Ice, Ice Baby

“Warm enough for you?” If Thrush has said it once, he’s said it a thousand times, and if he says it again, I will be forced to kill him.

The usual complaints about the air conditioning have started early this year. The rattle of ancient desk fans mixes with the sound of sighs and muttering.

In winter the air conditioning is blamed for churning germs and in summer it is accused of not working.

The annual “Gentlemen May Remove Their Ties” message has been circulated and Ian looks naked. He looks castrated without a ‘Whistling Foghorn Leghorn’ swinging underneath his chin. He’s even gone as far as unbuttoning his shirt to allow little black hairs to poke out of the top.

Martin is a big bloke and was clearly uncomfortable in the office heat. I offered to sit the desk known as The Fridge so he could cool down.

The air conditioning has created its own version of the Artic in a corner of the office; it's ideal for fat blokes, pregnant women and penguins. Once we sat at The Fridge Martin looked much happier and goose-bumped.

“Cool enough for you?” Thrush shouted over to us.

Pass me an ice pick.