During the past week I have been called several names, most of them more acceptable than those used by my eloquent College Boy.

I was branded a floosie (or floozy depending on which part of the country you come from) last week because I enjoy and appreciate  the conversation and company of my male colleagues – quite like that title actually. I’ve always been one for a bit of a hug too. No tongues please.

On Monday I became a hard-line cynic with a bit of anarchy thrown in for good measure.  I am of the opinion that my employers are trying to dupe us with a hefty dose of spin – with good reason – we have to recoup 14 million big ones and we aren’t going to do that without some blood on the carpet.  I’d prefer honesty but our comms and hr departments seem hell-bent on the using the mushroom technique (keep us in the dark and cover us with  ….compost?).

My wonderful partner in crime and I attended one of those rare meetings where you get to speak your mind – and we did. I also doodled a lot – it stops me from saying too much – sort of. We have been told that we shouldn’t sit next to each other in meetings because we encourage each other – that’s the idea actually.

We left the meeting still on speaking terms with comms and hr but they were looking a little hurt by our cynicism – ah shame.  Still – our chief exec has got a new job and WON’T be getting a golden handshake when she goes – I’d like to say she’ll be missed – I’d like to but she won’t.

Tuesday was hell.  Busy and at times I felt myself drowning under a sea of nobber-led idiocy.

By Wednesday my natural optimism had resurfaced having fought its usual battle with pessimism and a healthy dose of paranoia.  Later that date my boss commented that I would always be a bit of a rebel – and I quite liked that title too.

Yesterday was overwhelmingly  good to start off with because I went on a course and was a girly swot for knowing all the answers and being VERY helpful to the trainers who were undergoing an assessment themselves. By Zumba time however, my inability to tell my right from my left and to remember more than one piece of fancy footwork for more than three seconds had left me feeling deflated, knackered and in need of a glass (or three) of the hard stuff.

Today has been busy again so I have by turns been helpful, highly efficient(-ish), kind (to a colleague who was very apprehensive about a meeting we were in – it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be – I knew that) and generous – to my scavvy friend who came on a late afternoon biscuit trawl (I have it on good authority that his own team hide all their biscuits from him).  I got two compliments on my appearance today as well – something usually limited to my lovely hub.

I even managed to play the stern mother for a very brief period this evening although I ran out of umph rather too quickly and College Boy regained the dominant position – ah but he hugged me goodbye before going off to the cinema with his buddies.

So is it possible to be a cynical cock-eyed optimist then?  A happily married floosie?  A girly swot with two left feet and a decidedly rebellious streak?  If I ask  my hub he will undoubtedly say that I am all those things and several more – after twenty-five years together he has a lot of names for me and not all of them complimentary.  We won’t go into the fact that I will never qualify for the housewife of the year  title, I have no cleaning and tidying genes and whilst I have some habits that verge on the OC end of the scale I am too easily distracted by my kindle, my computer and anyone with the ability to make me laugh.

I managed to concentrate long enough to pass my assignment with a creditable 66% – and statistical testing is still a mystery to me – but I must mug up on it before residential school at the end of July or I will definitely lose my girly swot status.

College Boy has returned from the cinema – he’s seen The Avengers but informs me that unless I’ve seen both Iron Man films, the Hulk and Captain America then I won’t understand any of it.  I try to explain that these comics were part of my stable reading diet back in the day but he hurrumphs and reminds me that I am just an old fogie who knows nothing.

Then kisses me good night.  I am damned with his faint praise.