A Babel of Words

A murder of crows sat squawking on the clothes line as she stares into the emptiness that was in front of her. Her serene expression masked the turbulent nerves that are rapidly growing in the pit of her stomach.

'The show must go on Lara, you know that,' said The Manager softly. 'A gambol of dancers must perform. It is as stated in their contracts with us. We'd be in trouble with a huddle of lawyers if we broken off the agreement at the last minute. Not to forget an audit of accountants that we have to face,' he continued, his voice raising in panic.

She sighed and turn to face him.

'Alright,' she said, 'send me a tray of administrators and a school of clerks; get them to convene in my office. Then call in a column of architects as well as a set of designers and tell them what we need for the play. When they are all here, set them up at the conference room. I'll come over once I have a run-through with my team. Now go, chop! chop!'

She turned her back to The Manager and continued to stare at the open space in front of her. What kind of mess have I put myself into?, she asked herself. The Master had refused to continue with the show soon after he received the divorce decree from The Mistress. Lara was with him in his office when the dispatcher arrived. The shock on his face will be forever branded in her mind.

He broke down in front of her; howling to the unfairness of the situation. It was quite a peculiar thing to witness. She knows how much The Master loves his wife. This play in particular, was conceived for her and for her alone.

He walked out of his office a broken man that day.

Lara let out another sigh and turned to walk briskly towards her office. She was met with a fidget of altar boys and a wiggle of Elvis impersonator walking hurriedly past her to the opposite direction. She stopped and had to do a double take. Elvis? Are they part of the act too?, she wonders. She shrugged her shoulders and turn to continue on her way but was stopped immediately by a band of beautiful and sexy men.

She nearly swoon when one of them spoke to her. 'Sorry miss, but where is Studio 8? I'm afraid we're lost,' one of them asked her. 'Oh my...,' she gulped. 'Studio...? Huh? Sorry, I didn't catch that,' she replied incoherently. He, with his sleek dark dirty blonde hair, sharp features, kissable luscious lips and the darkest blue eyes she had ever seen, repeated his question slowly for her. All Lara could do was to point them towards the right direction. They all thanked her profusely and she was left feeling dazed.

Darn, they're hot. Especially him, she mused while fanning herself. Lara quickly shake herself out of her stupor and continued on. A few minutes later, she was in her office ready to start the meeting with the administrators and clerks.

The show must go on after all.

The end.


You like? Lol.

That was just me having fun with collective nouns. My knowledge of them are only limited to perhaps 'a school of fish' and 'a pocket full of rye'. So imagine my delight when I was pointed to a list of it that can be found here.

A hoop of assholes! A congress of baboons! A shower of bastards! A bond of British secret agents! A hatchet of corporate downsizing proposals! Oh my!

Yes, I'm easily amused. I told M the other day 'I must blog about this!', and so that was how this entry came about.



endroo G said…
eh.... spice girls... viva forever. The one with Luciano Pavarotti is great. Say You'll Be There at endroog.com.

;) Selamat Hari Natal.