His mannerisms are, by some way, less attractive. He is very tall and should be skinny, but he has wide, middle-aged woman’s hips and a pot belly. The pot belly is a testament to the numerous occasions he’s cornered some poor, defenceless junior in the pub and drunk them under the table or, more accurately, into bed. He has large feet and fat fingers. He’s balding. The hair he does have is greasy, serving to glue his dandruff to his exposed scalp. And yet he is inconceivably arrogant, confident and vain. So much so that he will not recognize himself from this description. He considers himself to be the most intelligent of the male species and although he doesn’t come across as crushing competition on a day-to-day basis at TV6, he is mistaken. He firmly believes he is irresistible to the opposite sex. Sadly, to many he is.

It’s his bank balance. It is huge. Massive.

And he is powerful. Extremely so.

Two compelling aphrodisiacs. I am ashamed to be female when I see Hissing Sid surrounded by an entourage of young vixens, willing to lie back and think of the Bank of England. It disgusts me that these women, always attractive and often intelligent, are too lazy to think of anything more creative than sleeping with the boss to ensure a promotion.

I can sense his presence, and this isn’t entirely to do with his body odour and bad breath. A deathly hush has fallen. Hissing Sid is oozing his way across the open-plan office towards me. I brace myself for his visit by starting to breathe through my mouth.

I force myself to look up. Nigel is leaning over my desk. He has no perception of personal body space and does not seem to understand that I don’t want to be close to him. Could his mother? I think of dead fish in a fishmonger’s window.

‘A word, if you please,’ he sprays. He mistakenly believes that the fake Dickensian language is distinguished. Flapping my arms, encouraging the air between us to circulate as quickly as possible, I follow him back to his office.