There’s nothing like a meeting at work. Not of course the high-powered, full energy ones that people on the television go to, but the slow meandering blame-games, with the same points repeated until we die. Everybody disagrees, noone changes their argument, yet still a plan of action is agreed. One which is forgotten as soon as the chair is pushed back and the attendants raise to their feet.
The middle of the meeting. Slap bang in that difficult baldly structured middle-act. Everyone’s made their points. And before they make exactly the same ones again, there’s a moment of tired silence punctuated with exploding sighs and beard stroking. That’s when my mind will leave. When it takes its twenty minute holiday in a place called Somewhere Else.
Who would win a fight between Jane Seymour and Phillip Schofield? Why is that newspaper called The Mirror. Is it because reflections are some how socialist? Maybe they're just less fascist than that giant ball of fire we orbit. Could there be any other reason for a chicken to want to cross a road other than to get to the other side. How aware would a chicken be that it was actually crossing something identifiable as a road.
That leaf on that tree. Has anybody in the entire universe ever stared specifically at that leaf. Am I first and only person to do so. Nobody would miss that leaf if it wasn’t there. But then again nobody would miss any of the other leaves if they weren’t there. But then if a considerable amount of the leaves weren’t there, they would ruin the look of the tree. So I guess that leaf should hold steady, make a stand.
“Look” I say, and everyone turns to me waiting for me to repeat what I said at the beginning of the meeting. But I can’t remember exactly what it was. I’m pretty sure Jane Seymour could take Schofield.