Shelley sells corporate software to companies that don’t yet know they need it. She likes to drop terms like idea shower, and close-of-play into conversation at the pub.
Actioning her bar order and explaining the benefits of squaring the circle to a 16 year old who was only in the market for a whiskey and coke, she systematically commits high treason of the English language.
As she espouses the merits of blue sky thinking and looking under the bonnet, the poor girl pleadingly makes eye-contact with the barman, willing him to extricate her, hoping her fake ID won’t be clocked.
Flicking her poker-straight hair, she gathers up her Canada Goose and thinks she’d better shoot off after her second vodka slim-line tonic; she has an F2F in the morning and is getting up at five to make a spin class before the commute. She’s still not over that rep from Marbs.
Back at Slough Parkway she barges through the crowds to her Lexus, clutching her Michael Kors tight and counting down the minutes until she’ll be home, microwaving a Count On Us lasagne and networking on LinkedIn.
She’s saving her calories for Girls’ Night; the gang are going out on a Big One. She wears sweet perfume and Karen Millen and tells herself the night won’t end with kebab.
She always starts on something classy, like bubbles, but ends up on Jägerbombs, befriending the Ghanaian lavatory attendant, and realising, between hiccups, that they’re ‘exactly the same’.
A saboteur of culture, Shelley considers Les Miserables an opera and thinks Homer’s Odyssey is an episode of The Simpsons. She dreams of dating a footballer – drinking Cristal in a stretch limousine would be lush – but she once saw Thierry Henry in Chinawhite and his security asked her to leave.
In bed she tallies up the day’s Weight Watchers points and catches up on Hollyoaks in her Care Bear pyjamas, she’s got a trade show in Milton Keynes tomorrow and laments that she might not make it back in time for Strictly.
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