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in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the rest.

      “Me, too,” said a second.

      “Now, now,” said Miserable. “I think we’re aware that Lorrae hasn’t been herself. And it would be a pity, wouldn’t it, to deny her our empathy and compassion at this late stage in the piece?”

      No one seemed much impressed by this plea.

      “Or to be discarding our collective sense of purpose, unity and mutual respect.”

      Alan had little doubt that this last line had been perfected in the course of repeated earlier use in the offices of the various disgraced ministers. The directors around the table looked to be unmoved by it.

      “And I’m sure we all welcome Alan.”

      Alan smiled and looked along the twin rows of attendees. No one smiled back.

      “Now, I’ve been, as you probably know, on the phone to Brian, trying to get some understanding of what this staff freeze means for us and for our redeployment prospects … and I think it’s fair to say that at the moment, the situation isn’t exactly clear.”

      “When do you think it will become clear?” asked one of the directors.

      “I can’t honestly say,” said Miserable.

      “If not clear, then what about, say, a bit limpid or pellucid?” asked a second director, straight-faced.

      Miserable looked the enquirer in the eye, probably trying to discern whether the question was a joke or not. “I don’t think I’m currently in a position to speculate on a specific time when all will be certain,” he answered, seeming to give the enquirer the benefit of the doubt.

      “If ‘clear’ is too hard to predict,” said a third director, getting into the spirit of things, “what about a date by which things might be intermittently opaque, assuming, of course, that “translucent’, ‘diaphanous’ and ‘see-through’ are all states too difficult to envisage.”

      This enquiry confirmed Alan’s suspicion that any previous sense of propriety concomitant with courtesy, custom or a concern for promotion had been made superfluous by the prospect of redundancy.

      “Are these serious questions?” said Miserable in his best Principal Media Adviser’s voice.

      “Most certainly,” answered the initial enquirer. “I have people who want to know where they stand: long-term staff who’ll want to scale-up Christmas, if they are to be awash with redundancy cash, and short-term staff who will want to scale down, if they’re going to be at the dole office in the new year.”

      “People need to have some idea of what the future holds for them,” said the second enquirer.

      “And it isn’t just a matter,” said the third, “of whether they’ll be having chicken nuggets for Christmas lunch or—”

      “— the whole turkey,” said a fourth.

      The hybrid, nonsensical expression “chicken nuggets or the whole turkey” was repeated in approving tones around the table but Alan resisted the temptation to make a note of it in his workbook.

      “I take all of that on board,” said Miserable. “And I want you to know that Brian and I are doing all we can to resolve matters. We certainly hope for some clarity by the end of the week or early next week.”

      “Will that include finding out why we are being abolished in the first place?” said a heretofore silent director.

      “I want an explanation as much as you do,” said Miserable.

      “People need closure,” said the chicken nugget director. “They demand and deserve it.”

      Alan wrote “All deserve closure” in his notebook, while wondering what people did to achieve a sense of finality in times before it had been identified, named and regarded as a right.

      “Closure,” said Miserable. “Of course.” He wrote a note in his own workbook. “Now, before we each report on upcoming meetings and work in hand, there are a few matters I need to make brief mention of.”

      Alan settled himself into his seat. Reference to a ‘brief mention’ was a sure sign that they were in for a long session.

      “The first matter is one of some sensitivity and concerns an incident which some of you will know took place in the photocopy room last week.”

      Around the table directors tried to disguise happy faces at the recollection of Quentin Quist being taught a thing or two about the gentlemanly arts by Azure Faraday, following a flagrant unsolicited bum fondle: him of hers while she was bending over to refill an empty paper tray.

      “While neither of the individuals concerned has elected to take the matter further and no formal complaint has been made, Personnel arranged, last week, for one of the individuals to be temporarily transferred to another branch.”

      “And good riddance, too,” said the whole turkey director. “The man is a disgrace.”

      “Hear, hear,” said his chicken nugget equivalent.

      Even the special projects director – who was usually silent at their meetings, lest he let slip something about the secret work he was engaged in – joined the murmurs of agreement. Quentin Quist had clearly made no friends in the weeks he’d insisted on attending directors’ meetings in Lorrae’s place.

      “For my part,” Miserable continued, “I want you to know that I will not abide fisticuffs in the workplace and will not tolerate sexual harassment of any sort.”

      Alan wrote “M: no affrays or advances” in his workbook and thought about Quist’s attack on Hemingway, before wondering briefly about (a) the banana left by persons unknown on his desk the previous week; (b) Hemingway’s ogling of his crotch earlier that morning; and (c) the undertaking given by Hemingway, just minutes before, not to peek too long in the event of a shared tinkle.

      “Consistent with my zero-tolerance policy and notwithstanding the brief time we may yet spend together as a branch, I have asked our Sexual Harassment Contact Officer, Ms Wheelwright, to make appointments with all section heads – and, of course, Alan – to discuss further preventive actions.”

      Alan’s sensitive antennae picked up silent groans in all quarters.

      “Any questions?”

      Alan wrote the words “pre-holiday harassment harangues” in his workbook.

      “Only one,” said the Business Unit Manager. “Has Quentin managed–“

      “–I’d rather we didn’t use the names of people involved in the incident,” said Miserable.

      Anonymity seemed pointless to Alan, as the identities of harasser and victim had been known to everyone on the floor within minutes of Azure’s tiny fist making contact with Quentin’s left eye. A highly efficient gossip network had ensured as much; so had the heightened observational skills of Peaches Trefusis, who’d approached the copy room just as Quentin Quist’s trembling hand reached out to one of the irresistible cheeks.

      The Business Unit Manager attempted to put her question to Miserable a second time.

      “Has the redeployed officer, whose name we all know but are not permitted to mention, escaped redundancy by being redeployed?”

      This possibility hadn’t occurred to Alan. Groans from the various directors indicated that they, too, hadn’t foreseen such an outcome.

      “I don’t think we’re talking about any forced redundancies just yet,” said Miserable.

      “But you agree,” said the chicken nugget director, “that it wouldn’t be a good look if we ended up without employment simply because we weren’t badly behaved enough to be transferred away from the branch.”

      Everyone took a moment to sort out the intent of this seemingly impenetrable statement.

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