I am freezing. Beyond freezing. I’ve been freezing since 4am this morning when I woke up freezing and tried to hug my freezing form against a nuclear-radiated Angus, trying to be careful to not wake him up with my freezingness as he’s been very stressed and going through an extreme patch of insomnia. But even once out of bed, I am freezing when I walk the dog, freezing when I take a shower, and freezing as I trudge to my first meeting of the day.

Freezing.

And that might be the last time I use that word for a while.

I sigh and look at the piece of paper in my hand again, checking the address. I look up at the massive white building, built in the middle of nowhere like a giant sugar cube. I sigh again, pull my briefcase closer, and try to stop any air from leaking into my clothing. My ass, exposed a bit as it is by the still-unfamiliar sensation of wearing a skirt, reminds me that that tights aren’t going to keep it warm forever, how about we head into the building now?

This new job, man. It may be killing me.

I swing into the reception and am greeted by the woman behind the desk. She is tiny. Really tiny. Small as in “head flooded by jokes” tiny.

“Hello dear,” she pips. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Helen Adelaide,” I say, fighting off the shivers. “I have a 9 am meeting with the management team.”

“Ah yes, they’re expecting you.” she says. “Down the corridor, second door on the left. The hot cocoa machine is just outside the door of the meeting room.”

“Thank you,” I say politely. Hot cocoa from machines always sucks. I wonder who I have to strangle to get some coffee.

I head to the meeting room, the heels of my Kick Your Ass boots echoing throughout the empty hallway. I pull my mittens off and clutch them in one hand. With a nervous gesture, I push the hair off of my shoulder and grip my briefcase strap too tightly.

I push the door open.

“Hi,” I say, stepping in to the room. “I’m Helen, I’m your new Union Rep.”

I am greeted by about a dozen pairs of eyes. “Where’s the other guy?” someone asks.

“He’s left the company. I just joined a few weeks ago myself, so apologies in advance if there are any issues that we don’t mention today or that I don’t know the background of. I assure you your needs are important.”

“You don’t care about our needs,” squeaks one of them. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t understand,” I say sliding into a chair that’s about a million times too small. I try to find a way to shift and have my ass crack over at the seat evenly. “I understood that your workplace was looking to unionize?”

“Oh, no!” waves one smoothly. “We’re very happy. We would never upset our boss by thinking of forming a union.”

I pull out my notebook and flip open to some notes I made the other day. “But is says here that you don’t take smoke breaks.”

“We don’t smoke. Unless you count the time Mr. Jigglesy was operating the plasticine machine and set the place on fire. We were all smoking that day!” jokes one of them, and the room erupts in nostalgic laughter on a decibel similar to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

The chap next to me, who doesn’t even come up to my shoulder, drops his pencil on the floor and he scrambles down off the chair to retrieve it. It takes him a while to find it as he scuttles around under the desk, before finally climbing back on to the chair, looking flushed.

“When’s the last time you took a holiday?” I ask.

“Everyday’s a holiday!” someone shouts.

“I mean a vacation, when’s the last time you took a bit of time and didn’t work?”

The room is silent. Everyone looks at me. “Take time off of work?” one of them asks, adjusting his collar. “Why would we do that?”

Just then the door swings open and a cart, laden with pastries and a large thermos, is pushed in. The person pushing it has iPod headphones plugged into their ears, a bright green mohawk and about a dozen ear piercings running up the ear, all the way to the pointy tip.

“Sniggles,” says one of the people at the table admonishingly. “Are you listening to Halloween music again?”

Sniggles sneers, parks the cart, and leaves.

“I apologize for Sniggles’ behavior, he’s going through adolescence.”

“How old is he?” I ask, wondering if child labor is going on here.

“652,” replies one of them.

Right, so no child labor then.

Clatter! goes the floor by me as the pencil lands on the floor again, and the guy next to me goes to retrieve it again. I shift in my tiny seat – I’ve decided only one buttcheek at a time can be accommodated by the tiny chair.

“When was your last pay rise and pension review?” I address this one to the guy across the table.

“What’s a pension review?” he replies.

“And goodness, what’s a pay rise?” interjects another one.

“What are your working hours?” I ask.

“All hours!” says the chap next to me jovially.

“You can’t mean you work 24 hours a day,” I say, running my hand over my forehead.

“Oh but we do! Even when we take cocoa breaks we’re working!”

I put my pen down. “Look, as your Elf Union Rep I’m here to tell you that these working conditions violate about every possible rule in the book. You cannot accept this environment.”

Clatter! goes the pencil next to me. I grab the collar of the elf next to me as he starts to climb down off the chair. “Listen you pervy little pixie, if you drop that pencil one more time in an attempt to look up my skirt I will grind you under my heel into a pile of fairy dust.”

He gulps and starts slamming his head against the table. Wham! Wham! Wham!

I look around the table.

“What the hell is wrong with this guy?” I ask.

One of the elves across the table looks solemn. “It’s punishment for impure thoughts. Thinking naughty thoughts limits production on the factory line, not to mention the, um, adaptations we make to the toys. We elves tend to get a little randy, it’s important we keep ourselves under control. Jerky there finds big women to be a real turn on.”

“Hey! Who the hell are you calling big?” I growl.

“I mean height-wise!” squeaks the elf hurriedly. “Height only! I promise! You’re very well in proportion!”

Wham! Wham! Wham! goes Jerky again.

I rub my forehead once more. “I’m struggling here. I was given the project remit to Unionize the Elves of Santa’s Workshop.”

Another elf pipes up. “Who by? We’re quite happy here. I can’t imagine anyone being unhappy enough to want to engage such measures. It’s great here! Candy all day long! Laughter and singing! And then once Santa leaves on Christmas Eve we all get a bit tipsy on a glass of root beer and a gingerbread man before getting ready for next Christmas! What’s not to like?”

I check my notes. “I was referred here by Dobby the House Elf.”

“Dobby!” sneers the elf. “That sell-out! He leaves the happiness and comfort of the North Pole and goes to Hollywood, where he spends his time drinking daquiris out of the navels of Hollywood whores!”

Wham! Wham! Wham! go the heads of every elf around the table.

“Look guys,” I say gathering my things. “I think there’s been a mistake. You lot are very happy here and I think there’s no scope of works for me here.” I gratefully peel myself off the tiny seat and stand, putting my coat on. I bend over and grab my rucksack, only to come eye to eye with Jerky eyeing my cleavage.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

I walk out of the room.

“Jerky, you’re going back on the naughty list.” I hear in the background as I leave the room.

At least I can guess why he’s named that.

New jobs are so hard.

-H.