Wednesday, June 04, 2008
So Far So Good
“Diversification is essential for survival in today’s rapidly changing marketplace,” Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, told me this morning, apropos of nothing in particular. I’d only gone in for a hole punch.
“Too right,” I agreed. “Just look at the lady at the gate with the dreamy soft white baps.”
“Oh absolutely,” she sighed. “Just look at her.”
“No, I mean look at the way she’s expanded her product range,” I said. “She saw a gap and now she has us all eating out of her hand.”
“Oh, eating out of her hand...”
The lady who sells sandwiches and cakes outside the entrance has added Soups of the World to her portfolio and it’s been an instant hit. So much so that long queues form instantly upon her arrival and she’s usually sold out and cleared off again by midday.
“You’ve to be in there like a shot to have any chance with her Perugian minestrone,” said Stella.
“It’s a rum do,” I said, “when it’s eleven o’clock in the morning and your Moroccan carrot’s been and gone and all you’ve left to look forward to is home time.”
“Kapusniak,” said Ivan the Terribly Thorough, who was running a feather duster along Stella’s slats at the time. Sometimes he just seems to spring up from out of nowhere.
“Bless you,” I said, and offered him one of my antihistamines. “I always keep a few handy in my briefcase, because, well, you never know do you?”
Touch wood, I’ve not needed any so far this year. I hate queueing for anything.
“Too right,” I agreed. “Just look at the lady at the gate with the dreamy soft white baps.”
“Oh absolutely,” she sighed. “Just look at her.”
“No, I mean look at the way she’s expanded her product range,” I said. “She saw a gap and now she has us all eating out of her hand.”
“Oh, eating out of her hand...”
The lady who sells sandwiches and cakes outside the entrance has added Soups of the World to her portfolio and it’s been an instant hit. So much so that long queues form instantly upon her arrival and she’s usually sold out and cleared off again by midday.
“You’ve to be in there like a shot to have any chance with her Perugian minestrone,” said Stella.
“It’s a rum do,” I said, “when it’s eleven o’clock in the morning and your Moroccan carrot’s been and gone and all you’ve left to look forward to is home time.”
“Kapusniak,” said Ivan the Terribly Thorough, who was running a feather duster along Stella’s slats at the time. Sometimes he just seems to spring up from out of nowhere.
“Bless you,” I said, and offered him one of my antihistamines. “I always keep a few handy in my briefcase, because, well, you never know do you?”
Touch wood, I’ve not needed any so far this year. I hate queueing for anything.

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