Brett’s a great guy. He really cares about his fellow co-workers. I know because he’s forever buying cards and bringing them around for us to sign. Somebody’s leaving – get them a card. Somebody’s turning forty-seven – get them a card. Somebody’s just got over mumps – get them a card. Somebody’s been diagnosed with ankle cancer – a card. Somebody’s a bit bald – card. Somebody’s been accused of whispering sexually inappropriate rhymes to a co-worker – card. Somebody’s discovered a portal to a parallel universe in their Coco Pops – card.
Brett’s single-handedly keeping Clintons in business. And these aren’t small cards. He buys whopping great paving-slab sized cards. With enough space for us all to write something. And he’s relentless at getting everyone to add a message of support/condolence/congratulations. He’s Jehovah Witness intense. Pretend to go to the toilet all you like, he’ll just wait for you to come back. And then wait again when you actually go to the toilet because you only pretended to go first time.
I shudder when I see him walking towards me with another cardboard behemoth under his arm. What am I going to say on this one? Good luck with that flat tyre! Wishing you and your guinea pig well at this difficult time. If it hadn’t been for those pesky kids you’d have got away with it! And I can’t refuse. Refusing to sign makes you a person of suspicion.
Do the recipients ever look at these cards? Squint at the signatures wondering who Jimboloin is and why he’s scribbling about the Christmas party they never went to? Of course I’m just bitter because I’ve never got a card at work. Ever. I tend to get in and out of all the places I’ve ever worked like a stealth bomber without any bombs. Still, some self-harm with a sharpened Brazil nut and maybe Brett will add me to the list of the carded.
And the reason I’m writing this? Brett brought another card round for signing yesterday. Somebody’s had a baby. Although I don’t really know her put my name on the card. Followed by a tick, for some reason. √