PREVIOUS “MOUSE” POSTINGS CAN BE FOUND HERE.
Mouse’s First Training Experience
In all seriousness, after the first day of training, I remember why I am a computer geek. It’s the thrill of sitting behind a monitor with a piping hot cup of dark roast and a Snicker’s bar, sucking in the sweet caramel and peanutty goodness while very fit men work out in the gym across the hall, and if you want a diversion, you go over and look at them sweat, their six packs gleaming. It’s not so much fun when it’s you who is sweating and wishing you too had a six pack…of beer.
No one cheerleads for me. There’s no: well done, Mouse. You’ll catch on. There’s no: it just takes practice, Mouse. There’s no: Atta girl, Mouse.
There is Tom pushing me, constantly, and me hating him, constantly (okay, that last bit’s a lie, but it’s one out of self-preservation).
“Head for the shooting range, Mouse,” he says after I’ve collapsed from my tenth push-up.
“But I just worked out.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you’re taking the piss?”
Now I raise an eyebrow and actually feel my face flush. “Do I smell?”
“He’s English, Mouse. They say shit like that,” Joe says, walking by with a towel slung over his shoulders.
Oddly, that doesn’t make me feel better. I continue to stare at Tom, waiting and then I actually sniff my t-shirt. I don’t smell great, but certainly not like piss.
He shakes his head. “You’d translate it to something like making a joke at my expense.”
Taking the piss, I repeat mentally. That just doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I go with it. “Would I do that?”
“Yes. Now off to the shooting range.”
“But I’m tired.”
A frown wrinkles his forehead as he considers me. “Are you hurting?”
“No, I’m tired.”
“We’ve another term: whinging. Look it up when you’re done at the shooting range.”
“Maybe I’ll take a break and look it up now,” I suggest.
He just points to the backdoor that leads to the shooting range.
I bow and then walk away. I look over my shoulder and he’s grinning. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.