MELLIPOP AND THE FAT TEMP

Ok, so I had a wee run-in with one of the temps at work yesterday. Those who know me in real life will be fairly surprised by this, because although my Mellipop alter-ego indulges her shadow-side far too readily with it's penchant for insensitivity, scorn and mock outrage, her real-life flesh-and-blood vessel is a far more accommodating and polite creature. A fairly robust sense of humour accompanies my dealings with others and it takes a lot in other people to truly annoy me.

Though I tend to avoid conflict over petty trivialities (avoiding "negativity" for the sake of "negativity"), I will gladly and wholeheartedly step up to the plate if someone is being a truly obnoxious arsehole, or if my sense of injustice is aroused. Which isn't all that often, but is readily and easily dispensed with. I’m no wallflower.

It's all a hangover from my days working in the "woo woo" (aka New Age) industry. Four solid years of spirituality shop-talk and self-help ramblings absorbed by osmosis and doused in copious amounts of beer. I still quote Louise Hay. I still do angel card readings for myself every day. And I have a stash of affirmation cards at work which I inflict on my colleagues daily.

But this temp really pissed me off. Her only crimes? Being utterly humourless and attempting to patronise me. The only two qualities I absolutely cannot tolerate in other people.

So I was sharing lunch in the kitchen with three of my fellow colleagues. A round-table take-the-piss-fest, with ample doses of laughter and a complete deficit of seriousness. The temp was sitting alone at the table behind us.

Temps have it tough, at the best of times. The ephemeral nature of their employment essentially renders them entirely invisible to the rest of the full time staff. Most temps understand this, and tend to actively cultivate this air of invisibility almost as a kind of protective shield. It's a case of, "yes I am invisible and I just want you to know that this is also by my choice, hence I will not look at you or speak to you, and will ensure that you never hear my name mentioned in the office".

Just to clarify my personal stance on the temp issue: I myself don’t adhere to this particular modus operandi. I talk to temps. It's because I tend to talk to anyone and everyone in my immediate sphere. Why deliberately undercut your potential audience?

So I had already previously spoken to the temp at issue. I can't remember her name (though to be fair I also suspect the reciprocal is true), but at this point I need to set down a few identifying markers so I can stop using the phrases "the temp in question" and/or "the temp at issue". Far too clunky. Plus, I’m lazy.

Ok, so this temp has it a little rougher than other temps. She is fat and has a beard. Not just slightly overweight. MORBIDLY OBESE. Not just a few errant chin hairs. A full-on GOATEE. God was very unkind with that particular combination of genetic material, though it's nothing that diet, exercise and permanent laser hair removal can't fix. Hence I am entirely justified in lacking any sympathy for her physical misfortune.

So anyway, just to be all anti-PC about the proceedings (as if you would expect anything less), we'll call her the Fat Temp from here on in, shall we?

The first mistake the Fat Temp made was to interject in our inane conversation about fish oil capsules. Interjections into conversations I don’t mind. Exterminations of conversations I do.

So we’re piss-taking with a vegetarian colleague, telling her that she needs more protein in her diet and should eat fish (though what she really needs is a few hefty Quarter Pounders and a juicy rump steak or two). So with a cavalier jocularity we suggest she ingest fish oil capsules instead.

VEGGIE BEC: No, but the fish have to die so they can get the oil.

MELLIPOP: Maybe they MILK the fish, so they don’t die.

(thinks) Ha ha, yes I’m hilarious really….. Even though no-one else is laughing….

FAT TEMP: (interjecting) Fish aren’t mammals, so they don’t produce milk and you can't extract oil through the mammary glands anyway and blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (being a smartarse) Alright. What about WHALES!

(thinks) Oops – she’s fat. Better cover in case I offended her.

MELLIPOP: DOLPHINS!

FAT TEMP: (patronisingly) Yeah well whales and dolphins aren’t fish, they’re blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (dismissively, as she gets up and walks over to the bin in disgust) Mate, I was being FACETIOUS.

(thinks) Jesus! Can the fucking wildlife lectures already….. Patronise ME! I just used the word “facetious”, bitch. Make no mistake, I might be blonde and cute, but I’m not fucking stupid.

Aaah, yes….arrogant indeed, but this was my honest knee-jerk reaction to the Fat Temp’s clumsy attempts to assert some sort of heavy-fisted intellectual dominance over me. I hate being patronised. She might be fat and smart (or so she invariably thinks) but I’m thin and smart. I win. With added bonus points for not having unsightly facial hair.

So my colleagues and I continued with our conversation, which somehow veered onto a bizarre tangent about being drugged up on the train. Even despite my casual dismissal, Fat Temp again decides that her earnest and humourless input to the conversation is both valid and appreciated.

FAT TEMP: (self-righteously) My flatmate has diabetes, and was injecting insulin into her stomach on the train once, and the guard came along and whacked the needle out of her hand and the needle broke off in her stomach.

MELLIPOP: (sarcastically) Yeah, well maybe she should have set her alarm clock a little earlier then.

FAT TEMP: No! You can’t just do that. When you need to inject insulin, you have to do it. You can’t just do it whenever you feel like it.

MELLIPOP: I dunno, I think maybe I’d be organising my train trips around my insulin shots, though.

FAT TEMP: (getting agitated and demagogic) Well you can’t. If you knew anything at all about living with diabetes, you’d know that you can’t just do that. If you need to inject insulin, you just have to do it. You can’t just organise your life around it. It’s impossible.

MELLIPOP: (sardonically) I was just joking.

(thinks) Should I ask whether her diabetic flatmate is also morbidly obese? Do I go down that road, as exquisitely tempting as it is? No. Keep your mouth shut….. End this now Melli….

FAT TEMP: (launching tiresome rant) Well I hate it when people who don’t understand just think that……

MELLIPOP: (interjecting) MATE, I was JOKING. It’s what I do. It’s called having a SENSE of HUMOUR…..

(thinks) For fuckssake woman….. Let it go!

FAT TEMP: Yeah but…..

MELLIPOP: (bristling) Jeee-sus Christ, I WAS JUST KIDDING FOR CHRISSAKE….. Have you got a bloody sense of humour or what???

(thinks) AVOID AT ALL COSTS THE TEMPTATION TO PUT A DEFINITIVE END TO ALL THIS WITH SMARTARSE COMMENTS ABOUT MORBID OBESITY AND ITS LINK WITH DIABETES…. NO MELLI, NO!!

MELLIPOP: (overtly disregards Fat Temp and takes control) Right. Let’s take the piss out of Veggie Bec again now. Much more fun….

So having been once more categorically alienated from the conversation, the deflated Fat Temp subsequently leaves the room.

Looks of eyebrow-raised astonishment are briefly exchanged amongst the remaining four colleagues until we start to take the piss out of Veggie Bec again, and all resumes as normal. A couple of minutes later, heads are shaken and comments of “What the fuck was that all about?” are offered rhetorically before the whole incident is entirely dismissed from our minds.

Now I make it a point to studiously ignore the humourless Fat Temp. Despite her considerable heft, she has now officially rendered herself invisible. Why should I concern myself with humorless bores when the alternative is so much more readily available? Surely that doesn’t make me a bitch? And if it does, I really don’t care. I'm here for a good time, not a long time.