What a Pickle

His mother meant well. He knew that she cared about him, probably loved him, but unfortunately her dependency on alcohol hid that warmth and care quite effectively. Not that he could rationalise it, he was only seven. To him her behaviour was quite simply understood as ‘good mummy’ and ‘bad mummy’.

He knew that ‘good mummy’ tended to be around in the morning when she would hug him, kiss him and say sorry a lot. She would often cry when she was ‘good mummy’. ‘Bad mummy’ was there when he came home from school and some weekends. She would smell funny and speak in a weird way and sometimes she would hurt him.

This morning ‘good mummy’ was particularly sad about what ‘bad mummy’ had done the night before. She kept asking him to forgive her but he didn’t really know what that meant.

Finally she asked him if there was anything she could do that would make it better. After a long and deliberate pause he asked her. “Could I have a dog?”

“Oh Honey,” she said, “We couldn’t keep a dog.”
“A cat?” he asked quietly

“I’ll get you a pet that we can look after,” she said quietly and then tousled his hair and sent him off to school.

That afternoon when he got home he ran around the flat looking. “What are you doing?” his Mother slurred. “Looking for my pet,” he said with such obvious joy that it partly sobered her.

“It’s not here yet,” she said staggering to her feet. “I have to go and get it now. You stay here and remember not to let anyone in.” She took her bag and fell towards the door and out into the street.

He sat and waited. What he didn’t know was that she had bumped into an old friend who had taken her to the wine bar. It was four hours later when she lurched through the door with wrapped fish and chips under her arm. He ran towards her. She smelt bad.

“Where is it, where is it?” he shouted, his positivity and optimism not dampened by young years of disappointment.

She stared at him trying to remember what she had promised. Suddenly it came to her. She drew herself together and took the deliberate steps of a drunk trying to appear sober into the kitchen.

A moment later she stepped out into the hall. “Here it is,” she said placing a small warm object into his hand.

Kieran loved that pickled onion as much as he would have any dog or cat.

It's Only Words

God how he hated it and as he got older it had got progressively worse – losing words. He knew if he relaxed it would come back but he was so angry about not being able to remember it was impossible to calm down. He took deep breaths and suddenly the word he had lost came back – it was ‘found’.

The irony was …..was ….. was….. aaagh!

Where are the Dragons?

He sat back and placed the book on the arm of his chair. He sighed a discontented sigh as he stared into space. He had been born into the wrong time and he knew it.

He loved reading about the past. He loved reading about men and women who had conquered over massive setbacks and gargantuan odds to defeat the giant miseries of their times. The people who had cured diseases, created great machines, advanced the cause of human kind. The people who had slain their own personal dragons and in doing so made such major gains for human kind.

He had been born too late to be one of these greats and he viewed it with enormous sadness that his genius could never be tested against those monumental mammoths of misery that had stalked the earth in days gone by.

Slowly he sank back into his chair and turned on the television. The news was, once again, filled with stories of floods and famine, wars and disease, climate change and pollution. He turned it off and sank back into his reverie of the past. “Where,’ he thought to himself, “Where are the dragons of today. It was so much easier in the past when you could see them ”

Management Expressions in real life

The stench was unbelievable. Her parents home, like all families, had always had a unique smell but nothing like this. She opened the door with her key and pushed it open. It was stiff against the post that had built up behind it.

She called out their names hesitantly and listened. She called again and heard a feint response, “We’re in the kitchen.”

Catherine walked down the hall and pulled open the old door. The smell grew immediately and she almost fell backwards in shock. It was giant. It’s grey rough skin was patched with rough hair and it’s enormous body almost filled the room. Her parents were squashed against the wall by the sink.

She was about the speak when it lifted its giant trunk and let out an aggressive call which made it’s tusks look even more frightening.

Catherine stared at her parents. Her mother made a weak smile. “Don’t make a fuss love,” she said gently. “We don’t want to talk about it.” 

Bank Managers, Chutney and hair nets

He was the fifth generation to have managed Chapman’s Chutney’s. Five generations of portraits stared down at him from the boardroom’s walls their eyes seemed full of sadness. Maurice Chapman was now sixty-eight and it was unlikely there would be much of a business for his son to take over.

It was Maurice’s bad fortune that he had taken over the company at a time when the big boys were moving into chutneys and pickles and the publics’ tastes where changing.

It was only because of the long-standing relationship that Chapman’s enjoyed with the manager of their local bank that he had been able to ride the cash flow crises and the recession.

And now, finally, the ‘family feel’ and artisan approach of Chapman’s Chutney’s was what the public wanted. The growth in Farmer’s Markets and the desire of a certain demographic to rebel against the corporatisation of the food chain meant recovery was in sight. They were going to be OK

It was Maurice’s misfortune that, as this very light was appearing at the end of a long dark tunnel, his local bank manager decided to retire to be replaced by a young go getter from Head Office.

Maurice knew times were going to change when he went in for his regular managers appointment. What had traditionally been a five minute conversation followed by a glass of scotch became an analysis of the company’s business plan and debt solution opportunities.

The tone of the young manager was upsetting to a man of Maurice’s years and experience. To be patronised by a young lad still wet behind the ears was embarrassing and the management clichés that littered his conversation made Maurice feel there was little hope for UKplc.

“You see,” the young manager continued pointing at a spreadsheet, “Your cash flow forecast is not tracking your invoice return projections.” His whining voice hit fever pitch when stating the blindingly obvious, “You’ve got yourself into negative debt cycle.”

Maurice was about to mention the promising recent sales figures but the lecture began again.

“I’m surprised the previous manager was so lax in lending. It can’t go on like this. You’ve got yourself into a debt spiral and it’s hard to see how you can break it. Unless you can produce a better business projection I believe I will have to recommend to head office that we foreclose on our debt.” Again the whining voice, “You’ve got yourself into overdraft reliance mode.”

At the end of the meeting they agreed to get together in a weeks time. Maurice was finally able to convince the young man to come out to their works to see what the operation did. Despite the reservations of the new manager he agreed although he couldn’t resist adding, “I can see you business in the balance sheets. You’ve got yourself into an ‘emotion over rationality’ situation.

Maurice drove home angry and upset. He must not be the Chapman that let the previous generations of his family down. The young managers platitudes and tone infected his head. He could hear his voice “You’ve got yourself, you’ve got yourself, you’ve got yourself ….” in his head as he lay awake that night

A week later, as the works shut down for the evening, the young manager arrived. Maurice knew his figures did not look good but there were definite and promising ‘green shoots’.

The new manager was clearly not happy having a tour of the premises being more used to a neat office than the places where manufacturing was done. Finally he agreed to put on the white coat and hair net that food hygiene standards required. At the end of the tour as they stood one the walkway over-looking the bubbling vats of product the smell and heat began to affect him.

No one will ever be able to know whether he was pushed or fell but as he sank into the stainless steel container his head disappearing under its steaming contents Maurice quietly uttered “You’ve got yourself into a bit of a pickle.”

One week later Maurice entered the banks office and shook hands. “Well I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” he said as he greeted his old manager.

“Neither did I,“ said a familiar voice, “but I’m not sure retirement was going to suit me.

The manager picked up the files that his young predecessor had been preparing. “Well I doubt there’s much in here we don’t know Maurice, “ he said as he placed them in the drawer. “Fancy a scotch?”