Friday, March 23, 2007

Gran Turismo 

Like Sir Walter Raleigh returning from the New World with his cargo of cigarettes and duty free potatoes, Charlotte, Bill Surname CEO’s loyal PA, steered the Company X minibus safely back into port.

No sooner had she docked - mirror, signal, man overboard - she was surrounded by a cheering throng of salesmen all keen to get their hands on her bounty.
Bill Surname arrived and gave a short but solemn speech about the value of service and loyalty, then opened the minibus doors and handed out PS3s to the chosen few.

Poor Charlotte - it’s a difficult time for her, what with the markets in freefall and news from the front getting worse by the hour, and now this: forced to scour the land in search of Playstations, queuing outside HMV with the great unwashed, living on crisps and Lucozade, unable to return home until her mission was complete.
But what else could she do? Bill Surname - the only man she’s ever loved, if only he knew it - said his salesman must receive their Spring bonuses, and if it’s games consoles they want, then it’s games consoles they shall have.
While he was tucked up in his fireside armchair with his sausages and port and the FT singeing on his lap, she was sleeping on pavements and picking up Gran Turismo tips from a distressingly pierced youth of no discernable gender called Zog.

“Stupid cow,” said Mike as we looked down on the scene from our office window. Charlotte looked bleary eyed, tired to the point of sobbing, ready to sleep for a week.
“I could have got her them weeks ago.” He’s got a mate who drinks with a bloke who knows someone who can get you anything you want. “It’s not who you know, it’s what you’re prepared to give them.”

I said “Can he get me a new yoghurt? I seem to have spilled mine,” then went back to my book about tractors and thinking about cheese. Mmmm. I love cheese.

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