Mr Kipper

Today, while I was eating soup for lunch, Howard returned to his favourite subject of rape.

“Eva’s going to spend the weekend walking down badly lit alleys hoping to meet a rapist.”

Howard recommended I try around pub closing hours. He asked a female colleague to agree that I had the look of a girl asking to be raped. When she appealed to the Office Manager on my behalf, she replied, with a mouthful of sandwich and a helpless shrug, that it was his favourite subject when it came to me. I try to ignore it.

Howard continued, “She probably wears a badge saying, “I’m an estate agent” or “Has anyone seen Mr Kipper?””

I didn’t understand. He reminded me of the murder of Suzy Lamplugh. He said he had an alibi. He’d only been 14 and had been on holiday at the time.

I couldn’t help wondering why anybody other than the police would be so knowledgeable about Suzy Lamplugh. He told me she’d disappeared in July 1986 and was later found dead. Her skull had been relentlessly beaten in with a brick - shattered like eggshell.

“I’ll say one thing,” the Office Manager said when lunch was over, “He gives me a headache the way he goes on.”

A headache is the least of my worries. He’s always pretending to stove my head in with a brick.

Half an hour later I think he realised he’d gone too far. He sent me an e-mail saying he was just joking – it was just the way he was. Joking or not, my hands were shaking and my stomach was in knots. The e-mail went on to say that I’d soon be moving desks to sit closer to him and that I was going to be given a small pay rise.

Forty five minutes later another e-mail arrived. It was entitled “Sexual Offences Rape” and detailed how the law had changed. He commented that oral activities are now classed as rape by a 2004 amendment and he’d been unaware of this fact. Later he e-mailed me on the same topic to say, “There is no excuse for not acquiring knowledge.”

I need to get out!

Eva x

Resurrection

This morning I arrived half hour early. Checking the coast was clear, I emptied the shredding into a carrier bag I'd brought and hid it under my desk.

The day before he'd been on about my not having children.

“Thinking about it,” Howard had concluded, “its nature’s blessing. You’re the type of person who should be chemically castrated to prevent them from having kids.”

Then esterday afternoon, he followed me around as I put his files away.

“Do you dream about being raped, Eva?" he said. "I bet you pray for it…wishing - if it has to be rape – please let it be a gang one!”

Then:

“I bet when you’re watching Jodie Foster in The Accused you think, “I wish that was me…I wish that was me...”

Howard asked me if I lay awake at night, scared at every sound outside my door. He wanted to remind me that, though I may think I’m too ugly to be raped, there are some deeply sick men out there for whom this wouldn’t matter.

I threw the files in the correct drawers and returned to my desk, only to be followed by Howard. He carried a letter which needed the address changed. Looking thoughtful, he asked for a pen. I handed it over. He scrawled something across the letter. He’d done this before so I knew it was offensive. He took his hand away and showed it to me. I was losing the will to live. I just stared at him. Seeing me at a loss for words he covered the letter up and scribbled further. Again, pulling his hand away – he’d written about my private parts drying up like an old prune. Underneath he’d written how I think women who are raped have all the luck.

Howard showed me everything he’d written. Then he whispered, “I’d better shred this.”

“That’s the best place for it, don’t you think?” I replied.

He pressed the letter to him so no one could see it until he’d safely fed it into the shredder.

“I know you made that mistake about the address, Eva,” Howard announced for the office's benefit. “But, I’m not going to mention it again. I think we should put this whole disgusting matter behind us.”

There were too many people around for me to grab the shredding last night, but I managed to get it this morning. If I can stick the letter back together, I think the whole disgusting matter might come up again in the future.

See you soon,
Eva x

All Banter is Friendly

I had a quiet return to the office. Thanks to the office junior’s legal action, Howard has been scared to speak to me. After days of peace, without Howard's ridiculing banter, I was content churning out lengthy letters with their over-complicated legal jargon. Often I think how I’d re-write them. It’s surprising how simple law is – when you cut to the chase.

My letters were interrupted by the Employment Lawyer’s delivery of a Staff Handbook she’d written for the firm. The front cover had a place to sign and date. Underneath read the following sentence:-

"Please note the following policies are not contractual in nature".

A quick flick through told me all I needed to know. It was, in the main, an anti-bullying mission statement - the firm’s internal response to the office junior’s witness statement.

“We expect our staff to treat each other with respect and dignity at all times. We will not tolerate bullying or harassment of any staff by any staff”

Put simply, without the legal padding, the company did not condone:-

Harassment related to gender, race, ethnicity, colour, disability, age, religion, nationality, occupation, marital status, sexual orientation or other personal characteristics. There was to be no abuse through e-mail, texts or websites; no invasion of personal space, spreading malicious rumours or insulting someone. There must be no intended isolation or exclusion, stalking or offensive sexual remarks. There should be no public ridicule, sarcasm or humiliation; no abuse of power, position or knowledge. They did not want people to be stressed, demotivated or frightened.

Wow, I thought, that’s great. But I’d forgotten this was written by a lawyer - things are rarely clear cut.

“Nothing in this policy is intended to stop friendly banter between staff.”

I was amazed. I had to read it again:-

“Nothing in this policy is intended to stop friendly banter between staff.”

HOWARD closed his Handbook and sauntered over.

“Eva, do you have any regrets?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.

“So, you don’t regret not being on the property ladder before the economic downturn? Or not having a husband and kids? Or the fact that you can’t afford a car and live in a bed-sit? Or the fact that the few times a passing motorist’s beeped at you, you’ve taken it as a compliment because maybe you look like a prostitute, when the truth is they think you have the depressed look of someone who’ll walk in front of their car deliberately to kill themselves?”

Good old “friendly banter”, I thought. A couple of weeks and the crying with laughter will turn into, well…just plain crying.

The Staff Handbook waffled on, with its pages of tightly packed legal definitions of harassment and bullying, the carefully phrased meanings and its non-contractual foundation. I thought how I would have re-written it more concisely. The best I could come up with is one sentence with an Orwellian twist:-

ALL BANTER IS FRIENDLY BUT SOME BANTER IS MORE FRIENDLY THAN OTHERS.

See you soon,

Eva x