Cocky little cow. Miss Tapioca swore under her breath, soft enough so that oblivious Ada pottering around the grounds wouldn't hear her. She thanked her lucky stars for her Mabel, as frustrating as she was. That Ethel Hallow was a right little madam, telling her that her cooking was slop. Next time she'd stick her head in the compost heap. That would shut her up.
She peered round to see that irritating girl talk to the roses now. Today, she was addressing everyone as Miss Cackle. The girl needed her head examined. She snorted as Miss Cackle stepped up and attempted to reason with her but that didn't work.
Sometimes, Miss Tapioca wondered why she bothered working in a place that didn't appreciate her porridge. She scowled at the thought of those ungracious faces at lunch.
Sod that, she thought, sidling into the bushes for a sneaky cigarette. She'd mash up the leftover porridge and fry it up into nuggets and they'd never know the difference. That would teach them.
She smirked. She already felt better about the rest of the day.