All week the human resources manager has been whingeing about the BBC2 drama Sex, The City and Me. The HR manager in the TV film was portrayed as dripping in smug vitriol. Pretty accurate I’d say, but our HR manager has taken offence.
My boss was full of praise at how they managed to “get away with paying only £3 million in compensation” to the female fund manager who was stitched up after returning from maternity leave.
The HR manager has since told anybody who will listen that her preferred method of communication now is “face to face”. Her reasoning is something about “not getting caught out by illegal phone bugging”. She obviously doesn’t know about the Dictaphone that some bluffer super-glued to the underside of her chair months ago.
It was telephone recordings which proved to be the fatal evidence against the fictional HR manager in the show, so our real-life HR manager is feeling a bit paranoid. As a precaution, she always does her dirty work outside of her office.
She prefers the sanctuary of the soundproofed goldfish bowl meeting room, where she always grabs the seat with her back to the audience of onlookers – all of who are glad it’s not them feeling the sting of her viperous tongue.
She did recently bite off more than her veneers could chew when she tried to belittle an Irish colleague during an exit interview. Writing on the pointless form, which we all know heads straight to the section of the filing cabinet marked “bin”, she stated his nationality as British.
After telling her he was Irish, having been born in Dublin, she trilled: “Oh, it’s all the same thing.”
Dublin Boy ended the interview by flinging open the door, treating us all to him telling her that “a hundred years of history says otherwise, you dozy bint”.
The look on her face resulted in there being a sizable credit on his bar tab, compliments of grateful ex-colleagues, at his leaving do, where we also listened to the latest tape of her belching at her desk, in her not-so-private office.