Grumpy see, Grumpy do
Well, this morning the guy I do most of my work for (I refuse to call him my boss, as that would be too ghastly to contemplate - and anyway, I have lots of other clients - like you, dear reader!) swans in tanned from his latest sojourn overseas.
I, of course, had been downstairs mailing Christmas pressies to Queensland, so reversing his impression of me as a lazy bum was not going to be easy.
On my return, I noticed that the door I had carefully closed behind me was now slightly ajar. Cringe. Snap decision. I'll head the cheetah (as he shall henceforth here be known) off at the pass.
"Happy birthday, Cheetah!" I extolled, grabbing him heartily by the hand and shaking vigorously. "And welcome back to Emerald City!"
Puzzled that I knew it was his birthday, Cheetah traded pleasantries with me until he could re-capture his devilish train of thought.
A drunk railway conductor could have reminded him what train that was, because before long our little interaction had turned down a familiar siding.
"You've been here a while now, Grumpy. How many xs do you produce each day? Y xs, heh? Using my Mumbai physics degree to tally them up, let's see, that's 7y per week, and let's say 30y per month. Hmmm."
Then on cue, the usual advice on what I should be doing, followed by my usual retort, "that is what I'm doing", followed by his well-worn skip out the door and, "I'll be around the office all day, drop back soon".
That was three hours ago. As our office is a 12x9 feet cubicle, I doubt I'll see the sap-sucking bludger for the rest of the day.