It’s always incredibly difficult when you can’t come into work for a really embarrassing reason. It’s all well and good when you’ve got what can only be described as a frog in your throat because it’s perfectly apparent when you make the perfunctory call to your line manager to explain the situation. Even when the problem is relating to unfortunate substances issuing from your mouth (I am trying, for once, to be delicate. Please appreciate the effort for I go to the bother of it once in a blue moon), it comes across with relative ease. But when the urgency is of a downstairs nature it’s not always the easiest thing in the world to prove it.
But what on earth does this have, I definitely hear you ask rather impatiently although perfectly politely, to do with Whitehall’s favourite accountants? And I’m sure you’re all scratching your heads and wondering how the grapes manage to come into play. Well, gird your loins and continue on if you dare. If you’re already feeling somewhat unwell thanks to my words then feel free to go away forever for I am done with you (and when you’ve had a long good think about how bleak life is without me then I’m somewhat certain I’ll allow you to come slinking back with your tail between your legs).
Basically, Whitehall decided to throw a lavish celebratory gala for their most favoured accountants. Those diligent wizards who corral numbers into some semblance of sense were rightly highly gratified by the rare attention. But it sadly did not quite go to plan. There happened to be rather a lot of grapes that possibly were not entirely at their best. However, once you’ve quaffed sufficient alcohol, your palate is somehow not so discerning and all of said dodgy fruit were scoffed. This led to a sad level of illness and several phone calls of the nature I described earlier.