The review of the book she read on the train to work said "Managerial prerogatives are expanding while professionals find their autonomy and sphere of discretion shrinking." That's business gibberish for
"We know your job better that you do, bitch, so shut up and do what we say". It wouldn't matter so much
if her boss wasn't right so damn often. Sure, his degree was an MBA while she had seven years of vocational
training. But somehow he effortlessly picked up things which had taken her months of study to learn, and
then showed her exactly where she should be putting the ring bolts in the new installation piece that the
clients had ordered, that strange stone dungeon under their St George's Hill mansion.
If only he wasn't so handsome as well as competant. If only he was a braggart on top and neurotic underneath, rather than just cooly competant. If only he didn't make her go weak at the knees whenever he corrected her load-bearing calculations for the ceiling trusses. If only she could get the fantasy of him taking control completely in the finished dungeon out of her mind!
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