My boss. He doesn’t do the usual Dress Down Fridays (bit difficult as we wear paint-splattered gear every day – maybe we should have Dress Up Fridays?) or debauched Christmas parties, the meanie.
Last year, he held a festive bash for one. Him. On his own in a luxury restaurant with a 10-course tasting menu, a wonky paper hat, a bottle of bubbly and one straw.
This year however, he’s decided to splash out on a company outing. It started something like this:
‘Oi, Half-Shift! You speak German, don’t you? Didn’t you used to live in Austria? Can you ask for a hot-dog in the lingo?’
‘Erm, yup? Ja? Boss. Jawohl? Wurst?’
‘Excellent. We’re going to Austria.’
‘Oh. wunderbar! Are we going to tour the majestic beauty of the mountains and the breath-taking winding roads? Perhaps stopping in a charming Gasthof with carved wooden balconies? Wiener Schnitzel every evening?’
‘Nah, nothing like that. Grand Prix. In Graz.’
‘Oh.’
‘You in?’
Well. What could I say? It just so happens The Teenager is with his dad at the same time. Blimey. A road trip from Cardiff to Graz. To watch some souped-up cars racing round in a loop, over and over again. What’s not to like?
Of course I’m in. I might not understand what it’s all about – apparently he’s booked Grandstand seats – but I’m sure I can take my Inspirational Thoughts notebook and jot down some literary musings, sipping a strong coffee.
Actually, I can’t wait. My own four walls are closing in on me and the chance of escape is enticing.
We leave tomorrow morning and I’m still not packed. Being pale, fat and frumpy, my wardrobe choices are somewhat limited. I have a couple of pairs of cropped trousers but when I tried them on, my white legs blinded me and should Lewis Hamilton need one, I have a spare tyre or two around my waist.
Gut, ja?