Judy, you're a bint.

I'm a twenty-five year old cursed with the voice of an eighteen year old. It's especially evident when I talk on the phone, but it doesn't really cause me many troubles at all since I'm not employed in the telemarketing or phone sex industries . Actually it could be an asset in the latter industry but that's entirely off topic.

Having a baby voice is only ever a hindrance with faced off against that disgusting mutation of woman known as The Office Bint.

The Office Bint is a walking, breathing contradiction. She hates the world for being stuck in a dead-end job where the only other living creature is a gerbera pot plant, drooping in the stifling stale environment of the reception area. Yet she simultaneously believes that her job, and hers alone, is the lifeblood of the organisation; that the correct ordering of a courier is of paramount importance (and interest) to the company.

The Office Bint is typically middle aged, resentful and addresses colleagues in a condescending tone of voice that is uniquely hers. Whilst she is mercilessly mocked in staff rooms, she is also treated with tip-toe like care, because her twenty-odd years of employment in the company has granted her dictatorial powers.

I had a run-in with an Office Bint today and it was horrible. She doesn't work in my office; thankfully it's a bint-free zone and if there were to be a bint here it'd be me, because I'm the only female in the office. She works for one of our clients and her withering tone of voice surely melted the phone line.

Whoever said that bullying ends after you finish school is a total pants on fire liar. The bully just takes on a older, bitchier form.

So Judy, I anoint thee an Office Bint. I feel safe enough to name you in Cyberspace because you are too dinosaur computer illiterate to ever discover my blog. I am looking forward to the day a hot young seventeen year old receptionist beats you to death with her annually allocated Bic pen.