Today I had one of those messages from Head Office. By 'one of those' I mean a message written in a style that gives away the fact that the writer thinks he/she owns you. I would imagine if mill owners every wrote to their staff if would be written in a manner not unlike the missive I received. It was written in a way that suggested that I was a pleb. That I was nothing more than an underling. Something to be crushed underfoot. It was written as though we were in 1813 rather than 2013.
Obviously written by some nerd in an office somewhere in the depths of The Cooperative Society, it must have made the sad individual's day. I can imagine the tit perched on a high stool scraping away with a quill, the silence only broken by the 'tap tap' of the quill's end as it reaches for ink out of a white enamel inkwell. I can imagine Mr or Mrs or Ms Tit breaking off from this major piece of Company Crap because the dinner bell has sounded. I can see them now, unwrapping their neatly cut sandwiches and chewing on them a set number of times in a pathetic effort to aid their indigestion. I can see them n - sorry, I'm getting carried away.
Anyway the content of this pathetic piece of drivel?
I was informed that because of the unexpected rises in temperature, I would be allowed to wear shorts.