The breakdown

Yesterday I broke my unwritten rule of having too much to drink on a work night and went to the pub with Donna to discuss her future plans. She's very excited- like a Yorkshire terrier on speed- and kept getting the drinks in. The result was I could feel my speech slurring by nine and knew I had to get home. Today, I am hung-over in a bad way. If any callers have been taking too long to get to the point, I've just been disconnecting them and leaving Donna to deal with any tirades when they call back.

Donna's transformation from chav extraordinaire to super empowered independent woman is nothing short of miraculous. She hasn't said anything mildly racist in weeks and is actually not that bad to be around. I'd quite forgotten that my whole reason for helping her was to get rid of her so i could have the reception to myself, but now I've decided I don't really want to work there anyway. What am I like?

My usual supervisor goes on holiday today for two weeks so someone else will be overseeing my duties and making sure I don't spend the day on the web posting fake profiles on dating sites or booking holidays (just booked a weekend in Rome this afternoon). Her name is Pam- which every office worker in their mid fifties seems to be called these days- and she wanted to see me earlier this morning. This wasn't really good for me as I've been feeling like shit all day but I rallied a bit and painted on a smile and went on in.

Pam was sitting behind her desk in front of a mountain of empty coffee cups. I'd never seen her close up before so wasn't quite prepared for how large her eyes looked behind her very thick glasses. They were boring into me as I walked in. She told me to sit down and then said how much she was looking forward to working with me. Alarm bells rang straight away- when someone tells you that it means one of two things- 1. You're fired or 2. I'm gonna work you like a bitch and make your life hell. She explained that she'd heard that items of stationery had been going missing and she knew how temps loved to get their hands on post-it notes and pens (???). This totally baffled me because I never write anything down ever. In only pick up a pen to pick my nose! She then said that although my weekly timesheet told her how many hours I'd worked per day, it didn't say what I'd done. My face must have looked completely incredulous because she went on to explain further. "I'd like you to write down the tasks you've done each hour and tell me when you take your breaks and that kind of thing. It's like a breakdown of your working day. Be as specific as you can. You can start that from Monday if you like." She then got up and opened the door for me as I went back to my desk totally dumbstruck. What the fuck is going on? What does she think that is daily task list will consist of? I don't need to be a fucking clairvoyant to write Monday's 'breakdown' for the saucer-eyed bitch RIGHT NOW.

0830 – 0930 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1030 – 1130 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1130 – 1230 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1230 – 1330 Stand for ages in queue for sandwich. Get pissed off because sandwich is not what I asked for. Eat it anyway. Return to desk to hear Donna moan "I'm starvin" for the eightieth day in a row.
1330 – 1430 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1430 – 1530 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1530 – 1630 Do a handstand. No- only joking. Answer phones and take deliveries.
1630 – 1730 Answer phones and take deliveries.
1730 Skip home safe in the knowledge that my job is a load of shit.

Why exactly does this thrilling day need to be itemised? Or does she want me to tell the truth?!!?