'What should I do?'
Do I care? Do I truly care about her love life? What on earth possessed me to hire an out-of-work actress hell-bent on discovering herself at the expense of a hugely successful career, as an afternoon till person and trainee florist?
She's done India for G*ds sake. Couldn't she have found herself there? B****r India, she's done Broadway! She was even nominated for a Tony award; she may have even won it for all I know. It's difficult to tell she is very northern - very, very northern. Even the Taxi Company can barely understand her.
'We need a taxi to go to 'Soonbry.'
'That's worr I just said "Soonbry". Surely 'e knows where Soonbry is?'
'No he doesn't. He may possibly have a vague idea as to the whereabouts of "Sunbury", although that's debatable. No, he thinks he's won the lottery; he thinks you want to send one of his drivers on a round trip to South Shields.'
The telephone bill will be through the roof.
She is good with the customers though and, in fairness, Surrey has not quite mastered the subtleties of Sunderland; it's barely capable of translating Birmingham.
Her accent ensures that customers pass through the shop at the speed of the channel tunnel rail link... the working bit on the French side.
'Ya want ta send flowers teday? Right worrs the date teday pet?'
The calendar is right beside her. The customers can see it but wisely decide that filling in the order sheet themselves will ensure they make the supermarket before closing time.
Not content with running up a telephone bill of third world debt proportions, Brigitta 'Tha's me stage neme' Clarkson, has decided I am her new age guru, her life skills counsellor, her love life confidante.
Trust me Brigitta I am not new age, I am not even middle age. I never understood the meaning of 'Guru'; I have failed life skills, even less of a love life and my counselling needs are far greater than yours.
'I really don't see your problem. Today you have received one indecent proposal from the lovely cheeky chappy you adore and harangue in equal measure. You have been showered with half of Tiffany's by a second admirer who wants nothing more than the pleasure of your company... Don't interrupt... he's lonely not lecherous! Trust me, I'm old, I know these things. You have been offered a theatre job that pays £1200 a week which, for some bizarre reason you have turned down so you can play part time, post Pygmalion, Eliza Doolittle for a pittance. You've been offered a record contract and you don't have wrinkles.'
'We were meant ta meet ya noo that? It's Karma. Yoo'l luv India.'
Vivid pictures of previous conversations involving bottoms hanging over communal troughs, which slide down to the pigsty below, remind me that I possibly won't.
I can't even dive into the office to escape my unsolicited and definitely under-qualified new position. The offsprung has hijacked the PC and, judging by the smog-filled, rampant ribaldry that is emanating from its bowels (the office's not the PC's), the rest of the cast outnumber the customers on the High Street, never mind the shop.
Patrick is trying to persuade everyone that a visit to a friend in rehab will be a perfectly splendid way to spend the evening. This, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he cannot get out of the visit and the two empty wine bottles on the draining board have rendered him incapable of doing so unaccompanied.
Angela has finally returned from her summer of sweating over fish steamers, incredibly half a stone heavier, but she swears she hasn't eaten a thing. There is, however, not one scrap of chocolate mousse cake left in the fridge and she is sporting a rather fetching brown moustache which, one suspects, would merely take the application of a flannel to remove.
Baleesha has been dumped - again - and thinks all her hair is falling out because of the stress. It isn't; it's falling out because of the bleach.
Oh no there's another 'plop'; bottle number three about to make a quick getaway.
The local hack has just popped in to see if there is anything happening in the village that is worth writing about this week... look around young man... just look around.
To think I actually thought this was a reality sit com! How wrong can a person be? This is no sit-com... this is the day centre for the Priory.