‘It better be a good story,’ Ed growls, ‘but that’s next week. What do we have for this week though? Features? Don’t we have anything on Pamela Anderson or someone whose fucking tits we can show on the back page?’

This has been directed in the general direction of the Features team—that’s us—and the resident puritan, Features editor Leena Ghoshe rises to the bait.

‘Firstly, I object to the use of the f-word. As for ‘sex sells’, I think along with the mandatory dose of ‘sex’, people also need some mental stimulation. Some fodder for thought. We have a good feature on R.K. Narayan and an interview with Mahender Singh Dhoni. We could do more stories but unfortunately, all the space for feature stories is being eaten up by ads—’

‘Those ads pay for your salary, madam. As for mental masturbation for readers, I don’t give a damn! Ditto for what anyone thinks about ‘fucking’. Those who find their souls getting corrupted with my swearing can get the fuck out of here. Now, do you and your sisters have a fucking story for me?’ Ed asks with a nasty smile.

Ed and Leena don’t really get along and this is one of their routine weekly skirmishes. There will be more as the week progresses. Leena is the only one who can tell Ed not to use the f-word, though without much success.

Leena talks in clichés, starts almost every sentence with ‘firstly’ followed by ‘secondly’ and loves making ‘inverted comma’ signs in the air. She can also spot any syntax error and correct any copy and is therefore (un)popularly called Comma Queen. She is my boss and much as I dislike her—and she me—she is very good at her job. Right now though, thanks to the fight with Ed, Comma has stormed out of the edit meeting. An angry Comma means bad news for someone and—

‘Polly, what happened to the interview with Bipasha? To my desk please,’ Comma calls out from outside the conference room.

—that someone is usually me, Polly Sharma, trainee lifestyle reporter, currently on probation, resident punching bag. Oh well, here we go.

Comma flings her notepad on the desk and glares at me. I know she’s waiting for me to say something (anything really) so she can begin on her Polly-you’re-so-useless routine. I keep quiet, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of starting it.

‘Well, the cat got your tongue? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, Polly?’ Comma says and continues to glare at me.

I wait patiently for her to continue, I know there’s more to come.

‘Firstly, you don’t deliver by your deadline, which makes me lose face before the entire world. Secondly, you have the insolence to just stand there and look at me. The least you can do is apologize for your incompetence.’

‘I am not—’

‘You are not what, Polly?’