining she squawks and screeches worse than Eliza Dolittle in My Fair Lady to the extent that even Henry Higgens wouldn't be interested. God help me if I'm wrong ...