A Bristow Tragedy

Firstly, apologies. I realise that there has been nothing new here of late. This is due to two things:

1) I am busy with schoolwork

but mostly, the second reason, being...

2) My laptop internet is no longer functional, and my parents are not keen on getting it repaired. As I type I am covertly logged onto my sister's laptop. If I am discovered...well, let's just hope I am not discovered. Ironically, the fact that I cannot easily update my blog leads to me wasting more times trying to find ways around the internet sanctions in my house. Ah well.

For those of you who read The Age comics, perhaps the following will make a bit more sense:

The coffee trolley squeaked as it trundled down the corridor, the trays of coffee and tea rattling and jangling away. It pulled up at one of the doors along the corridor, which had a small golden plaque attached which read “Mr G. Bristow”. Mrs Purdy gave a world-weary sigh, and tucked away a loose strand of her grey hair which she kept neatly tied back. Tied back, the same way it had been for so many years...as many as Mrs Purdy could remember. She took a deep breath, then knocked firmly on the door. Twice, as always.

“Mm?” came the lazy response from within.

“Coffee, sir,” Mrs Purdy replied, opening the door and moving in. She saw his feet before she saw anything else. Propped up on the desk, his large and misshaped leather shoes covered a large stack of paper – work that Bristow would have little intention of completing, she knew. Everything about him reminded her of the chauvinistic environment she had suffered all her working life. His paunchy well fed belly, bulging through a badly fitted suit – his piggy little eyes which Mrs Purdy could already feel surveying her body like penetrating rays. Mrs Purdy lowered her eyes, and moved forward with the tray.

“Your coffee, Mr Bristow,” she repeated, placing it on the desk. Mr Bristow watched her, an amused smile on his face.

“Coffee? But I don’t feel like coffee, Mrs Purdy,” he replied. Mrs Purdy’s head snapped up in surprise.

“Not...” Mrs Purdy paused, in shock. Bristow had always taken coffee. Always.

“That’s right,” continued Bristow, smiling smugly at her. “I don’t want your coffee. I feel like tea.”

“Please sir,” began Mrs Purdy, a note of anxiety in her voice. “You have always taken-”

“Coffee in the past? Yes, I have. But today, I don’t want your coffee,” interrupted Bristow callously, and with a brusque gesture, knocked the coffee cup over, sending scalding coffee over Mrs Purdy’s legs. Mrs Purdy cried out in pain, clutching at the edge of the desk for support.

“Ah! Please, Mr Bristow!” she yelped, attempting to sponge the hot beverage off her stockings with a tissue.

“Ah, Mr Bristow!” imitated Bristow cruelly, before throwing back his ugly watermelon shaped head and giving a loud, harsh laugh. “You’re just the tea lady, Mrs Purdy! It’s your job to shut up and get me my tea!” There was a pause, as Mrs Purdy’s eyes glared at the ground. Salty tears blurred her vision, blending and mixing the outdated carpet pattern, which had been there for as long as Mrs Purdy could remember. Her arms began to tremble, not with fear, but with suppressed rage.

“No.” The word was barely spoken at all, but was completely audible in the small office. Bristow narrowed his piggish eyes.

“No?”

“No, Bristow.” Mrs Purdy now raised her head to meet Bristow’s eyes. “Not this day. I’ve had enough – no longer will I be subjected to psychological bullying by you, all for the entertainment of those people out there” – Mrs Purdy waved her hand vaguely around her – “who, if you hadn’t noticed, haven’t been laughing for a good long time. Your sexist and degrading treatment of women ends here.” Mrs Purdy stared defiantly at Bristow, her eyes blazing with anger and passion.

Bristow’s eyes narrowed even further, if it were possible, before he once again returned to his signature smug smile, almost as if he was incapable of any other facial expression. “Oh Mrs Purdy,” he began. But that was as far as he got.

“Just DIE, YOU HEAR ME, DIE!” shrieked Mrs Purdy, and with a strength incongruous with her seemingly fragile frame, she seized a large marble paperweight off Bristow’s cluttered desk and swung it into Bristow’s jaw, where it made a resounding crack, as a handful of teeth flew out of his mouth. Blood spurted out, and spattered across a sunset photograph emblazoned with the words ‘Leadership’, which was hanging on the wall. Mrs Purdy raised the dripping paperweight once more, and brought it down, this time with a satisfying crunch onto Bristow’s skull, and again, and again, until it was difficult to tell which parts of Bristow were which...

Mrs Purdy closed the door gently behind her, and continued down the corridor, the trolley squeaking, and trays of coffee and tea rattling and jangling away joyously.