11:06 am
Have just been asked to start buying more “exciting” fruit in the weekly office grocery shop. Apparently, granny smiths don’t butter my employer's proverbial muffin. I’ve been thrown into a sea of self doubt. You are what fruit you eat and I’m clearly a bananas and pears kind of girl-comforting, reliable, the proletariat’s choice. I am the Jennifer Aniston of fruit.
The Boss hasn’t been my biggest fan since I turned up to work in a denim mini skirt a few weeks ago (laundry day, took brief leave of senses). To further inflame the situation, I strolled into the board room with a tray of BLTs for the weekly Partners Meeting. This move didn’t go down too well, it being a Jewish Law firm and all. There I was in my tiny skirt, meaty thighs on display, pork offerings, quite literally on a silver platter. I felt like a veritable Biblical outcast. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the pork not been Tesco's Value range (if you’re going to give kosher the two-fingered salute then for God’s sake Annie, do it right).
Rubbish day all round.
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