The last Friday morning of the working year, and as I write (well there's bugger-all work to do after all), an eery quiet has descended over the usually hectic office. An artificial Christmas tree flickers over by the Stationery cupboard, and the muted sounds of a some sort of heavenly choir drift, tumbleweed-like, out of the tannoy system and become hopelessly tangled up in the air conditioning, causing the duty site manager to look up from his game of onscreen solitaire and put through a call to a firm of maintenance contractors in Blackburn- where, against a backdrop of 'Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer' seemingly played on a 1980s Bontempi organ, a pre-recorded message tells him everyone has gone home, and to call back on January 2nd. The duty manager sighs, puts the phone down, and moves a virtual nine of diamonds into position underlapping a virtual ten of spades.
Around him, the skeleton staff clatter about among rows of empty desks covered in chocolate wrappings. On the automotive flange team a desultory conversation on the subject of the latter career of Cliff Richard breaks out, only to peter awkwardly away into the middle distance, rather like the latter career of Cliff Richard. Somebody from Metalworking and Finishing comes back from the coffee machine with four steaming styrofoam cups, and the tin of king-size tin of Quality Street- 'Thanks for all your help in 2006- Bob National Salesmanager'- makes its ninth circuit of the desks since 9AM. But there are only those hard ones left-you know, the ones with the walnuts in- and they go unclaimed. The heavenly choir drifts off into 'Come all ye Faithful', and the Duty Manager, with a triumphant flourish of the mouse, slaps a virtual two of spades onto a virtual three of hearts. The day's work is nearly done.
And Christmas- in case you didn't quite catch what I was getting at yet- is very nearly upon us. This morning at-work-but-not-really-at-work is the calm before the storm. In just over an hour's time the Duty Manager will, with a benevolent, almost Papal flourish of the raised right arm excuse us from our duties for the year, and a gaggle of like-minded souls (read: hardened, desperate drinkers) will descend on that trendy bar opposite Deansgate Station, whatever it is called nowadays, and embark on the utterly serious business of the yearly end-of-term drinking session. I will intend to join them for a couple, but end up having more like four (read: five, at least) before stumbling through Manchester streets rapidly emptying of scurrying last-minute shoppers to catch the last train home to Levenshulme before the trains start, like the latter career of Cliff Richard, to peter awkwardly away into the middle distance.
And then- and then, Christmas will really begin in earnest, my fine feathered friends. As we speak, Charlotte and young Frankie are somewhere in deepest Cheshire, scouring the aisles of Marks and Spencers in preparation for a staged strategic invasion by various branches of both of our families, set to last half-way to the New Year. I've put in a request for a packet of Port Salut cheese, and four big bottles of M&S own-brand 'Birra De Oro' (like Peroni only somehow more Italian and more English at the same time, a snip at £2.19 for 2 litres, you should all try it). Back in Levenshulme a game of charades will be held up for ten minutes while a stewards enquiry is held into a little known, arcane ruling- and attempts are made to rescusciate several of the less robust competitors using a festive combination of smelling salts and brandy snaps, whatever they are.
None of which, I don't think, will leave me much time to report from these pages again until, oooh, January 2nd or thereabouts. So- if you have got here in time (perhaps you are filling in the last hour of that last eerily quiet morning in the office, or are just, like everyone else, trying to find a way out of writing last-minute cards for the neighbours), then, on behalf of all the staff here at Crinklybee Towers, I would like to wish you the very finest compliments of the season. Don't overdo it on the brandysnaps, now, will you?
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