... running in a crouch behind a screen, evidently hoping that he can leap out and surprise me at the end? 'Tis No Good Boyo, of course, being the only person of my acquaintance who would think for more than a millisecond that a glass screen would hide his movements.
The words 'Yacky da, Boyo' are already on my lips as he leaps lissomely into what, unfortunately, turns out to be an ornamental pot plant.
Still, it passes the time, eh?
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18 comments:
Who was it who said "no battle plan lasts more than the first hour of fighting" or something to that effect?
Given the nature of Welsh gravity, time gets telescoped. Thus the Wales Defence Strategy 2008 lasted five seconds.
It also explains why our country is only the size of a random chunk of rainforest and we stand 5ft tall.
One is reminded of the efforts of our American cousins on arriving in France in 1918. Finding themselves posted to a random blob of mud on the Western Front, they were short of branches to camouflage their field guns in the appointed textbook manner, so sent a working party some five miles back to collect branches. These being the only branches visible for miles, it was a matter of minutes before the Germans took them out with heavy artillery. Tragic, but true.
If they had worked for a certain British broadcaster these Americans would have received posthumous commendations for their fidelity to Ways of Working.
Do you two work in the same office??? Oh good grief. Licence payers' money, media-types, Lord Reath, etc
Mr Dilo - We both turn up at the same office on a regular basis; whether or not any work gets done is another matter entirely.
Even more bizarrely, Mrs Boyo is our boss.
Yup, it's like a Bouquet of Barbed Wire here, but without the incest or big hair. And you're paying for it!
Oh, God have mercy upon us. I'm now beginning see the picture: it's like some matriarchal mafia family, with the Mrs as Violet Lee and you two as Ron and Reg.
I ain't payin' for nuffink though, seeing as how I've been either a student and "abroad" for several years now :-)
Marrying a literal boss as opposed to a pretend boss takes true valour. I commend you for some form of medal, with some kind of dragon on it (representing Wales, not your wife, I hasten to add).
MC, I think Mrs Boyo is from the same part of the world as Leopold Sacher-Masoch*, so this woman as boss / husband as slave thing may be just a bit of fruity role-playing. But it probably isn't, I hasten to add. ;-)
*Lviv, am I right?
A ruined castle in Vinnytsya Province, Gadjo. It wasn't always ruined, but try explaining the need to push at scientific boundaries to a mob of torch-bearing peasants.
Mrs B isn't my direct boss, as The Corporation doesn't allow that. She does have some sort of power of life over death, though, as granted by the BBC Charter, so I watch my step.
Oh, wow. As long as she was born and not "created" in this ruined castle :-)
Have you got Bananas and Scaryduck in there with you as well? No, The Corporation would surely have some directive prohibiting that.
We have no Bananas, but Scary is in our midst. We Are Legion.
Clarification: When the Boyo says Scaryduck is in our midst, that is to say that we occasionally see him prowling the corridors - usually in the direction of the canteen - at which point he greets all and sundry with expressive noises rather than words.
Our workplace started life as a stately home some centuries ago, so that while we are in the same building we are relatively widely spread in three different offices. Earth might be knocked off its course were some well-intentioned manager to put the three of us in the same room...
Mr Byard is right. I do not waste words on mere colleagues in these corridors of Reithian wossname, where they can be used to far greater advantage, broadcast to the world on these here internets.
No, a simple "Mweergh" is good enough for these people.
For Scaryduck impersonators out there I should point out that the "ee" in "Mweergh" is a long "e" as in "air" and the "gh" is silent. Unlike Scaryduck.
I confess: It is either a "Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh", not unlike Stephen Fry (only with rather less wit), or "Unh", depending on a number of factors to do with my sociopathic tendencies.
I have only just read this entertaining string, and I now know that Mr and Mrs Boyo and Mr Byard must have worked with my daughter, Joybells, before she left these shores. (We are presumably talking about the great pile in C*v*rsh*m?) Cordially, Mrs Pouncer
M'dear Mrs Pouncer - We are indeed. Since your daughter was eventually released, I presume she is normal. The rest of us are lifelong inmates with no chance of being allowed back into the community. But we have nice gardens and radios to listen too, and occasionally visitors come by and tell us about life in the big wide world outside.
Anyway, it beats my previous "job", which on one occasion involved walking through a pool of someone else's blood at gunpoint. It could have been worse - it could have been my blood...
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