Bored secretary

His belly quaked and wobbled each time he paid credence to his own cleverness or made cutting remarks at the expense of those not present; evidence of too many decades' convivial conversation with fine claret and burgeoning cordon bleu.

Would the straining shirt buttons hold strong their jelly jail until the meeting's end she wondered, envisioning with horror and amusement alike the pickled flabby white flesh liberating itself all over the boardroom table. In which case, her strategy would be a quick exit stage left if there was to be any hope of holding back her lashing sarcasm, or laughter.

By many measures of society, he would be considered a huge success – wealth, status, power and those who hung on his every word in the hope that it would somehow rub off on them. Unfortunately, it often did. Her in-case-of-emergency escape plan would only work assuming she could first push past all the egos in the room.

Then once again invisible she would be. She didn’t mind a bit that most of them ignored her existence in public, oblivious as they were that she saw right through the hot air of their puffed up chests. You can tell a lot about how much respect someone has for themselves by the way they treat other people.

She wouldn’t be missed until she wasn’t there. That secretary, who sits quietly, diligently, recording the profoundness of their altogether remarkable words. Bit of a nerve she had at times though; something in her silent air. As if she knew anything. Someone really should bring her down a peg.