Mondays are hard.

My manager and me, we have similar lives, similar set-ups.

Sometimes weekends are harder.

We come in early Mondays,
Meeting in Progress on the door, and
we get it all off our chests.

Missed doses, mood swings.
How best to mix Prednisolone with antidepressants, you know?
To avoid side-effects.

Discuss the difference between a stern-and-loud and a shouted-at,
a shoved and a brushed-past, and if you don’t land, does it matter?
That kind of thing.

Some time last year, in one of these meetings we realised
the ****** drawer was the first victim.

All that time we thought we wore pretty knickers for us, but no.
No, no, no ‘cause why the hell would we wear them to work?
Why? Who for?

To the back of the drawer they went.

We’ve reclaimed them now, our secret code.

If she’s looking sad, or I am - there’s a small cry of show us your knickers
and we do, a little flash over the waistband.

(Still not brave enough to wear them if we’re staying on for a meeting, but it’s a good start)

The worse the weekend, the sexier the knickers. It’s communication and
proportionate revenge all in one.

(You wouldn’t want to be around us on a lacy-red-thong kinda day)

God only knows what our colleagues make of it:
A quick knicker-flash then off to the office.

But to be honest, we don't care.