Thursday, November 22, 2007

Up On The Roof 

Coughs and sneezes spread diseases, and when Company X blows its nose it practically lifts the roof off.
Everybody's got something or is coming down with it. I've had mine for a fortnight and just can't shake it off, so at lunchtime I went up to the roof in the hope of a bit of peace and quiet from all the germy spluttering.

“You there!” called Bill Surname CEO, waving his hanky in my direction. “What do you know about telescopes?”
I walked over to his plinth.
“Regular one in for service. They loaned me this. Doesn't bloody work.”
I removed the lens cap from his courtesy telescope and suggested he try it now.
“Capital! I can see for miles!” He seemed surprised by this.
“Name?” he asked.
“Tim,” I replied. “Unix team.”
“How long have you been at Company X, Tom?”
“Twelve years.”
“Excellent! And how are your settling in? Finding your way around alright?”
“Very well thank you,” I said. “Everybody has been very kind.”
“Good good!”

Bill Surname CEO surveyed his kingdom. Swooshing great rolls of rainclouds skudded across the gun metal skyline. Away in the distance, the spire of St. Walburge's slipped in and out of consciousness. Further away to the south, the Winter Hill transmitter shuddered and swayed in the wind. All of Granadaland huddled in the workaday gloaming.
Down in the lower pasture, Rex the security guard rounded up the dairy herd for milking time, and in the Sunken Heart Rose Gardens a group of first year helpdeskers congregated furtively before making their way to the potting shed to play spunky biscuit.

“I say, Tom,” he said. “See those cars approaching the car park? A fiver says Death makes it to the parking space first.”
“Alright, you're on,” I said and we looked on as Death (Mitsubishi Arse Pump) and Creepy Keith from Accounts (Audi Razorblade) battled it out for the only available spot.
It ended, as per usual, with a screech of brakes and the tinkling of brakelights, and Charlotte, Bill Surname's loyal PA, rushing out with a bucket of Junior Dettol and a mop. Keith was beside himself with rage.

Poor Charlotte - it's a difficult time for her, what with the turkey order in chaos, and half the country's banking details left lying around on a park bench for tramps to fight over and sell to the highest bidder, and now this: Steve McClaren.

I motioned to reach for my wallet, wondering whether Bill Surname would wave it away with an extravagant “Put it away, Tom, I don't need your money! Buy your mother some flowers instead!”
None was forthcoming.

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