The SKEKSIS

Goodness me, that bitch knows what buttons to press. I've been sat at my desk today like a type 4 Chernobyl reactor, circa 1986.

Now, being the master of discretion, I won’t name names, well at least not until I’ve had a glass or three of vino, (hence the sad realisation a career in the Ministry of Intelligence was not on the cards for me), anyway I digress, let’s just call her Skeksis. A playfully accurate moniker a photographer friend of mine coined (who I must say got the ‘Dark Crystal’ likeness bang on, it must be the eye for detail or something).

And let’s just say she works in my department, albeit in a position she's wholly unworthy of (let's throw in a healthy dose of backstabbing, brown-nosing and being a mercurial bitch for good measure).

Now don’t get me wrong, on day-to-day basis, I merely mask my contempt for her with simple nods of the head, the polite offer of coffee and well-timed, gay trills of artificial laughter, not forgetting of course, a smattering of feigned ‘’no....really?’ interest. (No..really... I’m actually not interested. Ha!)

I often find myself looking at her, as a mother might her child playing in the garden, or an artist taking in a serene sunset and think to myself “you know... you're the kind of person I would denounce to the Gestapo for not actually doing anything.

Except she does,

every day.

and she deserves to be punished.

Being frightfully middle class, I of course, don’t voice my concerns, ‘airing one’s dirty laundry in public’ is after all, a middle England faux-pas (the participants in any Jeremy Kyle ‘show’ will affirm this statement).

I used to opt for the very British ‘under your breath comment’ to express my displeasure. You know, when someone pushes past you in the queue at the post office, and you think loud enough for them hear ‘there’s actually a queue, my impatient friend’. Or someone (I’m certainly not saying it’s tourists... but it is) decides to walk in front of you at a glacial pace along the underground, and you make that little 'your robbing valuable seconds of my life' tut.

But I thought, what would my favourite Mean Girl, Gretchen say? Resolutely, it would be "let it all out in the book, honey", and I thought you know what, I will. I'm going to let it all out on the blog. It is 2010 after all.

Venting: done!! Glass of merlot to hand. Tuesday evening is looking up!

Ate: Endorphin enriched Chinese takeaway + 1 glass of Cab Sav (and counting..) fags don't count, naturally.

Paid: £8, fag's don't count, naturally.

Lived: Aside from the Skeksis' notable evilness, just about. Dodged inspectors at Potter's Bar followed by defective trains at Finsbury and a rammed tube from Kings X to LB. Shudder.