As professional as my, er, profession... is meant to - professionally - be...
...it's always interesting (well, interesting-ish) that people, upon entering a staff room, can just shrug off all their professionalingismingtion (hey, it's my blog, I can make up words if I want to) and reveal their true selves (up to a point, of course). It's when they reveal other people's true selves that's even more interesting.
There's this girl I'm working with. Seems a bit stereotypical, in some cases. She's small, thin, blonde and wears glasses designed - apparently by Dolce & Gabanna (I'm the only person I know who deliberately chose to wear glasses that make me look like a nerd. For the whole of GCSE year I wandered around school being a dead ringer for Harry Potter). I met her the other day and started off seeming quite unassuming.
And then came the morning break.
I was sitting in the staff room reading Beowulf. In she came, this girl, squatted on a comfy chair with crossed legs, having kicked off her shoes.
[I'd like to point out at this juncture that basically nobody keeps their shoes on during the breaks at work. It's to rest the aches and pains, or somesuch. Whatever the reason, any break at work involves an awful lot of feet.]
She whipped out a mobile 'phone - nothing unconventional there - and proceeded to dial a number. It was only at that point that I realised I hadn't heard her voice before. It wasn't really something I was specifically seeking to do; I just couldn't avoid it. Her laugh was the loudest thing I've heard since Kanye West was asked to make a speech about his shortcomings. I glanced up and noticed a grin on this girl's face roughly the size of Nebraska.
"Tell me everything, all of it," she bellowed for the world to hear, even though it was clearly meant to be a private conversation. Not an unpleasant voice, exactly; just intrusive.
More laughter. I couldn't concentrate and put down my book. Fortunately, she didn't notice I was looking at her, half intrigued, half glaring. After all, I wanted to know everything, all of it, as well.
"You did what?"
At this point I was beginning to get annoyed. Bob Newhart makes one-sided conversations funny. This wasn't working as well. I was severaly disappointed.
"Two hot guys?"
Okay, now that was a killer line. Two hot guys what? Whoever was on the other end of this phone, and I'm guessing it was a girl due to the very faint intones I could hear from the other side of the room, had done something with two hot guys, either separately, or simultaneously; alternatively, she could hae been with a friend and they could have had one each. The possibilities were endless. My mind was racing, and it wasn't even 11am yet.
And that's when she said it.
I've never heard such a protracted enunciation of the word "slut" before. It was said with such relish, and with two extra syllables (not counting the pointed t sound at the end of the word). Couple that with the grin and the expulsion of more raucous laughter from this girl, and this was the most gleeful way to call an unknown person a slut that I have ever come across.
Every time I chanced upon this girl later on in the day, I couldn't resist muttering it under my breath. Not that she was meant to hear. In public, that really wouldn't be - if I may use the word for the last time - professional.
Then again, later on this very same girl was asking a favour of another member of staff, repeating the word "please" over and over again before glomping the other staff member and yelling, "I'll have your babies!"
Takes one to know one, then, proving that you can be a self-proclaimed s-her-lutt, whatever you profess to be. Oh, I did it again!