Heidi girl of the Alps

It's March in London and freezing cold. My name is Lela "Beata", my parents are Italians and most of my relatives live in Sardinia. I was born sleeping so they were all celebrating as they all thought I was dead but the truth was that I was nuts about Disney fairy tales from the beginning and wanted to be Sleeping beauty from day one.


Beata means lucky but when I think of my life and dysfunctional relatives , luck is the last thing that comes to my mind and wonder if my mum had missed the appointment with her optician and couldn't see what was going on around her or she was smoking "grass" to call me Beata.

I cannot stand the cold weather, I'm Italian after all and have tomato juice running through my veins, it's tough to cope with temperatures below 25 degrees unless you drink a lot of coffee. I have lost four fingers due to frostbites this morning already and I'm left with my thumb only, all the vehicles try to offer me a free ride as they think I'm hitchhiking and when I jump off the bus, my left kidney leaps and freezes as soon as it lands on the pavement. It looks like a fish finger and a kid asks me if he can have chips with it. He's lucky, I went to the beauty saloon the day before and removed my moustaches otherwise I would have strangled him with my left moustache. Ok I had to trim my sideburns too cause I was sick of people screaming : holy shit ! it's Elvis Presley !!!!

I try to stay calm and catch the tube, a lady with huge and floppy breasts is trying to sit next to me , I think how many nations this woman could breastfeed but I can't figure out the number because as she sits, she slaps me across the face with her left  breast  and leaves me unconscious for the entire journey. The builder standing in front of us is trying to read the Sun paper but put 250 people in one square metre carriage and unless you are a flipping contortionist there is no way you can pick your nose, let alone read the paper.


Another lady is doing her make up and try to put some mascara on and of course if you take the District or Circle Line in London where even a turtle  can overtake your train. You can do your make up, straight your hair, trim your pubic hair and make few church candles with the wax in your ears too. After a couple of stops and a bumpy ride, the lady has mascara all over her face except her eyes and you would ask her out if you were a Newcastle football fan as her white mozzarella face has black stripes all over. I look at the man standing in front of us with the Sun paper and he has foam coming out of his mouth, I think he's chewing dishwasher tablets for a minute but I'm wrong, he's checking the page three topless model. Another man wearing glasses with lenses as big as sky dishes is using his laptop and I wonder how he can do pivot tables at 6am when I struggle to open my outlook at 10 am but then I  see the reflection on the lenses and read "sudoku level 5".

I reach the office and Kat our receptionist can barely walk, she reminds me Clara from the novel Heidi girl of the Alps when she was learning to walk again but Kat can walk  and run faster than Usain Bolt wearing 10 inches stilettos and I think Sanj  from IT might have something to do with this. He probably thought he would increase her "memory" and insert his "USB" in her floppy disk  so I come to the conclusion that Sanj  must have shagged her so hard last night that she ended up in a wheelchair the next day and when I ask her if she's all right, she blames the "long hard" drive and I'm not sure if she meant the  car journey from Cambridge to London or the IT bloke .

I get a coffee from the vending machine and it tastes like domestos  bleach but if you add a drop of milk it tastes like CIF so much better and obviously thanks to the bleach all seems so much clear and can't wait to start another day in the office.  We are on the 2th floor of a beautiful victorian building, most of my colleagues  in sales are depressed due to the credit crunch and housing market at the moment so they try to commit suicide by jumping out of the windows  but as we are in UK, you gotta queue up even to kill yourself, the queue is longer than the M25, people get stressed even more, they give up and sit at their desks again.

Luckily Clint didn't get his usual English breakfast this morning, he works for me in the letting team and when he farts, the radiations are as toxic as Hiroshima .The dodgy emissions of my old boiler smell like Chanel number 5 in comparison to his ass. I pray that someone will kidnap Clint one day but unless I'm going to sell my left kidney on Ebay so I can purchase him a one way ticket to Afghanistan from Thomas Cook, there is no way Clint will disappear. I try to make few calls in Sicily to make him disappear but they refuse my offer, they claim it is a "shitty "deal and to be fair I think of his ass and totally agree with that.