Boss, what a musical

I turned it all over to God. A day passed and

!

>:- ((

I realized I had nothing to write. So now I've taken it all back again and I'm very troubled about Thursday next, say.

The calm I'd achieved was novel but nothing.

I spent Saturday at work, with the nice spongy earplugs in place, so every sound was as if underwater. A magical solitude then, amongst the newspaper factory workers, with all the machines suddenly, softly, pocka-pockity-shhh (repeat).

It's like underground headquarters for International SPECTRE there, a cavern lit up after the raid, less evil of course but more glum than gleamimg. Instead of preparing to launch a satellite of bedazzling jewels to beblind the guards at Fort Knox, we were hand-assembling and preparing to launch some random, previous version of The Sunday Times.

Still busy and efficient. Half a dozen shriner-size, orange Toyota lorries beeping around, 40 GMA-2000 press operators in their new blue uniforms and bill caps running up and down the ladders of that three story tall, Olympic length press. (The rest of us dress alike too: just rolled out of bed in yesterday's clothes. Standing around. Never running.)

As I stood waiting for secondary stitcher to start, one of my bubba bosses came over within ear shot to ask another bubba boss about an Irving Berlin song.

"How does it go?"

"Lit-tle girl-ie don't you know...?"

"OH, yeah. 'Smile And Show Your Dimples', you mean."

Lit-tle girl-ie don't you know,
That your pearl-y teeth will show;
(together, then, tuneless) "If you start smil-ing..."

"Yeah, haha. That's it." He walked back down the line then, and pushed the green button which starts the entire plant shaking.

I thought they were putting me on for a second. I thought to surprise them and shout Jesus what are you guys, a couple of pansies?! Then I thought better. Hhhha - ha. No, no no.

The short scene kept standing back up before my mind's eye; an hour later, suddenly I'd be laughing again.

I've been here almost two years and have never witnessed anything like that. These two didn't graduate, they were paroled. They talk cars and motorcycles, they hunt and fish at Hooters.

Then I thought, geez, ...I don't know any Irving Berlin, who am I to talk..?

I'm such a, sucha, you know, low browed high-brow (or,switch that). From Iowa, and I don't even know the Cherry Sisters. Really, who do I think I am , anyway!?

Throw down my bill cap. Arms akimbo, looking around for True North, or a fight.

This town is mixed up. People need to form into lines and give me time to find where I'm in front.