Master B and Master P, the two twenty-something boys I share my working life with, provide me with a constant source of amusement and entertainment. On Monday, Master P and I were in desperate need of a boost as befitting the first day back after a hefty weekend (see 'Breaking the Habit). It only took me to ask how Master P's weekend went, and before we knew it, we were laughing like drains.
To my lovely American readers, I do not have a clue where this saying comes from. It's right up there with 'laughing on the other side of your face'. What it basically means, is that we were chortling so hard that all phones remain unanswered for two whole minutes, and my mascara took a real bashing...
It turned out that Master P and Master B had been out to watch live sport on Saturday afternoon. Master B, confusing a daylight visit to a sports stadium with an evening pub crawl, turned up with no clothes other than a shirt, trousers and a pair of shoes. Master P, equally young, but maybe a bit more savvy, was attired in the same manner as Master B, but had added a jumper, coat, scarf and hat and even had gloves on standby.
When questioned, Master B explained that he thought it would be like a big night out, when you don't really want to be lugging a coat around, and to get a bit chilled as you nip in and out of drinking establishments is neither here nor there. Seeing him shiver, Master P dragged Master B around the stadium to look for a sweatshirt or coat to bolster his meagre clothing, but the best that was on offer was a large flag and some posters, so unless he was going to build a small fire next to his seat and use the flag as a wind break, neither was going to help with the pending hypothermia.
So instead of standing there cheering the team on like Master P was, he kept one hand in his trouser pocket, with the other clutching his pint. Master P described the exposed hand as having a rather frightening blue tinge to it after a while, and Master B had to keep swapping hands over to stop losing all feeling in it and thereby risk dropping his pint. Master P, always caring over his friend, had suggested hot chocolate instead of beer, but I got the impression that this suggestion was not graciously received...
Master B came into the office just as Master P was regaling the story to me, and tried really hard to explain why he didn't think a coat was a good idea on Saturday. I'm wondering whether he has Newcastle blood in him somewhere - looking at some of the pictures you see on the news around Christmas time, it would appear that anyone north of Birmingham doesn't feel the cold. Either that, or coats haven't been invented yet.
Of course, I did ask whether his mum had not said that a coat would be advisable, what with it only being around -2 when he left home on Saturday morning, but it would appear that Master B heeds no advice from his mum (nor any other woman over the age of 45 apparently - I can vouch for this).
Now I was relying on these two to look out for me at the Christmas Party this weekend. I'm not too sure that I want to hand over responsibility to someone who can get it so wrong. Surely dressing for the occasion is not that difficult?
I'm concerned that he'll turn up in the same attire on Saturday night. Perhaps I'll take my largest handbag, and as well as comfy shoes, earplugs and some headache tablets, I'll pop a spare coat in.
He'll be very grateful when he's standing at that bus stop at 3.30am...