No. 1335: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for an imaginary extract from a story entitled either 'Beware the Office Romeo' or 'Blonde for a Week',

Torrid scenes aplenty — on the desk- edge, in the lift and round and round the computer room. One poor typist misheard the friendly warning as 'Beware the office Roneo' and was doomed. As many male as female characters went blonde for a week, but to less startling effect. I liked Ba Miller's short exchange in an office harass- ment situation: • 'I don't go out with married men.' His eyes flashed. 'Who told you that?' `M-M-Maureen D-D-Diane. Sh-Sh- Sharon .'

The four prizewinners there is room for get f12 each. The bonus bottle of Cham- pagne Jules Mignon Brut (NV) — the last one generously presented by Christopher Moorsom and Michael Alexander of the Chelsea Wharf Restaurant, Lots Rd, SW10 (351 0861) — goes to Bridget M. Rees.

Beware the Office Romeo

. . . smoothed his hands across her satin hips. 'Now, Jenny, now!'

His voice was urgent against the pulse at her slender throat; his thighs trembled against the steel of the filing cabinet, as he bent her back tenderly, inexorably above MINCH-OERL

She could feel her whole being vibrating to the demands of his strong male flesh. She reached to stop, and then caress, his left hand upon her yielding zipper. Its smooth whirr echoed but did not quite mask the soft rattle of a sliding drawer. Heavens! The Prax-Enwright Projections!

'No, Darren, no!'

She forced apart her heavy lids against the glare of the relentless Anglepoise. Was this the folly for which Tracey and Robyn had-paid so dear?

'Stop . . . you mustn't . . . those briefs are confidential . . . Mr Brotherton trusts me!' 'Hush, you little fool.'

His bitter whisper brought her dreams crashing . . .

(Bridget M. Rees) Beware the Office Romeo No sooner had Nick left my desk than a voice said in a stage whisper, 'Beware the office Romeo.'

A girl with a crewcut, wearing a black boiler suit and plastic beach shoes, perched on the corner of my desk, introducing herself as 'Sam, your union rep.'

'Been getting the nautical bit — the shirt open to the waist to show off the barnacles on his chest?' she sneered. 'Every finger a marline- spike — and nothing but grummets in mind! You need some sisterly advice. Like a fag?'

She took out a tin and started to roll one.

'I only smoke tipped,' I apologised.

She asked for a light, and as I proffered the flame she cupped my hand in hers to guide it to her roll-up, holding my eyes in hers and mur- muring, 'You don't want to throw yourself away on a little ponce like him!'

(Dick Penderring) Beware the Office Romeo

contd. from p. 24 . . . blushed and crossed her slim, neat legs, squeezing her knees until she could feel the hard pattern of her fishnet tights.

'Oh Julie,' she gasped, 'did you hear what he . . .? did he? . . . could we? . . .' Julie darted Gloria a look of withering scorn. `If I were you,' she began, filing her little fingernail with slow, deliberate strokes, 'if I were you —' She stopped short, pursing her lips into a pitying smile.

'What i it?' the new girl cried desperately. 'If it concerns Keith, I think you should tell me. After all he has almost proposed, and he will soon be Deputy Head of Housing Benefits.'

'You poor, innocent sweetie,' laughed Julie. 'He's anybody's for a Mars Bar.' She leaned across Gloria's typewriter, confidentially. 'The first thing a girl has to learn in this place is to tell a proposal from a proposition.'

(Mary Ann Moor) Blonde for a Week

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, I pressed shut the door of my bedroom, tore off the blonde wig and placed it firmly back on its polystyrene head. Oh, there was no denying I'd had my share of fun during that reckless week as a dizzy, self-confident blonde. I'd been swept off my feet by Dirk, the muscular stuntman who had been a regular customer for years without paying me the slightest heed, and the things we had done on his windsurfer I would certainly not forget in a hurry. But the glittering banquets aboard playboy yachts had soon turned sour, and I had found myself inexplicably yearning for the peaceful solitude of my desk at West Croydon library, and the comforting smell of wet mackintoshes. Thankfully I donned my spectacles, tied my mousy hair in a neat bun and replaced my pink lurex mini with a sensible tweed. What bliss to be myself again!

(Peter Norman)