The quiet backwater of Christmas is almost upon us and work mercifully slows to a trickle. It is the season of internet surfing, extended lunch breaks and out-of-office meetings. Those who have fled leave their bounty behind for us jackals to feed on. ┬áThere won’t be a mince pie or Quality Street sweet tin left un-plundered by close of play next week.

My belly is already swelling like a watermelon from the pre-Christmas gorge but hamster mentality has seized those of us who remain and we grow fat and idle on the biscuits of the departed.

 

The Friday afternoon of a Bank Holiday weekend is like some strange juxtaposition of the planets in our office.

The extended weekend, absence of any senior staff and lax adherence to a normal working day leading to mass communal migration

Somewhere in this forest of silence I hear a solitary keyboard clicker.

Just me and the burning boy on the deck now..

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