I hate myself this week. Why? Is it because I am temping again? Is it because I am a corporate sell out? No, it’s because I have charmed my way through the week with batting my eyelashes and giggling at pathetic jokes made by fellow employees. Someone makes a joke about some acronym – there is something called a TIT screen which I’m working with – and there I am, laughing and being all coquettish. If I had a fan, I would have fluttered it over zealously in the style of some over-heated Jane Austen character, flashing my come to bed eyes above it.
What makes matters worse is the fact that I wouldn’t want anyone in the office to come to bed with me. Most people in my office resemble the Adams Family on an off day.
Double entendre has also been the order of the week. When being talked through pension policies with a trainer, I dropped the “Bet you could give any women the hard sell, Dave”, when someone was assisting me with a technical query “Wow, you are really pushing my buttons right now” and the sheer awfulness of “Why is he called Big Steve?” pointing at the six foot giant in the corner, arching an eyebrow. I deserve to be impounded indefinitely in a place where no human would ever come into contact with me.
It is the twenty-first century and I have had to act like in a secretary in some 1950s B movie to get myself accepted in the office. I have gone a little short of wearing low cut tops, ‘accidently’ dropping things on the floor and bending over ever so suggestively and lasciviously sucking on biros this week.
I make myself sick sometimes.
