COMPETITION

Danger: Men at Work

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1443 you were asked for extracts from the diary of a supersensi- tive lady who imagines that she is being 'sexually harassed' in the office.

, I've been nervously keeping my lips buttoned at the office since I read an interview with Professor Cary Cooper, co-author of Stress and the Woman Mana- ger. Sexual harassment, Professor Cooper admits, is 'difficult to describe, but it's the continuous wearing down of women through comments like "You're looking good today".' His suggested solution is 'sensitisation programmes' for men, first with men alone, then in mixed groups. I see the sessions in my mind's eye, illus- trated perhaps by Thurber.

The competition didn't bring the best out of you -- too many horrible double entendres OW N. asked me if I had seen programme about great tits last night') and an awful lot of bending over the copying machine. Chris Holmes was good on the lift: 'Horrific start to the week with the new operator deliberately waiting for me and then announcing with a leer, "Going all the way?" Honestly preferred the old one — even with his sexist silences between floors.' And G. H. Armitage presented a nice case of near-hysteria: 'Nobody would believe the hassle I've had trying to get elementary priority. God knows if they want lavatorial apartheid!' The winners printed below get 19 apiece, and the last bonus bottle of Pot Roger White Foil Cham- pagne goes to E. A. Page. Hearty thanks to Mr Colin Dix of Wolseys Wine Bar, 52 Wells St, London W1 for having generously patronised six of our competitions.

Thursday, a.m.: Mr Truelove went really too far this morning. `Take down the following letter,' he rasped, greatly emphasising :take down' whilst leering at my blouse. I treated him to a frosty look, whereupon he ejaculated, 'Christ, can't we get down to it!' Ignoring his clumsy double entendre, I replied, 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.' With my looks one soon learns to depress pretension.

Thursday, p.m: Mr Truelove attempted to lure me into the basement with some excuse about fetching files. I soon quashed that! 'Mr Truelove,' I said with dignity, 'I am not a plaything for men's desires. Women are people too!' His stupefied expression informed me that he isn't used to rejection.

Friday, a.m: Overheard Mr Truelove say, 'That half-witted blob of blancmange is driving me mad.' Seeing me, he blushed and went quiet. I don't think he should talk about his wife like

that. (E. A. Page)

Monday: Followed to coffee machine by Mr Harris three times in one afternoon! He said coffee would keep him awake after nights without sleep and was 1 getting enough? I retorted with some scorn that I didn't quite follow him, omitting to add that it's this boring office makes me yawn!

Tuesday: Mr Harris stood unnecessarily close in the lift this morning. He claimed it was crowded, but there were only three other occu- pants. Tho' the lift is only supposed to carry four people, they were dwarfs (from Phreaks' Model Agency upstairs). Why couldn't he have hud- dled up to them?

Wednesday: Mr Harris spilled coffee down my dress. True, he didn't exploit the episode to maul me with his hands while pretending to mop up, but the fabric becomes very see-through when moist and the expression of horror on his face ill concealed the satyr.

(Charles Mosley) Nov. 29th, Day of St Saturninus the Martyr: Not only was there a trouser button in my in-tray but a banana in my waste-paper basket. It could not have got in there by itself. Always this harass- ment — innuendo and double entendre. I dare not use a rubber or bend over. I use the stairs to avoid their pressing against me in the lift. I am near breaking point. Valium no longer works.

December 1st. Day of St Eligius: Today things came to a head with the invoices for the door-knockers. The atmosphere with all the grinning and male conspiracy was like a cellar with bottles of fermenting nettle-beer exploding. At eleven Mr Cockburn plugged in the sandwich-toaster and saying, 'I fancy a bit of crumpet,' put one in! When I came round I was prostrate on the floor with Mr Appleyard on top of me fondling my bosom and giving me disgusting passionate kisses. He claims it was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It was plain as a pikestaff attempted rape!

(George Moor) Monday: This morning Mr S. said, 'Had your TSB, Miss J.? I could take them off you if you're willing.' He leered, knowingly. I dread to think what the man meant. tidied desk, and separated entwined paperclips. .

Tuesday: Talk in the lift was all of TSB. Men! Read the safety notice, twice. Asked Mr N. to move two suggestive cacti, having seen messen- gers sniggering at them, Too late, I fear. Saw messenger later who said, 'Do anything for you, missis,' and winked. Reported him to super- visor, who said lad would be castigated.

Wednesday: Am sure Mr S. arranged fire-drill solely to carry me downstairs. He said it was a simulation exercise, and I was down for a 'broken ankle' on the Safety Officer's memo. Shall complain to Ombudsman.

(D. A. Prince)

Monday: Mr Bastable profoundly disturbed me with a rather suggestive offer of cucumbers from his greenhouse. Told him I never accepted cucumbers from relative strangers.

Tuesday: Mr B. alarmed me by using the lift at the same time as me during our lunch break. He stood no more than 20 inches away, drenched in aftershave, whistling 'Love Me Tonight'. Consi- dered that overtly cheap and racy. Trembled with honor at the memory of our encounter all afternoon.

Wednesday: Mr B. brought in a box of free-range eggs. I was deeply distressed at the obvious symbolism. Before he even comprom- ised me with an offer, informed him acidly that I was not that sort of girl.

Friday: Mr B. has broken his neck in a car accident. NOt entirely convinced this isn't a

strategy to lure me to his bedside. A brief, anonymous, get-well note perhaps. . . .

(Russell Lucas) Dear Diary, Oh, what a day! Things were going quite well, until that chauvinist pig Bingham from the export office came in and asked if anyone was in. 'Of course someone's in,' I retorted, 'I'm here!' I suppose he thought I was so unimportant as to fall outside the category of 'anyone'. So, of course, Bingham made a feeble apology and joke about not meaning anything, and asked to see Mr Browne.

So I checked with Mr Browne, and Bingham went in to see him, but would you believe it, as he passed My desk he made a pass at me. Yes, he leant towards me, flashed his molars and said 'Thanks, old girl,' as if I was one of his little floozies. Well, I ask you, would he have done that to Brian Biggs, further down the office, or even poor plump Patricia in the next room?

(Katie Mallett)