Fast Fiction: Sandover
So who is the boss?
Richard Mallinson tells of a champagne breakfast – with added friction.
'Of course, if you've never been to Sandover you won't know what I'm talking about,' I said.
Hoch stared at me. 'Or even if I had been,' he said.
'All right,' I retorted, 'no need to be sarcastic.’
'Sorry,' Hoch said. 'Anyway, this was supposed to be a working
breakfast and we haven't even mentioned the sales plan.'
I scowled. 'Bugger the sales plan.'
'All right . . . you're the boss,' Hoch said, chewing.
'Am I? Sometimes I think that you're the boss.'
'Who, me? The one you call the weasel behind my back?'
'Yes, you . . . now let's have a champagne breakfast.'
He stopped chewing. 'But we've almost finished breakfast.'
'Never mind,' I said, 'we'll have champagne anyway.'
'Now don't forget that I check all expenses - even yours.'
'So you do ... and I don't bloody care.'
The champagne arrived.
'Oh, but you do care, don't you?' Hoch said.
'Well, I suppose . . .’
Hoch looked smug.
'Now,' he said, 'what were you saying about Sandover?'
