cut short in an attempt to hide the fact that it was thinning and receding, and patchy blond stubble.
All of his visible skin, both face and body, was very pink. A word sprang to mind: porcine.
“Erm, Oliphant?” he said. “Yes—Eleanor Oliphant—I am she,” I said.
He lurched toward my desk. “I’m Raymond, IT,” he said.
I offered him my hand to shake, which eventually he did, rather tentatively.
Yet more evidence of the lamentable decline in modern manners.
I moved away and allowed him to sit at my desk. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, staring at my screen.
I told him. “Okey dokey,” he said, typing noisily. I picked up my Telegraph and told him I’d be in the staff room;
there was little point in my standing around while he mended the computer.
The crossword setter today was “Elgar,” whose clues are always elegant and fair.
I was tapping my teeth with the pen, pondering twelve down, when Raymond loped into the room, interrupting my train of thought.
He looked over my shoulder. “Crosswords, eh?” he said. “Never seen the point of them.
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