A Creme Egg Story
The alarm dragged Boris out of his peaceful slumber. He quickly got ready for another hard day at the Creme Egg factory. He soon arrived at the factory, rubbing his aching head. "Took quite some loss last night eh?" his pal Lenny asked, referring to Boris's increasing gambling debts. Boris shrugged and walked silently through the gates.
The morning dragged on and on, like a camp irish comedian who's antics have long become stale. Egg after egg passed in front of him. Soon he could no longer be bothered to check that each was wrapped correctly - the monotony of rolling each over to ensure that no delicious milk chocolate was exposed was just too tedious. His mind wandered and his hands lay still whilst the rough conveyor built ran beneath them.
The eggs had quite some journey to go after passing in front of sleepy Boris. After being packed into boxes they went to the warehouse where they were held for a statuatory period until quality control checks were conducted on each batch. Then they would be loaded onto a fleet of lorries by the surly forklift drivers and head off in many different directions across the globe - from King's Lynn to Kingston, from Portland to Port Talbot.
Eventually one lucky Creme egg found its way into the hands of a beautiful young girl called Laura. She locked herself away in a dark room, put some Eva Cassidy on the record player and closed her eyes. Enjoying the serene atmosphere, she slowly unwrapped the creme egg and removed it from its foil prison.
Ten minutes later she emerged, looking slightly red in the face but very happy. She'd enjoyed her egg. She'd earned it.
Back in the factory, Boris awoke suddenly to shouts from the Floor Steward. "Are we going to stand for this?" he exclaimed "We've worked hard for this company! We've been loyal! We're good workers damn it!"
"Yeah!" came a chorus of responses. Boris looked up a wondered what was going on. The rallying cries from the workforce sounded like a football team warming up for the superbowl - like an army preparing for battle. Maybe more had been revealed about the rumours of lay-offs in the factory.
"Strike! Strike! Strike!" came the cries from the floor. The people had spoken. The Unionists marched from their posts and began preparing for a piquet line.
Six months later the battle was over. The firm could not deal with the rioting workers, the bad publicity and the increasing debt. It closed its gates for good.
At least Laura had enjoyed her last Creme Egg.
The morning dragged on and on, like a camp irish comedian who's antics have long become stale. Egg after egg passed in front of him. Soon he could no longer be bothered to check that each was wrapped correctly - the monotony of rolling each over to ensure that no delicious milk chocolate was exposed was just too tedious. His mind wandered and his hands lay still whilst the rough conveyor built ran beneath them.
The eggs had quite some journey to go after passing in front of sleepy Boris. After being packed into boxes they went to the warehouse where they were held for a statuatory period until quality control checks were conducted on each batch. Then they would be loaded onto a fleet of lorries by the surly forklift drivers and head off in many different directions across the globe - from King's Lynn to Kingston, from Portland to Port Talbot.
Eventually one lucky Creme egg found its way into the hands of a beautiful young girl called Laura. She locked herself away in a dark room, put some Eva Cassidy on the record player and closed her eyes. Enjoying the serene atmosphere, she slowly unwrapped the creme egg and removed it from its foil prison.
Ten minutes later she emerged, looking slightly red in the face but very happy. She'd enjoyed her egg. She'd earned it.
Back in the factory, Boris awoke suddenly to shouts from the Floor Steward. "Are we going to stand for this?" he exclaimed "We've worked hard for this company! We've been loyal! We're good workers damn it!"
"Yeah!" came a chorus of responses. Boris looked up a wondered what was going on. The rallying cries from the workforce sounded like a football team warming up for the superbowl - like an army preparing for battle. Maybe more had been revealed about the rumours of lay-offs in the factory.
"Strike! Strike! Strike!" came the cries from the floor. The people had spoken. The Unionists marched from their posts and began preparing for a piquet line.
Six months later the battle was over. The firm could not deal with the rioting workers, the bad publicity and the increasing debt. It closed its gates for good.
At least Laura had enjoyed her last Creme Egg.
posted by shfbbm at 12:44 PM
