A Terrible Waste Of Oxygen

I'm having this recurring Larry David experience at the moment, and it's really getting on my wick.

I do try my best to get on with most of the people I'm forced to share a workplace with - well, you have to, don't you? But every now and then, there's one of 'em... one person you just can't stand. One person who decided long ago that they hate you, for whatever reason, and there's simply no point in trying to change their mind... because frankly, it's mutual. It's not even worth trying to be civil to them, the best that can be done for all concerned is just to keep out of each other's way. The ostrich approach to loathsome cretins - just stick your head in the sand and wait for them to get out of your personal space.

Normally I find this an effective way of dealing with the situation... but lately, it's just not been working as well as it used to - due largely to contemporaneous bladder urges. That is, we both seem to meet each other either going to or coming out of the toilets. I say 'toilets' because the colleague in question is of female persuasion, but obviously the door for the ladies is directly opposite that of the gents... and also, rather disturbingly, the wall between the two is made up from tissue paper and spit.

Should I meet any other colleagues in this scenario, I'm well-versed enough in the art of small talk (believe it or not) to be able to pass the time, chew the fat, shoot the breeze, slag off the bosses - whatever's required. But with this particular individual, there's never going to be any of that. Feigned civility is wasted - all that seems to work is ill-mannered ignorance.

And it doesn't matter how long I cross my legs, hold my breath, or clothes-peg my urethra to try and break the cycle of synchronous exigency... whenever I finally give in and head for the little Rol's room, there she'll be, with a scowly stare that would turn Medusa to stone.

So there's really nothing else for it - I'm going to have to start bringing a bedpan in to work.