In the end I decided the best thing to do was to make everyone fall off their chairs. Yeah, I know it doesn't sound that conceivable but remember this is MY book and not David Mitchell or Philippa Gregory - or indeed anything remotely resembling literary writing.
Here's what I wrote. Now remember this is just a first draft. It may get better or worse or very possibly, even sillier. I may even edited it out entirely. However, this will probably give you a taste of the completely stupid world that I inhabit. You are welcome to give feedback. Obviously, if you think it's rubbish then do say so - I already have a large file marked "Rubbish" so it won't break my heart and it will be darn sight cheaper than using a professional editor. And, of course, if this were somehow to become a best selling novel you have the chance to say you knew me when I was just a poor, confused housewife and helped to shape my
Mr Mason flinches at the physical contact and the unabashed and inappropriate use of his nickname, draws in his knees and shoulders and shifts towards Mr Baker so that the two of them are squashed up like sardines. Baker bursts out in a sweat and shuffles awkwardly across his seat, his bullous body pushing Len from delivery into Sally from admin who nudges Harvey from sales, who leans away and head butts Guy, also from sales, who clasps his head, screams and dramatically lurches sideways so that he gives a large shove to willowy Margaret from accounts who promptly falls off her end seat like an upright pencil off a table and lands with her legs in the air with her wholesome Marks and Spencers peach coloured knickers on display underneath her twenty denier tights. The whole place descends into uproar. Frosty jumps up to the rescue, Mr Mason looks like he’s about to have an embolism and I burst out in uncontrollable laughter. I look at Mrs M through my tears and she winks at me with a smug, self-satisfied smirk creeping across her powdered cheeks.
“I think we’d better end it here,” says Frosty, hurriedly. “Everyone back to their stations. Doors open in five minutes. Everyone ready for those customers! Shoot to kill Ladies and Gents. Shoot to kill!”
“Anyone would win think we were going over the top,” says Mrs M idling past me towards the exit to the canteen as Mason, Baker and Frosty converge in the middle of the sales floor, the staff disband and Margaret strides off to the office to file an accident report. “Coming for a cuppa? “
I look towards the main doors for the potential rush of early morning customers; there’s just an elderly couple wearing matching dogtooth coats being buffeted by the wind. The man’s hands are deep in his pockets and his face buried in a paisley scarf and the woman is wearing black knitted gloves, a black beanie hat pulled down over her ears and is desperately clutching one of our flyers which looks like it might be ripped out her hands at any moment. It is pouring with rain and there isn’t anyone else in sight, not even outside Argos where there is usually a small clutch of folks eager to return to their unwanted gifts.
“Yes, I’m coming,” I reply, picking up my bag and file and trailing after Mrs M. “I think they can manage the full frontal assault without me.”
Any thoughts then?