Sorry, wrong number...

My phone is apparently hotwired to some black hole of bitch calls. I think you must be able to enter any public phone booth in the country, hit a number and get put through to me. In fact, I think if you mutter the word 'complaint' to any receptionist you must be automatically transferred to my desk.

Today I had to spend twenty minutes listening to a parent complain about a school dinner lady. This happens often as we all know, school dinner ladies or 'meal time assistants' are absolute hags. I can truly believe most of the stuff I hear but my tolerance wears thin as one, it has fuck all to do with me and two, dinner ladies were placed on this Earth much like Post Office workers and builders - to screw you over and teach you life isn't fair, so people should just learn to deal. I drilled out the usual, "Sorry, this isn't an admissions issue", and, "Désolé, je ne parle pas anglais". The woman continued - this was a serious, serious issue and something needed to be done immediately by superior powers. I could tell that this woman was what I like to call a 'Suiter'; the type of parent who likes to make the Council accountable for everything only when it suits her particular current cause. The type who'd be perfectly encouraging of throwing class size regulations out the window to get her Yoga pal's son, Darcy in the school, but would protest at the school gates with all the relevant rhetoric if the Council tried to squeeze a one-eyed, limping, Polish orphan in there too.

And the dinner lady's crime this time? When serving fishfingers to the kids at lunch she'd said, 'Hurry up and eat your Nemo'. 30 to 40 children were left devastated. So was I.