You Tarzan, Me Thane

I should warn you. It's only fair. This is going to be the most personal post ever in the history of this blog. This will go places that I never knew I could go. This will shock you. This may repulse you. This may upset you.

I'd stop reading now if I were you.

Don't say I didn't warn you. Last chance.

M. DeFarge is making himself domestically indispensable during my self-enforced seclusion as I study big sums. He has discovered his inner cooking muse and now is to be found warbling in the kitchen at weekend. He cooks. He bakes bread (as we know). He makes pots of things.

And so it was that he made a pot of red cabbage and leek soup. He was inordinately proud of this achievement, as clearly the canon of culinary concoctions had yet to see such greatness. Being peckish, and having baked (yet another) wholemeal loaf, we scoffed the lot in a brassica binge. We were satisfied, replete, content.

We retired to the marital bed later that night, desirous of a peaceful slumber, it being a school night.

We have been there around 15 minutes. M. DeFarge is snoring. I am awake.

The air is rent by an enormous outburst of, well, gas. It honked.

It is followed by another one, more insistent, and with a greater nose of cabbage than before.

This is too much. I am assaulted by nose and ear.

I poke him in the ribs.

He is humpty at being woken. I explain that he is a) snoring and b) expelling the odour of cabbage (except I say it rather more bluntly, but this is a family blog).

He grunts and says it can't be him. He was asleep. Must have been me.

I am baffled. I am a lady. I do not do such things in the marital bed.

I remonstrate with him.

'How could it be me? I'd know if it was me. And it wasn't me. You did it'

He pooh poohs this. He was asleep. And would quite like to be so again.

He snores again. A few minutes later, I am again disturbed by noxious odours.

I poke him once more.

'You're doing it again.'

He denies it.

'Well, it's not me. And you're the only other person here'. I say this with a flourish of logic, secure in my triumph.
He ignores me. He falls asleep again.

I give up. I am too sleepy to fight. I surrender to slumber.

Until I am woken up by M. DeFarge. Although it is dark, I know he is glaring at me.

'That was a huge one. That was gross. Mine weren't that bad'

I smile smugly. He can't stand it when I top trump him.

I'm Free From The Chair Gang Now

I am in exile. I am part of a depressed diaspora. I am found in far flung corners of our office.

I am hot desking.

I have written previously of our move to the joys of flexible working. Its inception had left me largely unmoved, given my preference for early starts and late finishes (I am the poster girl for the impression of hard work and duty). My seat had remained in my possession. In this, I was aided by a stubborn resistance to our clear desk policy. My mouse mat, my mug, my desk.

Oh, how I scoffed at those who hunted for desks. Oh, how I sniggered at their valiant efforts to sit next to pals. Oh, how I felt so smug as I watched the growing army of the displaced as they fought over the meagre pickings.

Hubris. It could only end in my tears.

I arrive late on Mondays, due to a deficit of dedication to unfeasibly early departures from Derby. This has never mattered. My desk was steadfast, resolute, as it waited to experience the joy of possession. I may have been assisted in this by the unceasing habits of those around me, welded as they were to 'their' desks and 'their' space. I would stroll in mid morning, smile beatifically at colleagues and gaze with a proprietorial pride at my desk.

But not this week.

My desk had a new best friend. Some other bottom warmed my chair. Some other hands graced my keyboard. Some other mug occupied my desk.

I felt a hot flush of shame as I realised that my days of serial monogamy were over. There was nothing to be done. I was dumped. All the other desks were taken, embarking on happy new fulfilling relationships with their loved ones. I trudged disconsolately to the 'touchdown' area. This is the Heartbreak Hotel of workspaces. Those who sit there are the displaced, little lost souls, who squeeze themselves into half the usual space and bump elbows with their neighbours.

I was humpty and no mistake.

But, as I grumped through the morning, working in splendid isolation, I realised that there may be some benefit to my situation. My boss could not see me. I was out from under his beady gaze. The air was heavy with the scent of liberation. I was free to work untroubled and uninterrupted. I was productive, but invisible.

It was with some regret that I returned to my desk the next day. It seemed strangely unappealing as I surveyed its familiar features. I felt a pull towards the exciting fulfilment of the previous day. The prospect of the same daily rigmarole seemed dull as I recalled the achievements of actually finishing work. I wanted to be back with my new desk. My old desk sensed it. Somehow, it seemed inevitable that my PC wouldn't work, no matter how much I tried to turn it on.

Interview with a Vamp - Hire?

I am rarely seen as invisible. I am undeniably corporeal. I have flesh (rather more so than I would wish) and bone (big – honest). I know my place in the world as a woman of substance. I may not want people to note the precise dimensions of that space (for fear of accusations of expansionist tendencies). However, I do wish them to be aware of the broad outline of my boundaries. It saves unfortunate border disputes.

So, it's generally not a good idea to act as if I'm not there.

Especially when I'm interviewing. Yes, you know who you were. The one who sat plumb in front of me. Me, the one in between the two men. The two quite-good-looking-I'll admit-if-pushed way. I'm the one who watched as you made goo-goo eyes at them, hinting at a future of untold sensual promise and Christmas party gropes.

We engage in anodyne interview chat. Questions are asked about team working, about deadlines, about your experience in the field, about qualifications. We smile, we nod, we write notes. It's all very polite.

I watch as you answer my questions by looking at them. I ask you the usual range of managerial nonsense. You answer well enough.

But what I really want to ask is:

• Do you feel that showing your stocking tops when you cross your legs demonstrates your background in office administration?

I only ask because it is an essential qualification for the role we envisage in the office. Especially the ones that involve standing on a little ladder, reaching up to the top shelf. It may be stretching your talents, but I'm sure there would be support offered for further development.

• Do you think that chest overspill from foundation garments has provided valuable experience in influencing and persuading senior staff?

I only wonder because it's influencing the one to my left and the one to my right. Quite what to do I dare not contemplate. But they are undoubtedly firmly held in your thrall. Unlike your chest.

• Do you believe that the coquettish hair toss and the suspiciously lascivious lip licking show highlight your ability to multi task?

I wonder about this, because it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Left hand man squirms in his chair. I feel sorry for him. He is caught in your gaze. You haven't looked at me, so I am immune to your charms. And your limited talents.

• Do you think that playing coyly with one button of your blouse highlights your experience in analysing data?

I assume so, because the other two are keen on the way you use your statistical evidence.

In our post interview chat, there is one firm favourite. Very firm. They are impressed by your qualifications, your aptitude, your answers. I wonder if I was in the same interview. You had shown me so little. Nothing to get my teeth into.