An email came in early that the team were in need of another player for a one day game on Saturday. With the finger still quite sore, I’m a bit reluctant, but I guess I’ll only have to field for 32 overs so I shold be able to look after it. I said yes.
The office I am working in this week is a bit of a circus. There is a permanent state of panic, with people walking fast up and down the corridors and the lift well constantly full of people heading to meetings clutching a wad of important documents. I get to see it all from the vantage point of the crappy hot desk that I’ve been allocated for the week – you know, the one no one else wants to sit at because it’s near the entry to the floor – so people are always asking you for directions – and the door of the men’s toilet.
Just after lunch, a large group of people marched in from the lift well looking for one of the meeting rooms. I assumed they were going to attempt one of those university student pranks where you see how many people you can fit into a Mini Minor or a phone box (remember those?), because they sure as hell weren’t going to fit into the room for a meeting.
After being asked four or five times, I got the idea that they were doing a first aid course. A rather earnest looking instructor type in a uniform and carrying a large suitcase – no doubt holding a dead body – followed them all in.
I didn’t give it another thought until there was a loud thud from the room. Several people spilled out onto the floor, all on mobile phones.
The story unfolded over the next half an hour. The course had been so riveting that one of the students had fallen asleep during his post-lunch cognitive slump. Trouble is, he’d been rocking back on the back legs of his chair, so he’d tipped over backwards bringing the back of his head into robust contact with the cupboard behind him courtesy of the force of gravity acting on his 120 kg frame.
There was blood everywhere, several people fainted, and the instructor was exposed as someone who was more comfortable talking about first aid than actually giving it.
The noise didn’t die down until the ambulance drivers had manoeuvred the stretcher carrying the patient – whose head was wrapped up like a mummy in crepe bandage – off the floor.
Note to office designers, when you plan a cubical-farm for knowledge workers, leave enough space to evacuate them by stretcher when the die of boredom.
Read the next entry in Dad’s Cricket Diary here
This work of fiction © Dave Cornford