Moscovites, or the sick of the whole head, or from another planet.
XHH: I went out on Saturday at my own expense to calmly make reports and not be distracted by colleagues.
XHH: Made, sent to Moscow, to the head office, to the work mail.
After five minutes, the recipient calls me by work phone, even the number has been identified as internal, and with notes of outrage in the voice asks what I am doing at work.
XHH: From the work number, he calls me to work.
"Why are you at work?"
HH: I don’t know how to answer these questions.
I was kicked out of the house, fucking, and the office is warm and there are cookies.
YYY: Next time tell me that the gentleman forgot to take you off the battery and you couldn’t go home.