Rooting Around

FURTHER ATTEMPTS TO STEAL MEDICAL DELIGHTS
It’s difficult, in this office, to be the last to leave. I’m supposed to leave at 4:30, and staying any longer makes me look like the most efforty keeno ever. But there’s boxes to shuffle through. I’ve got my eye on a 3×5 stack of boxes, which contains nurses’ tunics and skirts. I don’t know what size I am in girl, but there’s got to be one that fits me. The last time I got in the lift, trying to negotiate the vast, crazy wobble of the buttocks felt like playing It’s A Knockout. My arse can’t be bigger than that. And my tits, as succulent and overgrown as they are, cannot rival the colossal parodies that roam this building.
I’m nearly there. I’ve found the spatulas, and the cervical smear dolls (all called Zoe, which must get confusing at dinnertime). And I think I know where there’s a speculum. But I absolutely refuse to practice an after-hours cervical smear on a plastic torso unless I am wearing one of those uniforms. It would feel like a heartbreakingly wasted opportunity.
It’s coming up to 4:30 now. There’s only me and Lynn left. I can’t ask her if she’s leaving soon, and it took me so long to type that that it’s now 4:32. Jesus! It’s like working in a cake and diamond factory, and being told you’ll get sacked if you nick all the cakes and diamonds.
Still, at least I’ve got a copy of that “Breast Awareness Is For Life” video. Hopefully there’ll be some manky tits on that. Fuck. It’s 4:39. I give up. I’ve just remembered she hasn’t got the internet at home, so she’s probably look up prices to fucking Malaga or something. And I’ve forgotten my stealing bag anyway.
I’m going home to look at tits.