An unholy cabal gathers in London as I speak comprising two disgruntled former employees who asked if I wanted to join them for a drink and bitchathon session about my boss.

It felt like being invited to a divorcee club. I declined because it would have just been an opportunity to gain some laughable blog material. Oh, to be a fly on a pint pot at that get together.

I must say the boss seems to be reaching new heights of dour irritability these days. What a joyless gulag our office is to work. I had to humour myself by circulating a picture of a mouse found mummified in a loaf of bread.

Puerile humour is our last best hope before the darkness sweeps in

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