The End?

I am sat in the office with my boss. She is talking. She is also shrinking as she talks.

‘And the fact that the magazine is closing is just one of those unavoidable things that sometimes happens, blah, blah, blah... Competitive marketplace, blah, blah, blah...’

I look serious. Internally I am dancing and running around whooping and hugging people. Externally I am trying to maintain a face that looks like a close relative has died and the family dog has been found humping the corpse. My boss is now half her normal size.

‘Of course the company will endeavour to keep its more experienced staff, blah, blah, blah... Full redundancy terms, though, will be offered, blah, blah, blah...’

Internally I am now doing cartwheels and bursting into the cha-cha-cha. Can-can girls enter to the right of the office which is now transformed into a stage. Eight years work at one month’s salary a year. Tax free. Enough to live on and write for 12 months. Maybe 18 months if I’m careful... My boss has now virtually disappeared. Free at last? A chance to live the dream?

I get a tap on my shoulder and wake from my trance.

‘When did Dot Cotton’s first husband die?’

Sigh. Reality bites. Arse biscuits...