Near...
Far...
Not wearing a bra...
It was not so long ago that there was the Office Scandal of the Mystery Pisser In The Lift before she was caught.
Today, it's not the pleasures of golden showering in the lifts - it's rampant sexual shaggery by skellingtons!
Lunchymunchy time, and after purchasing provisions as an excuse to perve at my polish Pretty (and profferer of provender), I returned to the lift to go back to my desk.
There, at head height, was a solitary greasy handprint!
Now, normally, it's awash with greasy splodge where those unwashed of coiffure lean back, smearing their follicle filth all over the mirror's surface. But today was freshly polished, and a single handprint remained.
Aha! Titanic! Kate Winslett types stopping the lift and getting rogered by below-stairs DiCaprio style urchins, slapping the glass like it's a steamy window on a carriage in the hold!
Not only that, the print was somewhat boney. Bereft of flesh around the fingers. The skeletal pawprint of limb-end leprosy sloughed off of skin.
I know we employ some braindead zombies here, but reanimating skeletal corpses of rakish nymphomaniacs? (although if the loa Mademoiselle Charlotte is inhabiting the earthly host of THAT Charlotte [especially in her short skirted fairy outfit], I wouldn't mind getting helping her get some handprints all over that mirror'd wall!)
Still, equal opportunities for the living and the undead. That's diversity for you.
Although I can't really see a group of Mictantecutli based shambling voodoo-risen servants of Sacha Baron La Croix-Cohen performing their hi-octane dance moves all decomposery like. Doing a backflip and their fingers dropping off into the little 'uns great big hair.
Unless they're recreating Michael Jackson's Thriller, with special guest appearance by a Living Dead MJ because Papa Legba bought tickets for the O2 and never got to see the This Is It tour (Maîtresse Délai on tambourine with Maîtresse Hounon'gon on backing vocal and occasional follicle flambé on the MJ's bonce).
Probably.
