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Non-Fiction
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| The cow jumped over the moon | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 30 January 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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My crappy day at work Cows are not known for their aerodynamic properties. For a start, there’s the weight. Not that I would call a cow fat. Not to her face, and not behind her back. Cows are, by and large, the right size for a cow. They avoid fatty foods and fizzy drinks. They’re vegetarians. Name a fat vegetarian. It’s not easy, is it? But, compared to say a sparrow, they are on the heavy side. I say this purely as a scientific, objective observation. Name a bird as heavy as a cow. OK, ostriches aside. Name a bird that can fly that is as heavy as a cow. Thankfully, cows in general are happy in this state of affairs. The incidents of Anorexia Nervosa amongst the bovine community are so low as to be negligible. Cows are happy with their weight. Even though it means that soaring through the heavens on the wing is nought but a pipe dream, the average cow, typically, is content with the status quo. And if they could fly, would they want to? It’s all well and good, a young heifer standing in her field, watching a flight of starlings and thinking, “Wow, I’d like to do that.” But if the reality caught up with her, if she found herself swooping over hill and dale, would she be happy? I think not. Millennia of evolution have nailed the cow to the land. If a cow flew through the air it would be a fish out of water. I can only imagine that this is what happened this morning. After all, a cow finding itself flying 20 feet over the roofs of buildings is going to be nervous, isn’t it? At around eleven o’clock I gave my delegates a break. I know, I should work them harder, but I have a soft heart. I see their glazed eyes, their weary expressions, and I feel for them. Besides, it is hard work, telling them to do the hour-long exercise in the book then browsing the InterWeb. I needed the break too. So I punched out a 55 on the vending machine (chocomilk) and stepped outside the Hinckley office for a breath of fresh air. Afterwards I was told it must have been a seagull. Nonsense. Have you seen where Hinckley is? It’s hundreds of miles from the coast. And the amount! No seagull could possibly contain that volume. The brown deposit hit me squarely on the left shoulder, proceeded along my collar, the back of my pristine white shirt and along the right shoulder. One lower sleeve and cuff also became soiled. I never saw the cow that flew over me, but ladies and gentlemen of the jury; I put it to you that it could not possibly have been a mere seagull. I retreated into the Gents. I swabbed with a paper towel. And another. And another. I wet a towel and dabbed at it. I scrubbed at it. To no avail. The last time I was in the Hinckley office there was a small trove of company polo shirts. Jan would know where they were. Jan was in the back office, along with the sales team, the operations team, and various other people of unknown job titles that needed to be in Hinckley that day. The back office was, as should be no surprise to the more perceptive amongst you, round the back. Between me and it lay the delegate lounge, where my class presently loitered. I ran the gauntlet to the back office, and explained my plight to Jan in hushed whispers. She repeated it at the top of her voice. My colleagues, comrades in the battle that is modern business rallied around. Between peals of laughter I heard: “Surely you’re used to being shat upon from a great height.” “Seagull management at last.” “I told you you were full of crap.” “Your taste in shirts is shit.” And many more. Debbie was on the phone when she heard. She relayed the story to the office she was talking too. I had no doubt that it would be around the entire company by afternoon tea. Jan explained through gasps that they had sent their stock of shirts to Leeds. Maybe one of my fellow trainers had a spare. Teary-eyed, she led me up the back stairs to the trainers’ room. Urs had no spare shirt, but what, he asked concerned, had happened to my shirt. Jan used the wall as support as she explained the situation. Guy was out to lunch, but he had left a zip-front fleece. Jan suggested that she stagger back down stairs, whilst I strip off my shirt and spend the rest of the day in Guy’s fleece. I returned to the classroom. Some of the delegates were concerned, having seen my shirt. Was I OK? Others had not seen my shirt, and so I had to explain my crappy morning once again. One woman nearly asphyxiated herself, both hands clamped over her mouth, shoulders heaving, face turning beetroot. I stoically endured it all, an embarrassed smile playing around my lips. Then I set them a spot test on Notification Services. And everyone, all afternoon, told me that it was good luck. With the huge amount of… luck… that was deposited on me, maybe I should play the lottery. I’m on a sure-fire winner there. This evening I phoned home. “See you tomorrow, love. When I bring my dirty washing home.” On reflection, we may have to burn it.
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