I'm alone in the office today. My boss materialised for literally 10 minutes earlier. He had the look of a man being pursued by Mossad. He hurried into the office long enough to tell me he was immediately leaving again. I did strike me as an utter waste of his and my time, this. Why not just go the next appointment directly from the first? Unless, that is, he was keen to establish his whereabouts in front of dozens of witnesses should the authorities come-a-callin'. He was wearing a trench coat too, to add to the whole le Carré vibe.
All this happened after I'd been contacted by my junior colleague to tell my his car refused to start on Saturday evening. The RAC pitched-up diagnosed terminal gearbox failure. Apparently it as good as had its tongue stuck out the side of its mouth, so the decision was taken not to attempt resuscitation. This left him stranded this morning as he lives in the back of beyond. So it's just me.
The trouble is it's a bit quiet chez work at the mo. After a few periods of frantic activity of late, we're entered a natural lull. The industrial winds have died down and the mainsail is hugging the mast like a curtain. This gets tiresome after a while. I need something to do. At times like this a civilised society would simply send me home. "Come back Thursday," it would say. "Something's bound to have cropped up by then." But, no, I've got to sit here, simply for form's sake when I could be at home dismantling the dishwasher, or redoing the draft excluders around the front door. Useful middle aged sheight like that.
Oh, well, people have greater crosses to bear in life I suppose.
