Being a published author isn't generally all it's cracked up to be. Whilst I'm eternally grateful- not to mention hugely surprised- that someone would be willing to part with their hard earned shecks, to read anything I've written/co-written, I, like almost everyone else, still have a normal day job out of utter necessity.
I'm the late 30s fattish, balding dude, with the work ID pass around his neck, buying a fizzy drink, packet of crisps and sandwich from Sainsburys.
I really am your John Q Average in your average job, it just so happens that my job is in telecomms.
Now I'm a great believer that wherever you work, you will come across generic workplace characters. Boring bastards, bullshitters but predominantly decent folk.
It just so happens that I have the ever present, modern day snob in my vicinity.
She will wrinkle her nose in disdain at anything from a car with the wrong badge, to the wrong postcode. A young Hyacinth Bouquet- ever ready to pounce on something she believes incorrect from a mis-pronunciation to someone expressing a liking for instant coffee.
For the sake of saving blushes I won't mention her name but the other day I was treated- through the medium of being within ear shot of her phonecall- to a startling insight into her life.
I don't know if I'm suffering memory loss as one might find in a head injury victim, but I really can't remember anything she said before or after the following line, and it went something like this,
"and you'll never believe it, but he touched the dog's tuppence......"
I think my mind shut off at this point, but the next minute she was extolling the virtues of Waitrose supermarkets.
Now, I joined The Army at 16, travelled the world with some of lifes greatest and most colourful loons, but I honestly don't think I ever witnessed such an act.
For once in my life I aired my socks on the moral high ground.