In Sickness And In Health

It all started this morning, at precisely 10:34am. The sound came from the other side of the building, possibly from one of those footloose and fancy-free creative types in the Design Department, or likelier still, from the devious stock-pinching rascals in UK Sales. It wasn't loud, but there was no mistaking its impact and the resulting shockwave that would be felt by every single joyous employee of this fine company.

It was a sneeze, and a mild sneeze at that. But this seemingly innocent shattering of the early-morning office torpor meant more than a sore throat and blocked hooter for one poor administration urchin. No, this sneeze represented doom and gloom for all of humankind for it signalled the opening of the dreaded Office Sickness Season.

All activity ceased at once as surprise, shock and fear etched their unwelcome features on the faces of office and warehouse workers alike. So it had begun.

The initial stunned silence rapidly gave way to the loud rumble of angry thunder and the building reverberated to the sound of desk drawers being violently rattled as each and every employee frantically searched for the leftovers of the previous year's medicine supplies. 'Nooooooo...' howls the front desk receptionist as she realises that her last Lemsip Cold & Flu sachet has split and is now neatly layered around her box of multicoloured paper-clips.

There is no escaping the spread of the contagion either. As our antibodies prepare themselves for interdepartmental biological warfare, the hallways echo with the dulcet tones of hacking coughs, sinus-imploding catarrh inhalations and the violent trumpetings of red raw noses. Those with more robust constitutions will be ground down into sick submission by the alternating blasts of hot and cold air emanating from scalding heaters and open windows as the feverish strive to cool down and the frozen attempt to thaw out.

On this day, Tuesday October 21st, the 2008/9 Office Sickness Season has started early. There will be many casualties as strong and weak fall like toy soldiers and the surviving few struggle to breathe and function in this cursed and impure air. As in times of plague, the desks of the diseased are marked with a yellow Post-It note, their occupants dismissed as office pariahs until they have passed their ailments on to the next sufferer-in-waiting. Once the circle is complete, the merry-go-round starts anew, and a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down...

It will be a long winter.

Where Is My Mind?

I have long given up trying to understand and unravel the big ball of yarn that passes off as my mind. No, nowadays I find it much easier to go with the flow, to accept the sheer random and incoherent nature of the thoughts bouncing around the inside of my skull. I smile and nod as I recall last night's dream that saw me running up ramps leaping over barrels thrown at me by a giant spasm-muscled gorilla, even though I have not played or even thought about Donkey Kong since 1989. In the middle of a presentation to the board of directors of a department store group, I pause to think about what life would be like as a penguin. Nope, this nut is best left uncracked. I have learnt to live with it, but sometimes, every now and then, even I have to pause and think 'Where the hell did that come from?'.

I was killing time flicking through magazines at the supermarket during my Tuesday lunch break - the highlight of my working week - when an article headline on the cover of a magazine caught my eye and stopped me dead in my tracks.

MULES, ASSES, DONKEYS: YOU CAN TRAIN ANY EQUINE!

Having never previously purchased Horse & Rider magazine, I was totally unprepared for such a bold statement. The provocative nature of the italic 'CAN' added highly-combustible fuel to the fire that had instantly ignited in my mind and immediately prompted me to wonder angrily why the world had been misled for so long that a bad ass and a stubborn mule could not change their ways. My mind began to visually portray the ground-breaking session when the horse whisperer became the donkey shouter in one final attempt to break the beast's resolve...

A bruising encounter between my calf and a supermarket trolley tore me from my equine reverie and nearly earnt a frail old lady a reverse slap from my left hand. She apologised, I smiled sweetly at her, assuring her that the gaping flesh wound would heal rapidly as I mentally wished her a particularly nasty bout of arthritis that evening. I continued with my shopping, returned to work, finished work, went home, went to the gym, had dinner and went to bed.

On Wednesday, midway through an afternoon of boundary-pushing office tedium, a curious but scrambled thought popped into my head and nibbled gently on my brain, arousing my curiosity. It disappeared almost instantly, leaving me in a state of slight bewilderment, as though my mind had been subjected to a bungled attempted robbery. The following morning, just before lunch, it happened again. This time the thought was a little clearer, but still I could not decipher it. I let it drift away again, if it wanted to make itself known, it would do so.

At precisely 12:53 on Friday, with motivation at an all-time low and my mind already in weekend mode, the mysterious impulse thought returned. There was no subtlety or subconscious approach on this occasion. No, it announced itself with a full marching band, tubas and trombones blaring the brassiest of questions inside the hollow cavern of my mind: can one really train any equine? I had to know.

Displaying a streak of rebellion worthy of James Dean, I left my desk a full THREE minutes before the official start of my lunch break and set off for Tesco's once again at a brisk pace, like a man possessed. I have no idea what I was hoping to gain from this little escapade, but the urge to read that article was stronger than me. I raced into the store and headed straight to the magazine section, pausing briefly to look around me in case my chariot-racing nemesis was in the vicinity, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her lucky day, you don't come between a man and his Horse & Rider magazine twice in one week...

As I began to read the article that had been taunting my subconscious for three days, I realised that I was venturing into a world about which I knew NOTHING and the facts were hitting me hard and fast.

Unlike canids - think dogs, wolves, jackals, coyotes - equids (the family to which horses, asses, donkeys and zebras all belong, not an electronic pound) often look beyond their immediate species for extra-curricular fun and frolics. In fact, research has shown that equids are so sexually driven that they are known to try to play a quick game of 'How's Your Father?' with pretty much anything that has a pulse. This is undoubtedly the reason dogs stick to dry-humping your leg, they haven't got the genetic make-up to go all the way.

Having scribbled a mental note never to stand with my back to a horse again, I continued my equine education. Hands up all those who knew that a mule is in fact the result of a horse interbreeding with a donkey. I did not, although had I been entrusted with the honour of naming this new animal, I know that it would now be referred to as a honkey rather than a mule.*

The title of the article - 'Who's A Smart Ass?' - ought to have prepared me for the worst but the opening sentence of the second paragraph blew even me and my love of casual innuendo and cheap puns right out of the sky. 'And a chance encounter with a special ass proved uplifting...' induced a snort so powerful that the security guard and two nearby shoppers turned to look at me with a puzzled look. Upon noticing my reading material and instantly labelling me as a deviant, they hurried away. The security guard kept an eye on me however, I may have to shop elsewhere.

After re-reading the article three times, I reluctantly tore myself away from the magazine, my thirst for equine education having been well and truly quenched.

My mind can now rest in peace. I now know that mules are not stubborn when they refuse to move, they are simply assessing the situation for any danger. And the Himalayan Mountain Ass can be trained with the right combination of love and patience but will not trust any human it has not met before it is three years old.

The only question that remains is that of my own sanity, welcome to my world...

* I have since discovered that I am apparently the ONLY person in the world who did not know this. So much for the private school education...