You know the kind of woman I mean, like the Queen, they have a mono-bosom. The Queen or Ida and Cissy (Les Dawson's immortal alter-ego). They have a bosom that stretches the entire length of their, usually heavily rectangular, torsos making them like a perambulating sleeping-policeman. Following me yet? Oh, good.
Well, she was one of those. The worst colleague you could possibly imagine. She wouldn't never have thought of herself as your equal you understand. She would have said colleague with the same intonation that The Duchess of Kent would say staff. She wasn't the gossipy kind or the maternal kind. She was the triple-thick-skinned-bitch-from-Hell dressed in Hobbs and Marks and Spencer.
She had the most winning smile, when you first met her, and she would make her middle-middle-class drawl lift slightly to a welcoming purr for the first five minutes worth of judgement until she'd summed up how profitable it would be for her to be seen talking to you. If her assessment was favourable, you would be treated to distain with snatches of condescension; if not the claws started to protrude from the fur and she would make it her sport to needle you with them, interminably.
Secretly, we called her Delores Umbridge.
Yes, we hated her but we feared her, too, exactly like she wanted.
Time well up.
Inspiration: I was reminded about an old colleague, tonight. This was a portrait of her. More fact that fiction!
Well, she was one of those. The worst colleague you could possibly imagine. She wouldn't never have thought of herself as your equal you understand. She would have said colleague with the same intonation that The Duchess of Kent would say staff. She wasn't the gossipy kind or the maternal kind. She was the triple-thick-skinned-bitch-from-Hell dressed in Hobbs and Marks and Spencer.
She had the most winning smile, when you first met her, and she would make her middle-middle-class drawl lift slightly to a welcoming purr for the first five minutes worth of judgement until she'd summed up how profitable it would be for her to be seen talking to you. If her assessment was favourable, you would be treated to distain with snatches of condescension; if not the claws started to protrude from the fur and she would make it her sport to needle you with them, interminably.
Secretly, we called her Delores Umbridge.
Yes, we hated her but we feared her, too, exactly like she wanted.
Time well up.
Inspiration: I was reminded about an old colleague, tonight. This was a portrait of her. More fact that fiction!
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I would really welcome constructive comments or perhaps even some inspiration. To be honest , I would settle for some encouragement.