In one of a very few idle moments in today's workday, I was wandering down the hall, whistling "Salty Dog" and wishing I could play the banjo like a man named Scruggs. Absently jingling the change in my pocket, I paused for a second to peruse a new sign I hadn't noticed before:
Huh! I thought. Some sort of corporate campaign to lighten the fare for us worker bees. Admirable, this: We could all do with a spot of eating lower on the food chain, particularly that fella who just walked by, whom I've always privately thought of as "Mr. Creosote." (A dead ringer.)
As my eye wandered down the poster, I caught sight of a detail -- a selling point, I think you'd call it -- that instantly made me grateful I live in the Twenty-first Century, when Service is a byword and no turn too good for Those Who Serve:
Well, all right then! Now that is what I call some solicitude for my comfort! Just now I was stifling under the ennui of modern life, wondering what new thing might arise, and along comes an enterprising johnny with an offer like this! And while I wait, for all love! That's convenience! I've been pondering how this work could be performed while I wasn't waiting -- the concept of a Drop-Off Service being difficult to encompass -- but I'm sure the Invisible Hand has guided this entrepreneurial paladin to solve even this imponderable.
I imagine they're lined up around the block in the CC2 Atrium, breathlessly holding up fistfuls of money and clamoring to part with it, so I think I'll let the excitement simmer down before availing myself of this tempting offer. But you can bet your bippie I'll slope along presently.
Maybe I'll just watch the first few times. A fella can be shy.