Never have I cried at work. Not when I was passed over for a promotion. Not when my first marriage broke up. Not even when I was slammed with a written warning from a priggish managing editor for a grievously misplaced apostrophe that should’ve been spotted during editing.
“Your’e a twat, yo’ure a twat, y’oure a twat,” I may have muttered silently as I returned to my desk, but the tears stayed stuck. For 20 years, I’ve fought hard to curb any office eye-prickling (there’s been the odd tissue dab in the loo).
“I’m sure we’ve caused you a few tears over the years,” a formidable London editor guffawed as he gave me a pay rise, having realised the apostrophe-challenged Antipodean could actually do her job.
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