I sign into work at 6am. I read Sydney HR manager FishFace's whingie emails first thing. More senior legal Sydney woman - what is it with senior Sydney legal women, I ask you? - pissing their pants over practically nothing.
Those expensive hoo-ha's pissing out liquid into their nylon knickers at the slightest affront that they feel. I imagine it as a scene from Little Britain.
They must be so rung out with the battle ground of our northern neighbour city that any little thing is likely to trigger them and set them off as monsters.
And then they can be as dumb as a box of fucking rocks with any explanation they receive.
To be fair, sometimes they can be as sweet as a kitten with a little sweet talking too, but so often it is the other.
I don’t think anyone is all that nice to them, in the pig fight that is Sydney.
And, of course, our love-a-good-drama HR team plays right into these entitled woman’s sense of outrage. HR throws petrol on the fire, not water, always in a self-aggrandising effort, to make themselves look better.
So, the first thing I do is cut HR out of any discussions I might have with those who feel wronged. You know, get rid of the super girl drama queen element, isolate them, make it one on one. And then, you know, I can fake sincerity better than just about anyone else. 9 times out of 10, I win them over and kind of jedi mind trick them out of any sense of having-been-done-wrong-by just by being even handed, and drama free. Calm, steady voice.
This is not going to hurt. Trust me. See, what did I tell you, pain free.
And I get a "thank you Christian," from the apparently enraged Sydney professional, once HR's drama queen input has been removed from the situation.
Easy.
Now, wiping my hands together, another fire storm put out. How they cope with making important life decisions, I will never know.
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