Posted by: Vicky V | October 20, 2009

Bernard the Betrayer

Karen reaching new heights in a pair of Top Shop caged heels. Cream Horn reaching new widths in a Marc Jacobs jacket that would give Crystal Carrington a run for her money. Ben reaching new lows in a black beret and boat shoes a la depressed French poet. Bernard doing his best to reach anything as I supportively move the pastries out of his fat-boy-in-a-thin-boy casing’s reach.

So far, so morning staff meeting.

Then CH announces that the agencies rising star, Lydia Markhova would be representing the agency’s ethical interests, like Geri Halliwell does for the UN. Really? I said, with no actual words, doesn’t Geri just swan around in saris and regional costume trying to make really religious countries forget that her arse used to hang out of a union jack?). Lydia would make a start by visiting the local comprehensive to lecture on healthy eating thereby putting the agency ahead of the competition by making it look proactive and “current” (size zero, size twelve, pass me a Big Mac, debate) while at the same time staking our claim on all the ugly duckling school kids who might turn into swans and become “The Next Mossy”. And we have Karen to thank for this excellent idea which will be executed under The New Faces Programme with Depressive Ben at her side.

Oh how typically THIS OFFICE. That whole UN ambassador thing was my idea, conveyed to Bernard in a Cosmopolitan fuelled high at London Fashion Week.

I collared Bernard The Betrayer after the meeting (N.B its hard to collar a man who wears trendily slim collars. I should have lasooed him like a naughty dog instead) and demanded he spill the beans. He looked very scared and apologetic, like he’d already played the error of his ways through in his head, a million times over, like some guilty nun. And then he cried a bit and said he’d passed the idea off as his own, not thinking I’d mind because I seem to have lots of good ideas.

Bernard, I said, you own 83 pairs of skinny jeans but you don’t catch me rootling around in your wardrobe and helping myself without your permission. It’s beside the point that I would never wear skinny jeans with saddle bags the size of Butch Cassidy, but you get my point. He did, and cried a bit more, then said he’d reveal all to CH immediately and buy me biscotti for a week. I said that’s fine about the biscotti but no Bernard, there’s no point in revealing all now; Karen will look like a tool, you’ll look like a fool and I’ll look like a snake in the grass and we’ll all suffer. Then I’ll suffer some more for making Karen look bad.

So, I elected to let my good idea be ridden by a gun-slinging villain out into the sunset. I will be zen. After all, I have lots of good ideas and it’s the source of the waterfall, not the toxic pond at the end that counts.

I am a tortoise and I will find a place that sells trip wire so that when a hare like Karen comes along… No you are Good Vicky Hunting and have not need for trip wire.

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