My first day back post-leave, and I materialise in the main office in good time for my bi-monthly "management meeting" with Line Manager and New Boss.
One slight snag - neither of them are in the office. Wha??? I maintain my usual discretion ie I do not discuss the matter with colleagues, but casually flip through the pages of the signing-out book, looking for A Clue. Nuffink. Nada. None the wiser.
I am therefore forced to admit defeat and make enquiry of Maternal Colleague. Whereupon I am advised that New Boss and Line Manager departed some half an hour previously, for pastures unknown.
Oh.
There is building work going on elsewhere in the Town Hall, and the sound of drilling in the office is unendurable. So I decide to hotfoot it back to my nice quiet little office before the two managers return. I have just pressed "send" on my polite, slightly wounded, email letting them know I have now given up waiting for them and left, when they walk back into the office together through the far door.
Foiled again!
Blast and damnation.
I switch off my computer and grabbing my bag, disappear like a wraith out of the door nearest to me before they have had a chance to spot me. But just as I am on the point of leaving the Town Hall building, my Blackberry beeps and it is New Boss apologising for having forgotten about the meeting - he had relocated his previous meeting with Line Manager due to the noise.
It is quite a nice email, and so I am temporarily lulled into thinking that perhaps I can ask New Boss if he would be willing to refer me to Occupational Health. I've been thinking recently that I might benefit from a review meeting with the doctor, as I have experienced the return of some anxiety symptoms. My flight from the Town Hall is merely indicative of the fact that I am getting phobic about my department again - and as my friends well know, one of my favourite mantras is "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" (excellent book. And very practical....) So taking a few deep breaths and trying to settle myself, I make my way back up the stairs and slip into New Boss's office (I have, in fact, tapped on the door; but the drilling is so loud, he has not heard me).
Girding myself in Stepford Employee's loins, I explain I have returned upon seeing his message and that if he and Line Manager are available, I would be happy to hold our meeting imminently (it is now an hour since I first arrived in the office). New Boss says he is not free now. "No problem!" I say. "I will circulate some alternative dates and times".
Despite the drilling noise, which is rattling my thoughts and increasing my sense of nervousness, I am about to broach the subject of an OH referral when New Boss's gaze falls to my legs. He laughs.
"You're wearing wellies" he says.
I should mention that at this point in time, England is half-way through a two-day deluge of Biblical proportions, with rivers bursting their banks, pensioners being ferried along flooded streets in canoes, and wave-dodgers being swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
"It's raining", I reply, despite this seeming a peculiarly superfluous comment as New Boss is presently unable to see out of his own window due to the sheets of water cascading down it.
"But - you're wearing wellies!" he repeats, in the tone of a man who has never seen a woman wearing these items before.
Now this is exactly the kind of scenario which presents Stepford Employee with her most demanding challenges. Because a number of possible responses proliferate, and none of them meet public sector standards. To wit but two:
1) I am wearing wellies because I have just had to schlep over here in torrential rain for a meeting which neither of you two arses could be arsed to put in your arsing diares. And I am now going to have to schlep all the way back, getting even more soaked than I am already (except for my feet, naturally)
2) you seem to have quite an interest in wellington boots! Well, if you google "welly fetish" you will find you are not alone, and you will come across quite a few stimulating websites which should keep you preoccupied on these cold, wet evenings...
Oh God, how did I end up working in the public sector where I have to put up with people saying whatever the f*** they like to me and I am NOT ALLOWED TO SAY WHAT I WANT BACK TO THEM ON PAIN OF DEATH??? How did this happen, O Lord? How, how, how....???
Stepford Employee takes a deep breath. Stepford Employee mentally grabs hold of the little notion which popped up earlier (that of confiding in New Boss). Stepford Employee gently throttles Little Notion until it makes retching noises, drums its heels against the bones of her skull, and loses consciousness. Terminally.
"I have some shoes in my bag," I say politely, wondering why I am required to waste thirty seconds of paid employment justifying my choice of footwear. "Only I changed into my wellies as I was going out in the rain. Will that be all?"
New Boss is still immoderately entertained by my rubbery accoutrements. He barely registers my departure as he is too busy wiping tears of merriment from his eyes.
Later that night, I recite this story to my husband. He seems to find it funny. (Sometimes I think husband demonstrates a Worrying Affinity with New Boss...)
"I made a comment about your wellies this morning," he reminds me.
"That's different," I say. "You're my husband".
I forebear from reminding him that his comments were rather saucy. And that unlike New Boss's, I considered them eminently appropriate. And - ahem - most welcome.
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