Boss Man

The return to work after a holiday can be a cruel affair. It's remarkable how quickly you settle into a routine of not giving a hoot for anything before being brutally cast back into real life.

Today I returned to work. Below are two potential scenarios depicting how the day went.

Time for a catch up?

Of course. I replied before following the boss man to a vacant meeting table.

I took a seat and lounged back, coffee in hand. As I did, I couldn't help but admire the cut of my crisp new royal-blue suit against which, my shirt blazed nova-white. Something akin to an electrical energy surged through my veins now I was back at work, rested and well.

We sat, for a moment mirrored in manly perfection clasping our coffees. He leaned forward.

I'll cut to the chase, place has gone to the fucking dogs whilst you are on holiday. I need you to get on it. Sort this shit out.

I grinned my big easy grin whilst plucking imaginary fluff from my cuff.

Don't worry boss man, I've got it.

To emphasise my point I grabbed a marker and leapt to my feet, sketching out an attack tree on the nearest whiteboard. After all, a picture paints a thousand words.

The boss man gaped open-mouthed in wonder.

It's... It's beautiful.

He choked slightly before swooning to the floor at my incisiveness.

I heaved him up and roused him from his faint with a couple of good natured slaps from my brawny right hand. I held him closer than a man should for a brief moment and whispered.

I'm back now

I stumbled, red eyed into work. I had hardly slept thanks to the post holiday return to work fear.

The security guard snarled at me menacingly at me as I flashed my pass.

Good holiday?

I managed to mumble out a yeah, cheers through the seething paranoia and regret that found me back in the building of broken dreams. Wait? Was that an egg stain on my jeans? Flip flippity!

At my desk, I attempted to log into my PC.

Hmmph, I was sure that was the right one? Ten minutes of furrowed brow and attempts to kick start my brain finally worked and I was in.

Before me, my mailbox unfurled a sea of red, un-read mails.

Fucking hell.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit smoking.

An hour or two passed. The boss man sauntered past my desk.

Oh ho! Look at that tan! Where've you been?

Despite my enfeebled state I still found the strength to raise a disgruntled eyebrow.

I've been on holiday for the last two weeks!

My customary masculine growl warbled up an octave or two with indignation.

Two weeks? Really? Fooft, well, I mailed you a pile of work. Better crack on.

I returned my gaze to the red seas on my inbox.

I'm gonna need more coffee.

Can you guess which one may have actually been the case?