(no subject)
My boss is in fine form today. He is off to London, and so he gets to exercise his full powers as a very-important-person-so-important-that-he-has-an-assistant.
He started Friday, asking me, at lunchtime, whether he had an Executive Room. Only very important people, so important that they have assistants, can have Executive Rooms. This shows that they are better than other people, which is important, because frankly how else would they know? I checked and assured him that yes, he did have an Executive Room. He was Appeased.
This morning he asked me to book him a taxi in London at the station, so I did, and knowing that he always has terrible trouble finding the taxis and inevitably calls in a great rage on arrival to say there is no Marks & Spencers, how can it be opposite the Marks & Spencers, ohhhhhhhhh, you mean that Marks & Spencers, I emailed him detailed instructions of how to leave the train, turn right, etc etc etc etc, your taxi will be waiting for you between the NO WAITING sign & the drainpipe with the paint stain, your driver is called Eric, sandy hair, blue eyes: I was detailed. I then printed him out a little plan of the station with a red line showing how to get to the exact place that I had described and took it to him. As he was in a bad mood, he looked at me disparagingly like suuuuuuure, that's the plan to the taxi rank, I rilly rilly believe you, but whatevs.
While I was grabbing something to eat, he emailed me to ask if he had an Executive Room. I emailed him back that, like I told him Friday, yes. "You said you'd check," he emailed me back, "and even so, I can ask again!" Walk away, Kirsten, walk away. He is so important that he has an assistant, and you are it.
While I was in the doctor's waiting room at lunchtime, he called me from the Eurostar to book a restaurant for him for this evening. From the doctor's waiting room, I booked him the restaurant & forwarded him the confirmation and the address. It occurs to me that this means that he could also have booked the restaurant, but hey. I should explain that he is not the kind of all-powerful high hiedyin that gets to have a PA, he just wants to be. Hence my bitterness. My bitterness: let me show you it.
Just now he called me to say he didn't think he was going to go to the office after all, this afternoon, and could I please tell him whether the Tate Modern was direct on the tube from Canary Wharf. Why yes, I said, it is, take the Jubilee Line to Southwark. To where? he said. To Southwark, I said. Can you email it to me? he said. While we were still talking, I email him "Take the Jubilee Line, get off at Southwark." He emails me back, while he is still talking to me, to say, "can you send me the address?"
Not only is the Tate Modern a famous tourist attraction, and therefore signposted, but it is on the Thames, so easy to pinpoint directionally speaking, and IT'S A GREAT BIG FUCK-OFF HUNDRED-METRE-HIGH POWER STATION WHAT THE FUCK.
I tell him this. I send him the address. Which boils down to, "by the river. So big you can't miss it. SE1."
He emails me half an hour later to say he saw it from the taxi (so he actually got his taxi without calling in a giant strop, first time ever, I kid you not, in three years). And then he emails me again to say, "Do you know if there are any exhibitions on?"
I hope against all hope that he is joking, I really do.
In other news we are considering buying him a big sponge ball for his 40th. It would break office furniture less than the football does. Or possibly a beach ball, but it has been pointed out to me that he would a) burst it and b) cry with rage like a toddler as a result, and that we should therefore consider buying multiple beach balls; this solution has now been rejected as less cost-effective.
He started Friday, asking me, at lunchtime, whether he had an Executive Room. Only very important people, so important that they have assistants, can have Executive Rooms. This shows that they are better than other people, which is important, because frankly how else would they know? I checked and assured him that yes, he did have an Executive Room. He was Appeased.
This morning he asked me to book him a taxi in London at the station, so I did, and knowing that he always has terrible trouble finding the taxis and inevitably calls in a great rage on arrival to say there is no Marks & Spencers, how can it be opposite the Marks & Spencers, ohhhhhhhhh, you mean that Marks & Spencers, I emailed him detailed instructions of how to leave the train, turn right, etc etc etc etc, your taxi will be waiting for you between the NO WAITING sign & the drainpipe with the paint stain, your driver is called Eric, sandy hair, blue eyes: I was detailed. I then printed him out a little plan of the station with a red line showing how to get to the exact place that I had described and took it to him. As he was in a bad mood, he looked at me disparagingly like suuuuuuure, that's the plan to the taxi rank, I rilly rilly believe you, but whatevs.
While I was grabbing something to eat, he emailed me to ask if he had an Executive Room. I emailed him back that, like I told him Friday, yes. "You said you'd check," he emailed me back, "and even so, I can ask again!" Walk away, Kirsten, walk away. He is so important that he has an assistant, and you are it.
While I was in the doctor's waiting room at lunchtime, he called me from the Eurostar to book a restaurant for him for this evening. From the doctor's waiting room, I booked him the restaurant & forwarded him the confirmation and the address. It occurs to me that this means that he could also have booked the restaurant, but hey. I should explain that he is not the kind of all-powerful high hiedyin that gets to have a PA, he just wants to be. Hence my bitterness. My bitterness: let me show you it.
Just now he called me to say he didn't think he was going to go to the office after all, this afternoon, and could I please tell him whether the Tate Modern was direct on the tube from Canary Wharf. Why yes, I said, it is, take the Jubilee Line to Southwark. To where? he said. To Southwark, I said. Can you email it to me? he said. While we were still talking, I email him "Take the Jubilee Line, get off at Southwark." He emails me back, while he is still talking to me, to say, "can you send me the address?"
Not only is the Tate Modern a famous tourist attraction, and therefore signposted, but it is on the Thames, so easy to pinpoint directionally speaking, and IT'S A GREAT BIG FUCK-OFF HUNDRED-METRE-HIGH POWER STATION WHAT THE FUCK.
I tell him this. I send him the address. Which boils down to, "by the river. So big you can't miss it. SE1."
He emails me half an hour later to say he saw it from the taxi (so he actually got his taxi without calling in a giant strop, first time ever, I kid you not, in three years). And then he emails me again to say, "Do you know if there are any exhibitions on?"
I hope against all hope that he is joking, I really do.
In other news we are considering buying him a big sponge ball for his 40th. It would break office furniture less than the football does. Or possibly a beach ball, but it has been pointed out to me that he would a) burst it and b) cry with rage like a toddler as a result, and that we should therefore consider buying multiple beach balls; this solution has now been rejected as less cost-effective.