At about a quarter to four Giles came storming into the office, yelling at me as he entered.
Actually, I didn’t realise he was yelling at me directly, until he came up to my desk and stared at me like he was looking for a response.
Unfortunately for him, I hadn’t really been listening, as I was busy Googling ‘Transferring a business’, ‘selling a business’, and ‘my boss is a fucking ass hat’.
So, he started his rant over again.
‘I bought this business thinking that it was going to be self-sustaining. I didn’t think I’d have to come over from Edinburgh for every little thing.’
Then he throws a business card on my desk with the name of some sort of conglomerate sounding company (let’s call it – RTRU – Posh Twats ‘R Us).
‘That’s the company’s address. Use it.’
For fuck sake. Why couldn’t he say this over the phone?
Then he says, ‘Since I’m here, all hands on deck for a confab on strategies for value tinting.’
We have a little table set up in the middle of the room, as he walks over to it he slides by the Intern’s desk, gives it a little tap and her a little wink.
That’s when I realise…the Intern’s fucking fucking the boss!
How do I know this? I used to fuck the boss. No, not Giles. Goatee, and I guess TheBoy, who was my Lecturer. So I know what it looks like to sleep with your ‘superior’. (I put superior in quotation marks because neither Goatee nor TheBoy were superior to me, they just in charge of my studies and sort of my job.) Anyway, even though that was like a really long time ago, and I know the signs. I know the winks and the flirts.
At this point I was kind of torn. Incensed, how dare she sleep her way into a job. But I also felt pity. she slept with Giles…that nondescript old man…for a low paid shitty internship. At least when I slept with my boss I thought I had feelings for him. Maybe she does think she has feelings for him. My god. The poor girl. He’s so old. And not like sexy older, like he could be her granddad old. Poor girl.
Then Giles said, ‘The office looks great. I really want to extend my thanks to [Intern].’
No acknowledgement to me, and the Intern didn’t say a word. Then they sat down at our little table and waited for us to join them.
Nope. Any pity I may have had for the Intern is gone. I’m incensed.
What then proceeded was an hour-long meeting in which I have no idea what happened. Some how I was given the task of taking minutes. When I look back at the notes all I can find are phrases like, ‘take stock’, ‘added value’, ‘KPI’, ‘circle back’ and ‘core demographic objective’ and a whole lot of, what I think are, football references. Or maybe it’s cricket. Fuck if I know.
All I do know is that nothing has been answered regarding the location of this agency. Are we to announce the new ownership? Do we announce that we’re headquartered in Dundee? No idea. How am I supposed to manage a whole client list? What about Patch? He has no background in publishing or literature or the arts, he can’t take on part of my client load, not without a lot of training. And what the fuck does DraggyFeet do?
What I do know is that Patch and DraggyFeet (who wore earmuffs to work today, despite the fact it’s 20 degrees and sunny outside, because she said they are perfect for noise cancelling in an open planned office…of four people…none of whom actually speak to each other) were given tasks of developing ‘strategies’, ‘objectives’, ‘missions’, ‘visions’ and ‘values’.
I know I’m going to regret saying this, but why were they given these tasks and not me? Yes, I have no idea what those words really mean. And maybe, just maybe, DraggyFeet’s job is ‘Mission Statement Specialist’, and she has a Royal Warrent from the Queen. So, perhaps, there is a reason why she’s been given this task. But I wouldn’t know because no one has told me.
But it would be nice if they asked the only member of the team who has any experience of working in publishing. Maybe they did ask me in the meeting, but as I don’t speak Corporate Bullshit, so I wouldn’t know if they had asked. (I do speak douche-bag ex-boyfriend bullshit, however, if you ever need that translated).
Anyway, since I have no idea what’s going on, I took our physical address off the website (we only accept email slush anyway), contacted Writers and Artists and asked them too only list our office email and our website as the address, and I’ll put the RTRU address on the contracts.
Giles asked the Intern if she needed a ride, which I know is code for ‘I’ll take you home and you can give me a blowy in the car’. God, that poor girl. He’s so posh I bet he shouts ‘God Save the Queen’ when he cums. He probably wears sock-garders.
Bleck. I’m really grossing myself out.
I sent the Intern an email asking her to write up the minutes and left my notes on her desk. It’ll give her something to do tomorrow. I need to catch my bus.