“She’s like a shire horse with better boobs,” says Monica of her boss. You may know a Rosie Molloy. Heavens, you may be a Rosie Molloy. She is a woman with the constitution of an ox and an improbably resilient septum, who wafts into the office trailing the fragrance of whisky, nods saucily at the suit who is, in effect, her boss with benefits, then settles down to a hard morning’s online searching for designer bags.
And yet, we are to suppose, this captivating car crash of an anti-role model is good at her job and immune to HR disciplinarians, even if taking coke at work to stop her alcoholic slurring is essentially a sackable offence. “But look at my cute little face,” Rosie tells her co-workers. “They don’t fire people with lovely little faces. Plus I accidentally ticked the gender fluid box. Untouchable.” That may not be true, but you have to admire her toxic moxie. She has just been promoted as a client manager. I don’t really know what that means, but hopefully nothing important like being a brain surgeon or chancellor of the exchequer.
