“Thing is, I never really wanted to be a finance director of… a museum,” my colleague Linda sniffled over a cup of cappuccino this morning.
“Then why the flying flip are you wasting our time here?” I wanted to scream, “Go get a job where you can coven with accountants and they’ll give you the reward that you so richly deserve.” But I didn’t.
In fact, as I paused to drain my own cup, I realised in a moment of unusual lucidity that my life is littered with confrontations I have never actually had.
Diplomacy and tact were all that stood between me and, for example, the town councillor, whose politics are even more repugnant than his dress sense, or the devious deputy head teacher who has wormed her way on to our board to spice up an otherwise supine CV, or the car park attendant for whom the parking barrier is a light-sabre of brutal jobs-worthyism.
Each has their cards marked in my fantasies of mafia-style revenge. I daydream of the attendant impaled on the lifting red and white pole; the deputy head choking to death on our board biscuits; the town councillor mangled in a… well you get the picture.
But this was much, much worse. Here was my very own colleague throwing it all back in my face.
“Stuff the staff empowerment! Shove the enlightened leadership! Give me numbers!” she wailed. “They’re people that understand me.”
“Aha! That’s it!” I murmured under my breath. She’s just had a visit from the dementor – the local authority finance officer. (This walking chiller-unit had demanded his monthly ritual humiliation and here was I picking up the pieces.)
“Can you impale dementors?” I ventured absentmindedly.
“Then why the flying flip are you wasting our time here?” I wanted to scream, “Go get a job where you can coven with accountants and they’ll give you the reward that you so richly deserve.” But I didn’t.
In fact, as I paused to drain my own cup, I realised in a moment of unusual lucidity that my life is littered with confrontations I have never actually had.
Diplomacy and tact were all that stood between me and, for example, the town councillor, whose politics are even more repugnant than his dress sense, or the devious deputy head teacher who has wormed her way on to our board to spice up an otherwise supine CV, or the car park attendant for whom the parking barrier is a light-sabre of brutal jobs-worthyism.
Each has their cards marked in my fantasies of mafia-style revenge. I daydream of the attendant impaled on the lifting red and white pole; the deputy head choking to death on our board biscuits; the town councillor mangled in a… well you get the picture.
But this was much, much worse. Here was my very own colleague throwing it all back in my face.
“Stuff the staff empowerment! Shove the enlightened leadership! Give me numbers!” she wailed. “They’re people that understand me.”
“Aha! That’s it!” I murmured under my breath. She’s just had a visit from the dementor – the local authority finance officer. (This walking chiller-unit had demanded his monthly ritual humiliation and here was I picking up the pieces.)
“Can you impale dementors?” I ventured absentmindedly.
