The redhead's called death

I'm in an ongoing battle with two people. I call them the Horsewomen of the Apocalype.

All winter I've been stuck downstairs, as it's been far too cold to sit out under a tree. There's a small lunch room, with some fairly comfy chairs and a big sofa. Not many people know about it, although I've introduced some select colleagues to the secret.

You always see the same people down there. Most of us tend to sit in silence, either having a quick nap or reading a magazine, we acknowledge each other with a silent but friendly nod of recognition. All of us, that is, except the horsewomen of the apocalypse.

What they do is talk shit. Absolute tedious, unimportant, repetitive shit about their kitchen cupboards. Death has been on about her new kitchen cupboards and plumbing since November. Every lunchtime. And Pestilence tends to agree, and tell the same story about the difficulty she had with a plumber. In November.

I tell myself every day that it can't be that bad, I can continue to read my paper and rest. They needn't ruin my lunchbreak. Then I end up going back to the office early, opting to work on my own time rather then listen to them for another minute.

"So then he says, 'The problem's the fitting love, it's not compatible with these units.' So then I says 'the unit's not the problem. It's new it is.' So then he says 'Yeah, they're new, but the fittings not compatible.' So I says, there's nothing wrong with that fitting. It looks alright.'"

All lunchtime.

The reason why I call them the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse is that, well, frankly they look a bit equine. And, more importantly, whenever I listen to them discussing the same shit, every day, at the top of those annoying whiny voices, the sky looks a little redder, and the bomb seems a bit closer to dropping. And I imagine, one day, I'll be running back to the office screaming 'Shut up about your cupboards', when I pass Nemo on the stairs yelling something about global thermonuclear war. So we'll run downstairs, where the shear amount of concrete, lead and asbestos in the building will shield us from the worst of the blast.

Three months later we'll still be stuck down there. And there'll still be on about those fucking cupboards.

"So then he says, well, I can't come out Monday. Summat about radiation burns. So I says to 'im, there's nothing wrong with those units, they're new they are."