Tues 7th July 2009

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. 

Monday 6th July

I pulled my very first sickie today. My mother, wonderfully tolerant of hangovers, used to do it for me all the time when I still lived at home but this morning, it was entirely my own work.

Having sought the advice of more than one veteran of absenteeism, I went with the need for close proximity to the bathroom which ensured no further questions about my health were asked.

The reason for my truancy is a good one. I had a second interview for Tractor magazine. (What is it with niche magazines and the perfunctory nature of their titles? Boat, Caravan, Guitar, Moths- does the specialist market think its readership is so "special" that irony and humour will be entirely lost on them?)

The interview went fairly well. I managed to get by without becoming a parody of Irishness (which I find myself doing on a disturbingly frequent basis). I usually lapse into lots of earnest thigh slapping and talk about the "wee bit of craic" I'll bring to the office. This time, my potential employers were spared this Tomfoolery as I instead opted for a more zeitgeisty approach- reality TV rhetoric.

“Tractor writing is my dream. I just need someone to believe in that dream. I'm just a young lass from a small isle..." Ah feck it, I'm off again.

I’ll find out if this new tactic worked in week’s time. Meanwhile, it’s back to making giant balls out of elastic bands behind reception.