Friday 27th April, 2012

My my. This has been a dull old week. So much so that I have been thoroughly enjoying "Darkness at Noon" by Arthur Koestler. Of course that is a potentially fraught statement. I was in Scotland on Thursday and that was fun so nae offence pals. I caught up with a client for a bite of dinner on Wednesday night at Cramond Brig, a quaint little inn just off the A90 as you come into Edinburgh, which was a very good evening and then had an equally delightful, if somewhat more expensive, lunch at Martin Wishart on Thursday which at least will prevent the powers that be here from getting the wrong idea about my corporate credit card use. That brings us to Friday and I have spent this morning trying to justify my existence to senior colleagues who had flown in from HK and Singapore in light of the impending joining of forces with RBS. Just a thought, whilst I have your attention, if you can see your way to lobbing us a US$200 million order or two that would be handy. Talking of the powers that be, I was scrolling through my Bodhi blogsite as is my want when at a loss for what to write about after a week such as this, fine dining in Edinburgh excepted, and found the following poem written by a somewhat disenchanted young colonial in the 1920's that I had transcribed from a book I read at the tea plantation Manager's Bungalow in which Sophie and I stayed in the Hill Country of Sri Lanka during my Gardening Leave. I wish I were a manager With umpteen quid a year What a glorious life with a handsome wife And never a boss to fear. With unlimited powers and no fixed hours And never a care to muster (To go out at night and come back when it's light Is an old mangerial dastur). With a bungalow like an old chateau And a most expensive car. A blooming toff with all day off For that is what managers are. Now, having got that off my chest, if you have ever read anything grosser than what I am about to tell you, let me know and if you are even slightly faint of heart perhaps skip the next few sentences, but when I heard this story about Bob's return to school last Sunday evening I had to wonder whether this boy has anything to do with me at all. Before getting back to school he was determined to finish off a book he had been lent and so read all the way to Rugby sitting in the back of a friends Toyota Landcruiser. Sophie had noticed that he was uncharacteristically silent and he had not replied to her enquiry, from the front of the car, about his well being, but she presumed he was simply engrossed in his copy of Bear Grylls', "Mud Sweat and Tears". Nope. When they pulled up outside his house, the first drop off point, he darted out the car without so much as a by your leave and disappeared for a minute or two behind a bush. It's worse than that I'm afraid. It transpires that half way along the A14 he had begun to feel rather car-sick and some few miles outside Rugby, as they meandered through winding country lanes, he had in fact been sick. Somehow, he had managed to keep his mouth closed and had sat there in the rear seat, mouth full, no doubt feeling a little sorry for himself for ten minutes, until he was able to get out the car and deposit his gruesome load behind said bush. Weird, but tbh, I don't really know why I'm telling you about this. It is almost as odd as the boy himself.