Cleopatra is the poor darling that must endure sitting beside me in the office, and whilst a typically reserved character, she's nearly sent me tumbling from my own wanky office chair with two belting assertions in two consecutive work days. Friday's corker, which followed a moment of quintessentially cretinous Bjorn action, was thus:
"[insert my name], we are going straight to heaven you know...because we have paid for all our sins working here."
I absolutely love this poetic, latin embodiment of sweetness, but I love her even more for her misguided faith in how few sins I may have committed.
Yet today's poetry bettered that of last week. There's been a spate of mistakes, oversights and outright balls-ups plaguing the marketing department of late, with the vast majority (including myself at times) going out of their way to shirk the blame. Today's rather stressful paperchain of blunders left me picking up the pieces, and at times taking the flack, as I attempted to coordinate the simplest of tasks with our incompetent Parisian office. Just because I'm the one that speaks the fluent French, it does mean that I am responsible for the 2-hour-lunching, 35-hour-weeking, slack-arsed, French-employment-law-protected losers on the other side of la Manche. Yet they have, in conjunction with my own inimitable marketing manager, spilt the proverbial milk. Now whilst Jesus turned water to wine, it didn't take me long within the company to notice Bjorn's special knack for turning anything to shit.
It fell to Cleopatra to hear of my woes at lunchtime:
"Whenever there is a problem, you only have to dig so far into the shit and you find one person - Bjorn."
And with that nugget of deadpan, prophetic gold, my annoyance with the imbecile that so often leaves me to fix his broken toys, paled into insignificance.
