I have a bit of a rep at work. They think of me as a good-time girl who rolls in on Monday morning hungover from a crazy weekend of debauchery; the girl who will go to a gig, lose her ‘phone and not give a shit; I’m also known for my shoes (my colleagues think any heel higher than 2 inches is ‘daring’).
Another brush I’ve been tarred with is that of the recreational drug-user. I’ve never openly spoken about drugs with any of my colleagues and yet they’re all convinced I enjoy a doobie, and maybe other bits and bobs, of a weekend.
The other day, Dr Old-School and KKK were having a playful conversation about her need to search his desk drawers.
DR OLD-SCHOOL: Be careful, you might find the heroin.
KKK: actually, it was a spliff I was looking for. (To me) Is that the right word?
ME: How would I know?
DR OLD-SCHOOL: (in sarcastic tones) Yes, you wouldn’t have a clue about that kind of thing, would you? (winks)
I quite like this rep I’ve inadvertently built up. To my crumbly colleagues, an occasional toke is the height of cool and glamour so I refuse to confirm or deny the rumour.
They don’t need to know that I haven’t had a smoke for a good 10 years, do they?