Itâ€™s not entirely fair. Boo hoo, it’s not fair.
My job covering the cervical screening course ended ten days ago, but they liked me enough to take me back. Now Iâ€™m in another role, whose details are too dull to properly understand. But today is my first day back, after taking a week off watching the telly.
This morning, I got off the bus, and Brenda greeted me. With a weeklong drudge slog hanging from my ankles, this would normally have made my tongue sizzle. But, bouyed by my absence, I winked at her, and decided to keep the conversation on my terms â€“ largely by talking over her. Incredibly, she liked it, and decided to let me in on the office news.
Monicaâ€™s got my chair.
My hatred of Monica pre-dates Brenda by some weeks. Monica is a mythical office spectre; her long absences based on entertaining illnesses. When RSI became a commonly-known condition, she had an epiphany â€“ thatâ€™s why her hands were shit at doing things! It wasnâ€™t her under-gifted shitfa brain firing off a relentless volley of dumb, dumb commands, it was Health and Safetyâ€™s fault.
Now, she has two wrist rests. Presumably if she balances it out, so that sheâ€™s had an average of one wrist-rest over the course of her life, this will cure her â€œRSIâ€. Itâ€™s only because her nails are as long as an Indian fakirâ€™s that she can reach the keyboard at all.
Then, she ruined her reputation for hypochondria by getting a tumour in her eye. Where it would be uncharitable of me to claim that a God-fearing Mormon such as Monica would fake a tumour in her eye, it does give her the opportunity to do the following, which appear to come very naturally to her;
- Take months off at a time, to put eye drops in.
- Burst into tears whenever asked to do work, because it all so horrible.
- Steal my fucking desk, because the â€œglareâ€ from her identically-lit monitor is too much for her.
My desk was magnificent. No-one could see what I was doing on the internet. Monicaâ€™s desk, apart from having the stink of long-term illness about it, is exposed to the whole office. And thatâ€™s what the crafty cunt was up to, the second she got her chance. Honestly, you let your guard down for a fucking second. Iâ€™m going to dazzle her with the reflection from my watch. I’ll give the bitch glare. Come get some glare! I got a wrist fulla the stuff! And if I get tired, reflecting sunlight into your tumour, I’m gonna come round your desk and rest my bitty wrists! ‘Cos your desk is like some kinda fuckin’ wrist spa! With little wrist-jacuzzis and shit!
Now, I’m not one to bitch, but Iâ€™ve seen her typing letters in Excel. I watched over her shoulder, my mouth blopping open-shut in awe. I asked her whether she should be using a word processor, like Word, the software for words. It’s part of the Office package for offices, I explained. She replied â€“ â€œI tried that, I couldnâ€™t get the words over here.â€ She pointed to the cell range G1-G5, where she had typed the address.
At the moment, as I live and type, sheâ€™s being talked through a data entry form. She was told â€œyou put the name in thereâ€. Her reply, with the emphatic arrogance that I love so much…
â€œWhy does it ask for name? You leave name blank.â€
Now, I don’t know where to focus my hatred. Dog with two dicks. I know what I’ll do – I’ll ignore them both, and try to write something funny that’s not based on hating the cunts that fill this world. It is getting to be a bit like shooting a pike in a teapot.