237. Office politics (1)

 This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental.

I don’t work in an office. It’s just that I want to use the expression ‘office politics’. It sounds so much better than ‘office gossip’ or, in my case, school staff-room gossip which clearly doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I am happily sitting behind a photocopier, copying away pages and pages of stuff that my students will diligently fill in, page after page, their little faces beaming with happiness at having learned so much in an hour. The machine is humming and clanking at the same time. This, really, is quite an achievement and I am thinking that maybe this is why I like these machines so much. Or is it because it is so easy, while standing by it, to ignore the member of staff who has just come in. 

The door is always opened in here and so most of the time with the noise of the machines you just don’t hear people come in. So I am just standing there, staring at the screen. But I am actually livid with anger. Yet no-one can tell. I am standing there, cool as a cucumber, my left hand by the tray, calmly waiting to collect the bunch of test papers. A slight imperceptible (I often wear two scarves) movement of the neck … 

‘Salut!’

I pretend I cannot focus on anything but the task at hand and mumble something that could pass for greetings. This is the most civil I can be. I have a quick debate with my conscience, an other flash one with my professionalism and decide that going to the window, opening it wide, leaning out into the sub-zero winter cold and yelling at the top of my voice YOU ARE AN ******* I ******** HATE YOU would just not do. So I put on what the kids call ‘mum’s death stare’, slap the glass of the machine with the flat of my hand, it sets my heels into motion and I spin round as if on a dance floor: I am now facing MY ENNEMY. And we are alone.