Plagued

I work a tough gig: 100-hour weeks, rubbish pay, no benefits, zero CV points. My boss has a Napoleon complex, and although I have a lovely, mature job-share counterpart, I also have an infantile colleague. The demands of my job leave no time for adopting any apparent hairstyle, or scrubbing that eternal ketchup spatter-pattern off my shirt. I get less respect than estate agents (impossible, I know) and I don't even have a water cooler to gossip around.

All fine by me. Really. I'm a tough cookie.

But there's one thing I can't abide about this job: no sick days. Not a one. You see, just like dignified humans with intentional hairstyles, even a mean, cranky mother like me gets truly gobsmackingly ill sometimes.

Help me 7UP, you're my only hope. 

Like last weekend, when I began to exhibit symptoms of the aforementioned gobsmacking plague, picked up at a wretched hive of germs and villainy, or 'playgroup' as it is known locally. My megalomaniac boss had no sympathy. My colleague could neither think outside the cereal box, nor collate lunch.

Things were looking dire. I began putting my affairs in order. But then my lovely job-share partner packed me off to bed and managed to gracefully placate both the colleague and the boss (the latter expressed her gratitude by flinging food and and sneering 'GOOGALIBABABA' in his general direction).

I am still feeling awfully sorry for myself, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and 7UP, the prognosis has improved from 'hopeless' to 'moderate blerg'.

The moral of this self-indulgent whine is: we all need somebody to lean on - especially us ketchup-spattered professionals in my tough line of work. Even a real toughie needs an occasional break from swimming with short sharks.

I really must inquire with my HR manager about flexible hours and work/life yadayada. Though I fear her response will be 'GOOGALIBABABABA!' and pasta-flinging.