by Ainslie Paton
It was the night before we closed for Christmas and all through the cube farm, there was near chaos and threats of bodily harm.
Because despite everything we’d ever been taught, head office had demanded a seasonal report.
They dropped it on us at the last merry moment, when our brains were out the door and our hopes ill-equipped for a festivities postponement.
Instead of drinking egg-nog, and trying to score a nod from the girls at reception, we had our eyes down, tails up and sadly altered perception.
Singing jingle bells one minute and saying bloody hell the next. Bah humbug, I say, to this state of being thoroughly perplexed.
All we could hope for was that accounts got it together and it wasn’t looking good for sunshiny weather.
No one had ever been asked for a seasonal report and it wasn’t something we could…
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