The Spanish Inquisition

While at work I like to intensify the total-fucking-bitch side of my personality. I'm somewhat hotheaded, especially when very busy. This can take the form of swearing, shouting, slamming doors and silent rages when people only need to look at me to know if they can approach. It's merely a defence mechanism, when you are stuck in the middle of an open-plan area you must guard your space and what infinitesimal privacy you might have, in order to get on with any work that requires concentration. Sometimes just a look from me says it all but people know they can still ask me if they need my help on anything. I won't eat them. Really I won't.

I'm also one of those workers who runs up the stairs and hurtles down the corridor at warp speed even if I'm only going to the fax machine. This has the effect of scaring some people. Take for instance, the office bore. The office bore will meander his way through the doors in the morning, stop to talk at a colleague, scratch his bollocks, go to the watercooler and amble with a certain insouciance to his desk. Unless Govstooge is coming in the opposite direction. Whoosh. He is startled. He stands back. He looks behind him but I am long gone.

So, by being a bit scary at work and by running past him in the corridors, I can avoid being earwigged by the office bore.

But sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him and he spent most of this morning building up the courage to ask me about where I'd been for the past week. At roughly 3 o'clock he seizes the opportunity, overhearing me in conversation to a couple of my staff, and wanders over to join in. And boy, does he seize his opportunity! His staccato questioning is worthy of Nazi interrogators!

"So, Govstooge, you were away?"
"Yeah."
"Was it warm?"
"Yeah."
"Was the food nice?"
"Yeah."
"What type of food?"
"Garlicky stuff, seafood. Foreign muck. You wouldn't like it."
"So you'd have to like garlic then."
"Yeah."
"Did you swim?"
"No. But I did spend several hours looking at the lovely tanned men lounging on the beach, their bronzed biceps and sixpacks rippling in the sun. And nice tight buns encased in skintight thon..."
"Err..." Wanders back to own desk.

There you have it. The merest hint of sex. A non-scary defence mechanism. Works better than shouting at him to fuck off. Works best on those timid blokes who still live at home with their mums.

P.S. The local Sinn Fein candidate just called to my front door canvassing for the local election. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Slurp slurp slurp.