Stuff about work (and bad language)

2005-11-14, 8:38 p.m.
2nd entry of the day (contains swearing!)

�in which your heroine gets fired (probably).

In an effort to regain some credibility at work I agreed to be the subject of this month�s Who�s Who. We have a company magazine which goes out to our 2500 UK clients plus about another 2000 overseas and each month a lucky employee gets featured in a desperate bid to make us seems more approachable. Being chosen is a prime example of how to be both Winner and Loser at the same time. XXX mailed me a whole list of business related questions focussing on my work ethic and administrative mind set and other such stuff and told me to insert a few �lighter� questions of my own. As I�d just done one of those email survey things supposed to inform one�s friends about one�s true personality I cut and pasted a load of that stuff in as well, mostly to save time and because I thought it would make XXX laugh. I went in on my day off so she could take my picture to accompany the in-depth expose.

I got a copy of the magazine today. She has used all the stoopid jokey Q & A�s and none of the work stuff. So now not only is there a picture of me looking like a 10 quid hooker, there�s a load of fluff about�nothing, too. It DOES give my job title, but its in such teeny writing it would be so easy to overlook in the casual observer�s quest to find out if I were a crayon what colour would I be? (Incidentally, I put "one of those glittery ones that looks nice but is impossible to colour with as it scratches all the paper up"). I fear my goose is not only cooked, but sliced and served up with a gooseberry sauce (delicious, cuts through the fattiness of the goose quite admirably).

Tomorrow I have a management meeting at which I have promised a first draft of a questionnaire on future training development and the role of the induction programme. I emailed what I�d done so far (fuck all, really but some very nice use of clip art and some check boxes) so I could finish it off tonight while BF is teaching. Just nipped downstairs to transfer it from my home email to the upstairs office PC. It�s not there. Its not there because my mailbox, which has less capacity than a gnat�s chuff, is choc full of shite that my friends have sent me: One of those insipid girly "someone loves you" things with sparkly bits and a kitten waving, a clip from a game show with the host laughing like a loon at his interviewee�s squeaky voice, and some guys putting a firework in a loaf of bread (actually that one�s really good, especially as you can hear the guy saying "I told you it wouldn�t fucking well work" about a nano-second before the whole thing explodes.)

There was a little flashing boxey thing that said "Do you want to delete some emails?" to which the only answer is "No, I want to kick this piece of shit out of the window and then go round to Wanadont and fuck them up the ass with the notes from the last meeting as that�s what�s going to happen to me tomorrow when I try to explain why I haven�t done my report." Why have a fucking mailbox that can�t hold any mail? I tried maniacally deleting everything in sight (except the comedy bread, obviously) in the hope it would free up enough space for the work stuff to come floating through from hyper space but BF was hanging about in the doorway with another pubescent rock-god waiting for a guitar lesson and wasn�t really relishing my "Fuck this piece of fucking horses arse", particularly as I had my jeans undone (to facilitate sitting down) and was showing a fair amount of red diamante thong (for later) as I bent over the keyboard.

Incidentally, my notes from the last meeting are written in an expensive leathery executive foldery type thing with a little loop to hold one�s pen � this would surely cause some watering of the eyes if one was to get fucked up the ass with it. Unfortunately the first line of my notes says "write report" with a little flower next to it and the rest is some kind of shorthand that I can�t read. I must have thought I could when I wrote it but now the only words I can kind of make out are "check box", "focus group" and "50 with an even geographical split". (Ive done the check box bit. Phew, that�s OK then)

I am so fucked. I am more fucked than Jenna Jameson. In fact, Jenna should be coming to me for lessons on how to get fucked.

I will wear something astonishingly expensive and corporate looking tomorrow in an attempt to detract from my incompetence. Maybe the Quin and Donnelly burgundy boucle suit. The skirt is tight enough to distract BBBM and the General Manager. Army Boy is impervious to my charms tho and would relish the opportunity to made me look like a fuckwit. Again.

The meeting is at 2.30. If I switch off my phone and beg and plead to Slave (that CANT be right can it?) I might just be able to knock up something long and boring enough tomorrow morning to not make me look like a complete wankerene. I can pass it off as "only a first draft, you understand" and tidy it up before it goes out to the unsuspecting.

When we�ve had dinner (cod and chips. How English ARE we?) we�re going to go to the pub as the girls are at Shagnasty�s, then we�re going to come back and smoke a massive joint, watch copious amounts of porn (Huzzah! for the external hard-drive with 90gig of prime nastiness) and have really really astonishing sex which will render me completely unable to type tomorrow as I will keep drifting off into reverie and making Slave laugh. BF has already intimated that these are his activities of choice tonight by grabbing my buttocks and ramming them onto his crotch while I was making him a coffee and going "Oh, Yeah, Baby. Yeah. That. Loads of That" which seemed fairly conclusive.

Talking of Slave, we spent a merry five minutes this afternoon discussing films. I haven�t seen as many as she has but I�m 14 years older so Ive seen some old crap that she hasn�t had the benefit of yet. I told her about going with girl chums to see Blue Lagoon and pointing and laughing at Christopher Atkins willy waggling about when he was swimming with Brooke Shields (all I can say is, that water was surprisingly chilly for a tropical island, mate), and then we did impressions of ourselves crying at sad films. Hers was Bruce Willis dying in Armageddon � not my first choice of weepy, I must say. Mine was Wonderful Life. All of it.

Wish me luck for the meeting. And the astonishing sex. Although I have the sneaking suspicion Im going to do rather jolly well at one of them and god-awfully-poohpants-rubbish at the other (the one that doesn�t involve me taking off (some of) my clothes, grabbing enormous handfuls of sexy boy-flesh and squealing "Omigod, youresogood,youresogood,ohyeahbabayohyahOHYEAHHHHHHHH!")

Enjoy your evening, dear readers. I look forward to telling you about my trips to the Job Centre and the Social Security Office tomorrow.




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