Thursday, November 17, 2005

Just Like Christmas 

Spike and Rex scatter the footpaths with salt, and then Charlotte - Bill Surname, Chief Executive Officer’s loyal personal assistant - emails everybody to tell us off for tramping it all over the building.
It’s a seasonal event, comforting as hearing the first cuckoo of Spring, or the first sighting of Neil, my former team leader, in his cricket flannels and here at Company X it’s how we know that Winter has officially arrived.

Poor Charlotte: it’s a difficult time for her, anxious and agitated, only five weeks to Christmas and her fudge won’t set, and then there’s the turkeys to think of. Fifty three birds last year, tenderly hand killed by her good self, one for each employee.
Bill Surname says she should contract the work out to a local butcher, but Charlotte says Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a massacre.

I imagine her calling each turkey by the name of its future owner as she snaps its neck.
“So who’s next? Ah yes. Come over here Stella! I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you!”

In the private murk of a bijoux executive dwelling, deep in the outskirts of the exclusively shadowy heartlands of an empty void, Charlotte knocks back box after box of Cabernet Sauvignon while plucking her and screaming at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? on the kitchen portable - “Phone a friend? Are they stupid or what, Stella? Everybody knows it’s sodding Norfolk!” - before hoisting her up onto the table and tidying her off with a good stuffing, the likes of which she’ll never see again, not in this lifetime anyway.

Vegetarians receive a ‘Nuts Of The World’ variety pack instead, complete with obligatory health warning written in Charlotte’s own fair hand - “Caution. Produced in an environment where nuts are handled.”

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