Right, what sadist came up with the month’s notice scheme? It’s barely been a week and I’m ready to soak the bridge not yet behind me in paraffin and chant about the fifth of November.
Sadist, I’m well aware of the reasons for fleeing this office like I just let loose a largish pack of sexually frustrated guinea pigs on the tea counter. Especially the one where the exec is seemingly incapable of looking at his own schedule, remembering when he’s demanded I fit meetings in, or giving me small unimportant details like who should be at a meeting until five minutes before it’s due to start.
Prancer: These people I’m meeting with later—is anyone from marketing attending?
Oda: (opens the meeting in his Outlook calendar, which contains his original email requesting to set up the meeting) No, just you.
Prancer: Fuck, why not?
Oda: Your email didn’t mention anyone but you.
Prancer: Well I thought I’d implied that I didn’t want to meet with them. I hate those fucking idiots. (sulk...glare...)
Or...
Prancer: Get us lunch for a meeting I’ve just made, tomorrow.
Oda: (has long since accepted that no one else realises catering isn’t magicked up by eternally burning golems rather than temperamental pseudo-chefs) Any specifics you’d li—
Prancer: Whatever.
later, after a frantic email exchange confirming what catering had in stock:
Oda: Your lunch tomorrow is sorted, and I’ve reserved Room—
Prancer: Is it a light lunch? Because I don’t want all that shit you usually get.
Oda: No, it’s—
Prancer: All I want is sandwiches, sushi, and those little chocolate biscuit things.
The worst part is, that’s exactly what I ordered.
This is how the Stockholm starts, isn’t it?
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