Curvy balls.

It has just been pointed out to me (by my diagonally opposite colleague JP, always a scarily accurate barometer of such things) that I have used the word “curveball” on no fewer than four occasions today.

“Curveball? Crikey, has that become my mot du jour?”

Five times.”

And that’s not even counting the time I used it down the phone. To Will Young, as it happens. (I only mention this because it’s relevant to the plot, and not because I am trying to shoehorn a gratuitous namedrop.)

“So, Will: from the tracks I’ve heard on the sampler, this is fairly and squarely a mainstream pop/soul album. Are there any surprises on there? Have you thrown any curveballs?”

(The answer is: yes, he has brought in dance production team The Freemasons for one track. Radical.)

There has been more than the usual interest in my little chat-ette with Will, I must say. Even from our cleaning lady (“I voted for him!”), who showed a degree of excitement not seen since the days of Rodney Bewes.

My increasingly metrosexual colleague who sits opposite (and has taken to greeting me each morning with a waspish comment on my hairdo and/or outfit) was all eager ears upon my return.

“So, how was Will?”


And him the company’s Compliance officer! Of all people, he should have known better.

(We got given special Compliance mousemats on Monday. CTRL ALT DELETE, BEFORE YOU LEAVE YOUR SEAT. I’ve a feeling that was one of mine. My breast is fair swelling with pride.)

Any second now, JP will meerkat over the divide and ask me if I’m blogging. It’s the keystroke volume that gives me away, apparently. If I’m blogging, I bash merry hell out of my keyboard. If I’m working, it’s light taps.

I told you he was scary.

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