No jobs in the paper last week that would be suitable. Mind you, if things carry on like this at work I shall be applying for anything at all, suitable or not!
There are several problems with my job, mainly the lack of it, and the misrepresentation at interview of the job I was employed to do… There is another fly in the ointment, though, a huge, buzzing, nasty bluebottle of a fly. I think, for the purposes of anonymity, I shall call her Mozzie – because, like a mosquito, she is a constant, irritating whine that simply refuses to go away, even when verbally swatted.
Every thought that pops into her head pops out of her mouth. She comments on everything she sees and everything she hears, everything she tastes and everything she smells. It can only be a matter of time before she starts feeling things and commenting on those, too: it’s the last of the five senses she has to whine on about.
Mozzie also has a problem with listening. She’ll ask a question and then ignore your answer, while giving an answer of her own. Here’s an example :
Mozzie : how many people called Nick do we have working here?
Me : Three
Mozzie : Oh. Two.
Me : No, three.
Mozzie: Oh. I thought it was two.
Now, this might sound innocuous, even mildly amusing, but believe me, after a day of this I’m ready to crack. After 2 months I’m ready to commit murder.
Another big irritation is the way she decides the answer to any query. Here’s an example :
Mozzie : You never drink tea, do you?
Me : Not often, I usually drink coffee.
Mozzie : You probably just don’t like tea.
Me : Well, actually, no-one can make tea as nice as my mother did, so I don’t bother with tea.
Mozzie ; Well, why don’t you use the same tea?
Me : I have tried using the same tea, but it doesn't taste the same.
Mozzie : Well, have you tried loose tea, not teabags?
Me : I do use loose tea.
Mozzie : Well, didn’t your mother show you how to make tea?
(I’m getting cross by this time. I’m 46, for God’s sake. How did she think I learned to make tea?)
Me : My mother did show me how to make tea.
Mozzie : Well, why don’t you ask her again? You’re probably doing something wrong.
(Doing something wrong? Doing something wrong? Where’s a heavy blunt instrument to bludgeon her over the head with?)
Me (smugly, thinking this will shut her up) : I can’t ask her to show me again. She died 14 years ago.
It didn’t shut her up. This is what I got :
Mozzie (even more smugly, thinking she’d solved some great psychological mystery): Oh, that’s why you don’t like tea. It probably brings back sad memories.
God, give me strength. We have these little exchanges two or three times a day and it’s got to the stage where I don’t even want to open my mouth because of the drivel I get in reply.
Now, where did I put that blunt instrument?
