Nelson Galaxy

There is a little ratty man at work whom is quickly becoming my number one enemy. His name is Robby and he is a right git. What he is doing to me is tantamount to bullying. He is a short fellow with very close-cut curly hair and an ill-fitting suit, with garish pink shirts and a slight speech impediment. He works in the sales department – say no more. He sees himself as a cheeky cockney geezer, always joking and everyone’s friend. He has started picking on me because I refuse to be his friend.

It’s not that I don’t like cheery people. They can be a ray of sunshine. It’s cheeky people I dislike. The constant jibes and jeering is really getting to me. He incessantly shouts my name across the office for no apparent reason and makes fun of my long hair and plucked eyebrows.

I’ll admit; I am of a melancholy disposition. It’s just the way I am. I look more miserable than usual in the office because I despise my job (“Get a new one then,” sensible Ed). But I really could do without constant, daily jibes such as: “If the wind changes your face will stay like that” and “Don’t get a job with the Samaritans, the suicide rate will shoot up”. Unfortunately, anyone who knows me probably thinks everything he says sounds about right. Imagine these things said loudly and in a cheek-chappy cockney stylee and you might understand why I want to stab him.

In the end though I win. He likes smooth Latin jazz. Now jazz off muppet.