Ah, KKK, my esteemed colleague and general bigot. There’s a section in Who’s Who devoted to this notable beast but let me indulge my creative juices and further flourish this fine character whilst telling you about one (of many) ridiculously annoying things she said last week.
KKK is about 49 but looks at least 10 years older. Her hair is grey and wiry, teased into Royal flicks at the side of head (Mr P’s nickname for her is the considerably less offensive Camilla Parker Bowles).
She wears tweed trousers, polo necks and cardigans topped off by either a voluminous rain mac or an ankle length, leather Matrix-esque coat (according to the weather) and a hat with a feather in. Honestly. Like something my 86-year-old Grandad might wear. She layers herself up in this manner and then complains that she is too hot, often throwing the windows open despite the fact that it’s bloody December. She bemoans me for failing to don a vest and I suspect she probably wears a petticoat when wearing a (gasp!) skirt with a slit in it.
She lives on a farm in a remote village, drives a 4×4 and holidays in Guernsey and Sidmouth. She reads The Daily Mail. She has no children, claims never to have had a maternal bent and yet has two cats which she calls ‘the kids’.
She nags me like my mother would (except Mum doesn’t actually nag me because she’s cool and, you know, I’m 26) and is the female version of Jeremy Clarkson (hates the Euro, the French, anyone remotely different from herself).
Anyway, she came in from her lunch break the other day, flopped at her desk and declared herself depressed. When I enquired, half-heartedly, as to the cause of her ennui, she explained that the French market was in town that afternoon and she had been drooling over the various pastries, meats and cheeses.
ME: So, did you treat yourself then?
KKK: Oh no, hubby and I don’t buy French produce.
I could’ve enquired as to why but, you know what? I didn’t want to get worked up on a Friday afternoon. I can only assume there is some overhanging resent stemming from the war (which neither Kay nor her husband were involved with). Everyone’s entitled to their principles but when you clearly LOVE French produce, why deny yourself. It’s a case of cutting off your own nose to spite your face and it’s pathetic. Plus. I’m sure I can remember her waxing lyrical about croissants for breakfast whilst they were cruising the med, and surely she enjoys a glass of champers at Christmas?
Anyway. I thanked her for the heads up on the market and Mr P and I had baked camembert for tea. Yummy yummy yum.