Under-Krackers.

I’ve a tiresome work-related problem to deal with and it involves Blonde Colleague.

We’ve been put-back a good couple of days by some absurd ‘training’.

Me: [Brandishing a memo from Accounts] Now then –

Blonde Colleague: [Squirming in her seat] I’ve got the mother of all wedgies.

Me: *sigh* Right. Accounts have been on at me and –

B.C: [Wriggling] Friggin’ hell, if they were any further up they’d be in my mouth.

Me: Ok. It’s just there’s a query on –

B.C: If I coughed they’d come flyin’ out my gob.

Me: Yeah. Apparently you spoke to Client X and agreed –

B.C: [Standing-up and doing a weird thing with her hips] They’re big pants, you know – like boxers but for girls?

I can’t remember when it happened, but either I became ‘one of the girls’ or she became ‘one of the boys’.

Me: Ah. I need to get this sorted today, so –

B.C: They cost two pound and one-seventy-five of them are up my arse.

Me: No doubt. Can we get this –

B.C: It’s nae good, I’m going to have to sort this.

She heads-off in the direction of the ‘ladies powder-room’. Or the ‘can’ as she prefers to call it.

Me: [To her rapidly-disappearing back] I’ll talk to you later, yeah?