If you happened to read my last post you may be wondering how I ended up, (living it up) in Geneva. Well, here goes:
Ok, I thought formal dinner parties had been resigned to repeats of tacky 70s sitcoms, but they are back. Not so long ago, my boss, a spectacled economist who underwent a triple personality bypass some years ago, had been told to promote me. Great news eh!
Well, as you might expect, its not been as clean cut as all that. In my world, you don’t just apply for promotion; you also have to be sponsored. Yes sponsored.
This involves sucking up relentlessly but graciously to a dribbling, pee smelling corporate pensioner, preferably a corrupt non-executive who has been around the block, who isn't wholly with it, and sits in a position of some authority.
Assuming you are successful at wiping his backside and spring-cleaning his ancient wrinkled purple bell end, you will be able to count on the old fart to put in a good word.
So over the last year, I have sold my soul to the devil and helped Mr old timer take care of all his unpleasantries and also help hide his infidelity with clean shaven jobless young boys. Thus, resulting in my boss wanting to come over to my house for dinner to discuss my formidable future.
I had a pre-arranged a mutual agreement to a suspension of hostilities with my wife. Although, I was not convinced I could trust her because I'd recently admitted to tearing out the final three pages of the book she was reading at the time. The very same one she had on order for nearly two months. She was not a happy bunny.
My boss-Mr Personality, turned up at nineteen hundred hours, as he likes to say. As far as I am concerned anyone who uses the 24-hour clock in everyday conversation and is not in the armed forces is a complete cock.
My wife agreed to cook dinner and she was keeping to her end of the bargain nicely. I even thought I caught a glimpse of a smile, but maybe she was simply clenching her buttock cheeks until she got back to the kitchen. Either way it was going better than I expected.
We had some drinks, but my boss was holding out on me and was evidently not going to let any hint of my promising prospects out until the very end.
We sat down to soup-French onion. I raised the spoon towards my mouth and just as it approached my lips I caught sight of my wife. She had that look of satisfaction I hadn’t seen since our second date in the back seat of a Vauxhall Cavalier 14 years ago, and she raised her eyebrows. Oh shit!
I’d come this far and I had to go through with it. The laden spoon passed uneasily between my lips. It was French onion soup with a quadruple dose of extra hot chilli powder. I took it down like a man knowing that I had at least ten more slurps to go.
When done incinerating my upper palette and talking embarrassingly like a teenager who’s ball's were ready to drop, I made off to the kitchen and speedily drank half a pint of sour cream.
She entered soon after; obviously she didn’t want to miss any of the distress. "You’re so f**** funny", I muttered, hoarsely. "Very", She replied. "Hope you’re looking forward to my homemade chicken Kiev."