THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN

There are exceptions to every generalisation and there are certainly exceptions to the sweeping generalisation I'm about to make about women and the evil shit they pull when they get their jealous, insecure and scheming little minds together. But if you've ever suffered at the hands of this type of woman (or if you're really unlucky, women) then I won't have to explain myself. You see the kind of women I'm talking about must have such a low opinion of themselves, both physically and mentally (although they probably don't realise the latter) - that they expend every scrap of their energy on sniffing out women who are confident, at ease with themselves and (God fucking forbid) attractive and glamorous, and aim to bring their 'enemy', with unscrupulous yet subtle tactics of sheer spite, down to their own pitiful depths.

We've all met women (and in some cases men) like this. But for some reason, women have the edge. It seems to me, that only women are prepared to go to the lengths they do, in order to try and gain the upper hand over someone. Being a woman myself, it does concern me that there are so many who are willing to tar the entire gender with the bitchy brush - but let me assure you, the day I become like this is the day I'll expect to be strangled by my own hair.

My last job was taking care of marketing and PR for a small company where the head office was staffed entirely by snakes, sorry - women. My main responsibility was acting as a PA to the MD (a thankless task for a miserable, loveless bitch), also putting together editorials, copywriting for adverts and brochures, and perhaps most importantly - managing the company website, which from day one (not my doing, you understand) was riddled with spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors. I didn't even make a dint on that side of things - there wasn't time before I got kicked out.

"What did you do to deserve such a cruel fate, after only 6 weeks?" I hear you ask. I'll let you decide.

I sensed undertones of bitching from certain women right from the start, but that's life. There were the whisperings behind my back and laughing when I left the room, some of which I naively put down to co-incidence, but really I knew it wasn't a co-incidence. What were they laughing at though?! Did I have bird shit in my hair, toilet paper stuck to my shoe or 'whore' written on a post-it note and stuck to my back? No. I soon realised that my problem was simple - ego trips aside, I was too attractive with too many nice things. This occurred to me like an epiphany one day. I pulled up to work on a warm, sunny morning with the top down on my BMW, wearing a big pair of Jackie O shades and a black dress. A few members of staff had been stood chatting until they saw me, then they just stared and started whispering to each other. The dress wasn't anything special, just sleeveless, a high cut neck, belted, tight, 3 inches above the knee. It's what I like to call business-like but flattering. No tights, tanned body, long hair down and (this seemingly being the straw that broke the jealous camel's back...) a beautiful pair of beige open toe high heels, with a big bow on the front.

The whole of that day, women just stared at the lower half of my body like I'd sprouted a third leg or hadn't shaved the other two for 6 months. Despite having heard no compliments on the shoes or anything else, I considered it flattery and thought no more of it, until at 4.45pm, the HR Manager (younger and infinitely more dowdy and clueless than me) took me into the board room. In an unnecessarily OTT display of her authority, she sat me down and told me not to wear the shoes again, or any like it, as the heels damage the parquet wood floor of the Victorian building. A fair point, I conceded, and apologetically (but resentfully) vowed never to wear another stilettoed shoe to work.

Who knew they'd be such trouble makers?!

The following morning, I dutifully arrived a work in a pair of flat ballet pumps. Minutes later, the HR Manager (aka the shoe police) arrived, click-clacking her way across the parquet floor in a pair of stilettos. This was the moment my steady demise began, because from that moment on - it was clear what their problem was and not being the subordinate type, I saw this as a game, a form of amusement in the name of female one-upmanship. So in an act of antagonistic defiance, I began keeping a pair of red stilettos in my car, so that every day, if the HR Manager wore hers, I'd put mine on. This lasted until a Company Director called me to her office to raise the same concern about the floor. At which point, I wasted no time in dragging the HR Manager down with me. However, being aware of still being in a probationary period, I caved in and went shopping for less sex-Goddess heels, that would still give me some posture. Taking advantage of the thicker summery heels that are in fashion and the platform soles that take a bit of pressure off the foot, I bought three new pairs just for work. (Parquet floors are a work of art after all!)

I managed almost a full week of wearing my new shoes in rotation, when I got called into the same Director's office. This time, my shoes were banned on Health and Safety grounds. And while she had me sat there in a lovely coral blouse and a pencil skirt - I was told about a mysterious company policy which appears on none of my contracts or documents, a policy that stipulates no colour should be worn to work. Black, grey and white only were permitted, in what she called 'corporate style', and if skirts or dresses were to be worn, they should always be accompanied by black tights. (Funnily enough, this didn't seem to apply to anyone but me. There were red jumpers, bright tribal print dresses and powder blue blouses all around.) My hackles raised. After fighting my argument on the ridiculousness of their request for well over half an hour, I left the office completely dumbstruck. Was I dreaming this, or was it a hoax - a joke at my expense and after a few days, they'd all shout - 'Not really, we're just winding you up!!' ?

