Not To Be Sneezed At
I've told the catering staff in the Ö÷²¥´óÐã tea-bar that I'm on a diet. Just one more pound and I'll have lost a stone since the 10th of January. Under no circumstances should they sell me any confectionery.
"Not even if I beg." I warned them.
So there I was on my hands and knees today, pointing at a box of creme eggs near the cash register and making pitiful whining noises. They sent me on my way with an apple and a threat to call security if there's any more nonsense.
Truth is I've been feeling a bit sorry for myself all day. I have a bit of a bad cold and am getting precious little sympathy from colleagues. Everyone I meet tells me that their cold is much worse than mine and, to prove it, they start coughing in your face. Now I don't want to go on about this, because I know that women think men exaggerate the tiniest illness. All I can tell you is that I spent my lunch hour composing my own obituary for the Ö÷²¥´óÐã's in-house newspaper, Ariel. I thought I'd keep it low-key:
"...the world of broadcasting has lost a colossus . (Yet, his diet did seem to be working.) Jeff's early demise means he never achieved his lifetime ambition . He had always hoped to end his days as a burden to others...."
I was still in a bit of a macabre state of mind when I met with colleagues from television to discuss how Radio Scotland might support a series on mountain climbing. I suggested a programme about the kind of people who trek up Ben Nevis with no proper training or equipment. We'd call it Give 'em Enough Rope.
Then I put forward a notion that the senior executive of the television series be made to climb a mountain herself.
For the second time that day, someone threatened to call security.
