One of my colleagues, previously referenced in these annals as
$MINION, will shortly be squeezing an entire person out of her body. Tough job. I couldn't do it. So naturally, conversation at work over the last few weeks has tended to revolve around notions of expectancy and parturience. Apparently, so
$HOUSEKEEPING_SUPERVISOR claims, the more younglings you produce, the easier it becomes to pop 'em out.
Specific examples were provided. (I've learned that, once you get a mother talking about the human gestation period, it's difficult to get her to stop.) In particular,
$HOUSEKEEPING_SUPERVISOR's fourth progeny, a (now) young lady by the name of Ella, was so eager to emerge into this world that she hurtled forth in the lift on the way up to the maternity ward.
Brief as the lightning in the collied night, I was. (As the bishop said to the actress.) Ere a man hath power to say
behold!, I said:
Is that why she's called Ella?... middle name Vator?
Tumbleweeds rolled through the scene. (That's okay, I have staff to clean the dining room these days.) Somewhere, a lone carrion bird cried out. Not even a titter ensued. I need better staff.
To be fair,
$CHEF sniggered, but only after I'd said
oh come on, that was funny. He's allowed to take an extra couple of seconds. He doesn't speak English.
In other news, I appear to be a manager now. People laugh at my jokes when they feel they have to. Not everyone, but it's still better than previously.