Now at this point I'd like to remind you - there are no men working for this company. Not a single whiff of testosterone (unless you count the women in HR). So I couldn't even blame this pointless attempt at trying to de-sexify me, on them trying to win male attention.

Green with envy

Two days later, I was summoned to the Managing Director's office, to meet with her and the aforementioned Director. The meeting, under the guise of a 'performance review', seemed strangely unplanned and I was lead in, wearing black trousers, a black top, a camel coloured cardigan and some flat shoes - (which in their words, made me look lovely). I sat down, prepared to finally talk about my contribution to the company, which under the shadow of the stir my dress sense had created, had gone completely unnoticed. Alas - there was no mention of work. Oh no. The Managing Director had got wind of what she called, 'the unrest caused among staff members, relating to dress codes'. There had been several complaints and ruffled feathers caused by my chosen outfits (I kid you not) and I was given a verbal and physical dressing down, for my part in the matter. There I sat for a good hour, being told that my unwillingness to conform was being duly noted and that I was completely out of order for pointing out that on the day I was told off for dressing inappropriately in a black pencil dress, the MD had an even shorter red dress on. (With no tights.) I stood my ground as calmly as I could, but the anger and tension building inside me was causing me to shake - I thought I might explode! "What about my work?" I asked. "Is it not even worth a mention? Because that kind of feedback would be more useful to me!"
"We can't fault your work," they told me, without even a flinch or an awkward glance at the floor, at the irony and sheer stupidity of the whole situation. "You're doing a fantastic job." I almost burst out laughing. After realising I'd have no chance of keeping my job unless I kept my mouth firmly shut and agreed to do whatever the fuck they asked, I was allowed to go home at 6.20pm. (I was supposed to finish at 5pm.)

I went home and consumed a bottle of wine to calm my nerves. I was being humiliated, they were trying to rob me of my personality, my individuality, my attractiveness. They wanted me to fade into the background and wouldn't stop hassling me until I did. I'm ashamed to admit that they made me feel this bad, but I cried. A lot. Perhaps out of frustration more than self pity.

The next day, I wore the most beautiful grey pencil dress to work. A few inches above the knee, tight enough to make me wiggle instead of walk, frilled cap sleeves, flattering in every way possible and accessorized with a gorgeous over sized belt and some kitten heels. (Less conspicuous than stilettos, but I didn't give a fuck about the floor anymore.) It was my version of a massive 'fuck you'. I was subject to the usual glares but I rose above it. Before I left that day, I placed a letter on the Managing Director's desk, telling her in the politest way possible, everything I should have said in the last meeting, had I been allowed to get a word in edge ways. I pointed out the obvious victimisation that was going on, the hurt I felt about being forced to be someone I'm not and the insult I also felt, at the fact that they evidently hated me so much with no apparent reason. I appealed, in the sweetest way possible, to her better nature - that she would try and see beyond whatever was pissing her off about the way I look. I agreed to dress down slightly - albeit not down to the frumpy level they were expecting. I asked that they might cause less fuss about my clothes and concentrate a bit more on my work. Finally, I signed off by saying that I'd really love for myself and everyone to be able to put this whole matter behind us and start again, because despite everything, I was (was) enjoying my work.

The next day I was off to attend a hospital appointment for a cancer-related examination, which they forced me to tell them about, before they'd believe I wasn't just having a day's holiday to sun bathe. I went to the hospital feeling guilty for not having made an appointment at the weekend instead, despite having been instructed to attend as a matter of urgency. (I'm not dying, by the way. Thank fuck. Although they'd probably like me to be.) Later that day I received a phone call from the HR Manager (shoe police). No mention of "How did you get on at the hospital?" or "Are you OK?" - all she wanted to tell me was that they'd decided to terminate my contract with immediate effect, due to what she called 'incompatibility and irreconcilable differences'. "Don't come back on Monday," she told me, "We'll pay you a week's notice." Being in a probationary period, there wasn't a single thing I could do.

"You're too hot. You're fired!"

I should add (although it ought to be irrelevant), that in order to get the job in the first place, I made the fatal error of dressing down for the interview. I know how this shit works, I'd have never got the job if I'd dressed up and I knew this, but I wasn't going to be frumpy forever! And why the fuck should I be? I just wasn't prepared for how much I would enrage them by showing them my true colours once they'd taken me on.

I'm never going to apologise for looking after myself, for keeping a great figure, for dressing to accentuate it, for having a fetish for expensive, sexy shoes, for driving a nice car and for not watering all of this down by being a brainless bimbo. I take great pride in my appearance and I work my fucking fingers to the bone to afford everything I have. Nothing stops everyone else from doing the same, expect perhaps for some drive and determination. All I can say now, is give me men any day. I've had it with bitches.