Trouble and strife

I was only involved in the following travesty as very much a peripheral observer, but when I think about it I still let out a little groan and my toes curl like someone being shagged with their tights on.

I used to work in a recruitment company, which meant lots of candidates would come in for interviews with recruitment consultants, (who couldn’t tell their cloaca from their ginglymus) to be lied to about great jobs (that didn’t exist), because their CV had been sent (it hadn’t),  to a market leading company (mediocre at best), who were very eager (they weren’t), to offer them very competitive packages (what does that mean anyway?).

Incidentally, I wasn’t a recruitment consultant.

One day a lost wallet was found in the office. Everyone assumed it belonged to one of the candidates who’d just been in for a session of estate agent quality half-truths.

The recruitment consultant who found the wallet started rifling through it for clues and upon finding a picture held it up and exclaimed:

“Look, this guy’s got a picture of a mong kid in his wallet!”

Lots of people started laughing (remember they were recruitment consultants), I died inside and nearly piped up my objection to the m-word but didn’t, remembering the futility of the “I don’t think ‘gay’ should be used as a specific or general term of derision” conversation. There is nothing quite as disconcerting as a room full of people looking at you like lottery players having probability explained to them.

Just as the office was descending into a chaos of laughter and photo-inspired comments, one of the guys in the office grabbed the wallet and photo and shouted in a tremulous warble:

“That’s not a mong, that’s my wife!”

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