I hear it every morning... “I’m going to tell her – I’m not just some silly fool who can be pushed around.”

And it never changes...

“He’s got it comin’ to ‘im cos’ ee’s the not only one with an inbox.” Day in, day out...

“If he tells me one more time, I’m walking, and you know me.”

And I always think – no you won’t.

You’ll sit and rant here on the bus, impressing your fellow travellers with how ’ard and tough and confrontational you are, but the moment you get into work, you’ll become that spineless wage slave we all are.

I know because I always tell everyone myself that I – A. Won’t be taken for granted. B. Spoken to that way. C. ordered ‘around like an underling’.

And every day without fail, I somehow manage to avoid voicing any of the above because I’m afraid.

Afraid of A. Losing my job B. Being fired this close to Christmas/Easter C. Being a ‘hero’ for 30 seconds but unemployed for 30 months.

I have just once told an employer what I thought of them and sure enough, for a few, brief minutes I felt like everyone’s everyman, battling against the system and emerging battle scarred but triumphant, my dignity intact, my future assured.

Indeed, as I walked decisively from my desk, head held high, I remember being touched by the gratitude – hell, the adoration of my colleagues, all keen to slap my back, shake my hand and stand me a drink.

Of course, this being the real world and not a movie, the reality turned out a little differently.

The second I’d exited the building, they saw my desk cleared, my nemesis promoted and all my so-called contacts rip me from the Rolodex.

In short, I’d committed the perfect murder and I was both perpetrator and victim.

Fortunately – and I mean that in letters the height and width of the famous Hollywood sign – I did get another job, having confessed to the crime during my hour-long interview.

“We all make mistakes,” said the wise man who interviewed me. “Just make sure this isn’t mine...”

Consequently, I’ve realised since then it’s moronic to fake bravado.

Apart from me, I don’t know anyone who has ever actually told their boss what they thought of them, which is why I always smile when anyone tells me they’ve been pushed too far.

No one – as far as I can tell – is genuinely that stupid.

I prefer now, when belittled and humiliated at work, to take the high moral ground and cry in the toilets.

No one knows, and although my nose looks red, I get to pay the rent.

I don’t believe for a second that the ‘meek shall inherit the earth’ but I’ll stick with it a while longer until God gets his act together.

Of course, assuming he doesn’t, I guess I may start moaning on the bus too...