Post-Invasion Planning Part Seven

Peter spotted Helena sitting at a table on the balcony of the hotel’s bar, through the sliding glass doors and past a splattering of diners. There were two glasses and a bottle on ice in front of her. Spiral stairs led up to the roof on her left. ‘Helena, hey.’
‘Peter.’ They kissed fully on the lips. Helena poured as Peter said:
‘So, tell me.’
‘Just listen to this,’ she said, handing him a set of headphones from her bag.

* * *

‘Diane! We slept through the alarm! Wake up!’ Emma’s words pierced Diane’s dream and yanked her up out of confused bliss. She leapt from her bed, cursing, flinging clothes on while dragging a comb through her hair and searching for her shoes.

Her godmother Amanda had hooked her up with an internship at The Inspector through her sister who was an editor there. Diane had detested the nepotism but couldn’t say no. Today wasn’t her first day, but two months in, it still frequently felt like it. The open-office layout meant that there were effectively fifty people in the same room, all busily pretending to work away, and conversations carried and fluctuated in volume and frequency depending on the general hubbub. Diane had found in her first few weeks that she couldn’t help but get carried away completely, listening in on snippets of interaction that then blended together into undulating streams, layering upon one another in supposed randomness that contained patterns if one listened for long enough, and she had consequently found it far from easy to work. Recently, however, Diane had begun to hone the technique of listening in while simultaneously following her own thought processes. It was just a question of multi-tasking – the compartmentalisation of soundtracks.

She cycled fast, weaving between traffic, drawing honks and fist-shakes, headphones on. The air smelled of leaves mulching. Arriving outside the newspaper’s looming buildings, she looked left over the river to watch a flock of pigeons explode in the sky before hurrying through the rotating doors, glancing a nod to the security guard who replied with a frustrated, conspiratorial eyebrow raise.

‘Hey, Diane’ said Peter, as she nearly walked smack into him as she was putting her headphones in her bag.
‘Oh, sorry Peter.’
‘No, my fault.’ He smiled gingerly. ‘Listen, while I’ve got you, there’s something I wanted to ask.’ Diane saw – it was evident in the acute slope of his eyebrows – that he was resigned to sounding forward. ‘Want to help me with a story? It’s not about cleaners from Whitechapel or cleaners within Whetstone.’
‘Let’s go for a coffee. Just let me grab my jacket.’

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July 13, 2012 | Author: | Posted in Cleaning, Home Improvement


Megan J Peterson is an young student who thinks that every one can clean as the professional cleaners London. She is obsessed with cleaning experiments and new recipes. Her theory is: Why to hire a cleaning London expert, when we can deal with the task on our own?

This author has published 16 articles so far.

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