2 August, 2016. 15:34
ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
SLITHERING HIS SICKLY PALE body into the back of a taxi last night, local printing and packaging specialist Peter Cole could hardly believe his luck as receptionist Tina slotted in through the other door.
She’s the smiling face at the front desk, the kind ear that pretends to care about what some chinless IT slave did on the weekend.
But last night at a work drinks, something magic happened.
“Well… To be honest, I wore cargo shorts yesterday because it was wash day. They were the only clean pair of leg coverings I had left in the bottom of the draw. But it was a Monday, so whatever,” said Cole, a 39-year-old divorcee.
“The boss pulled the pin at about three, saying he’d just signed a big deal and he wanted to take the whole office out for a bit of fresh air. I only planned to have six or seven then drink drive home, because you know, I live in Brisbane… and I’ve got shit to do like feed my cat and fold the washing,”
“Anyway, one thing led to another.” he said.
One thing certainly did lead to another, with Peter and Tina stumbling out of the Brisbane Jazz Club earlier this morning at about 4. He was covered head to toe in his own vomit and missing a shoe.
Tina on the other hand, was just pleasantly buzzed. Buzzed enough to have a warehouse worker with a Hobart suntan roll around on top of her for a few minutes.
Just last week, she overheard a conversation between two other workers in the office that made her immediately take a shine to Peter.
“Apparently, Peter was an original member of Powderfinger,” she said.
“Before he turned into this lumpy excuse for a middle-aged man, he provided handclaps and backing vocals in Powderfinger, which just blows me away. I just had to have him. They’re like Brisbane’s answer to Queen,”
“He must be loaded.” she said.