Poodle head, poodle head

What am I going to do with you?

First you were Hairdo, with your implausibly blonde helmet of lacquer. Then you were pea brain; the only debate being around the size of your brain relative to that of a marrow fat pea. Some of the kiddies dubbed you Yoda, as in 'Blonde it is, stupid I am'.

Then you did something with your hair and now, well, nothing seems to fit anymore.

The first morning after the event I saw you coming down the stairs before you saw me and in that time I was able to recover my poise somewhat; you thought I was smiling with delight at your New Look. What you saw was the tail end of laughter. Shirley Temple Ringlets are not a good look on a fifty-whatever year old grandmother.

You beamed and bounced your tresses at me and announced that "this is what it looks like when I don't straighten it". And you've been going about un-straightened for weeks now. But some how it never quite looks two days running. That isn't because you can't get the curls to look exactly the same two days running is it?

I'd call you a cretin or a moron but that would be unfair, you're far dumber than that. If it makes you happy to think that we believe that you've suddenly abandoned all efforts at styling, at your age, and that those tumbling curls are works of nature and not artifice then that's all right by me.

The problem with you, Silly Jilly, is that you just aren't funny any more. If only I could convey the tone of your voice. That silky sheen over sharpness that sets my teeth on edge can't be conveyed here.

But you were out of order to me on Friday, in front of the wrong people too. Even The Handmaiden, who is perfectly capable of being offensive, looked startled and has had to spend the past couple of days making soothing noises. The Big Swinging Dick is back today and you're name is Mud, my fine lady.

Not only am I considering another job, but I'm making no secret of that fact and I'm being quite candid about the reasons I'm considering leaving. To add to it the only other person who does my job is some way down the recruitment path for another job, too.

Do you really think any one's going to enjoy being told, in front of an audience, that "its all right, dear, I'm sure they do things in your price range". What a fucking put down. You might not be bright but you've plenty of cunning and you pressed that button quite deliberately. Senior Frustrated Novelist is looking for way out for perfectly understandable reasons and I'm not far behind her in the escape tunnel.

So that's two people leaving the back office, leaving Chief Paper Shuffler beached a long way up that creek, and both your fellow managers ready to drown you in that same creek for the damage you've wrought on the shop floor.

But ... I can't go in and tell Big Swinging Dick to shove the job because we can't afford for me to be out of work and I can't tell him I'm off because I can't honestly see a way I can take that other job. I have no negotiating position whatsoever, which leaves me, until I can find a job that fits with being a mother of a young child, stuck with letting a woman with a poodle on her head trample all over me.