The Pony

I was in a meeting recently and it was announced, well, mentioned, well, referred to that that my least favourite HR person was leaving immanently on parental leave. (In August)

I call her The Pony. She always wears her hair sado masochistically pulled back into a severe ponytail, and I could always tell how much of a pain in the arse she was about to be, as she walked towards me, by the intensity of the swing of the pony tail as she approached.

Firstly, I was surprised, she was pregnant at all. I have been in meetings with her, but they have been zoom meetings for the last year, of course, and they are only from the waist up. And I was surprised as she must be over 40 and I presumed, without giving it too much thought, that she was a professional pain in the arse, working woman who'd forgone children for a career. I sneakily looked up her age, she is 39. I guess the reproductive bell is clanking loudly in her ears.

When I had terrible thoughts about what she could give birth to, a Labrador, or what could happen when she gave birth, sundry tearing, I thought maybe it is time I got a new job? Or, at least, a new hobby. Stop thinking.

I decided the best thing I could think was that she goes on parental leave and never comes back. End of thoughts.