But in reality, it was my employers noticing that all the chocolate was about to expire, and so dumped several boxes of Wispas and Crunchies on the break table. But am I complaining? Certainly not. As those who know me can testify, not accepting free food is just not in my lexicon.
So, when my assistant manager asked if he could have "a quick word" with me in the office, I looked something like this:
We all know what "quick words" are. Quick words are seldom quick, and the words involved are almost always about your failings as a worker, a person, and as organic matter. I knew from the second I saw my assistant manager that these quick words would almost certainly be in direct response to last Sunday's Disprin Incident. And maybe it was thanks to the two Crunchies and one Wispa surging their way through my pancreas, but it was hard to take the conversation seriously. You see, me and my assistant manager have, over the three years we've worked together, choreographed a merry social dance that we (fox)trot out at least three times a year, and it goes something like this:
Me: Mmmh? (Spinning idly in revolving chair that I hardly ever get to sit on)
He: Could you..? (Motions at chair)
Me: Oh. Sorry. (Stops spinning.)
He: I know we've talked about this before.. semi-jokingly..
Me: What before?
He: Your drinking.
He: You seem to spend the majority of your time in work either drunk or hungover.
Me: (offended) That's not true!
A quick calculation of the facts unveil that it is true. I work, part-time, at 18 hours a week. I am generally hungover on Sunday, where I work six hours, and Thursday, where I work four. Below is a pie-chart representing these facts.
So, I guess he has a point. This is where I usually begin my retort.
He: Caroline, I won't say you're the company lush but..
Me: Oh come on now. That's totally unfair. You're only saying that because Billy and Ryan don't work here anymore.
He: (ponderous) True. Those guys were pretty bad.
He: That still doesn't excuse you though.
Me: (with the countenance of a scolded child) I know. I'm sorry.
What then generally ensues is a half-hearted lecture about my behaviour, with a cautioning about "Head Office" (whoever they are) and their feelings on my general debauchery. (They don't like it)
|Artist's representation of my relationship with Head Office|