Morale has not been high for a while now at the Rather-Large-Bank. The CEO blames the media laying the slipper in and his minions have found all sorts of ways to make us sigh with giddiness at the sight of that shiny logo of ours.
Yesterday, while I was at home pretending to be sick, my team had a bake off.
“Polly!” said Shag-Fiend Director this morning, “you missed the bake off.”
She was not particularly enthused. Rather, she said it as though it was a blessing; that I had made the right choice to stay home and watch Days of Our Lives while Fat Global Head and No Neck Head of Risk battled each other out for baking supremacy.
Last week, when I was still doe-eyed about my future at the Rather-Large-Bank, the team got together for a catch up session. On a round table, where I was again the youngest of everyone, we had to tell each other what path we would take had banking not got the better of us.
“Professional golfer.”
“Editor of Vogue.”
“Chemist.”
“Civil Engineer.”
“Gigolo.”
“Shoe designer,” said Shag-Fiend Director.
The best one came from Francois, the Frenchiest man of my acquaintance. He speaks with a flowing rhythm, almost lyrical, but his face remains expressionless no matter the topic.
“Vell, I always thought,” he began, “I vould be, very good in adveetersing.”
Sniggers.
“In France, ve have very little adveetersing. It is only cars and vashing poadar… It is very generick. It is very easee to say that my shirt is cleaner and vyiter than yours, Fat Global Head. But I think I can really sex up vashing poadar…”
Uncontrolled laughter.
I wish my penchant for accents could shine through in writing.
Yesterday, while I was at home pretending to be sick, my team had a bake off.
“Polly!” said Shag-Fiend Director this morning, “you missed the bake off.”
She was not particularly enthused. Rather, she said it as though it was a blessing; that I had made the right choice to stay home and watch Days of Our Lives while Fat Global Head and No Neck Head of Risk battled each other out for baking supremacy.
Last week, when I was still doe-eyed about my future at the Rather-Large-Bank, the team got together for a catch up session. On a round table, where I was again the youngest of everyone, we had to tell each other what path we would take had banking not got the better of us.
“Professional golfer.”
“Editor of Vogue.”
“Chemist.”
“Civil Engineer.”
“Gigolo.”
“Shoe designer,” said Shag-Fiend Director.
The best one came from Francois, the Frenchiest man of my acquaintance. He speaks with a flowing rhythm, almost lyrical, but his face remains expressionless no matter the topic.
“Vell, I always thought,” he began, “I vould be, very good in adveetersing.”
Sniggers.
“In France, ve have very little adveetersing. It is only cars and vashing poadar… It is very generick. It is very easee to say that my shirt is cleaner and vyiter than yours, Fat Global Head. But I think I can really sex up vashing poadar…”
Uncontrolled laughter.
I wish my penchant for accents could shine through in writing.
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