Nothing.

“Close the door,” croaked Mr Fudgepacker.

Frank struggled to do so, but what with the three of them now in and crammed up against the desk, this wasn’t easy.

Mr Fudgepacker viewed his workforce, his magnified eyes turning from one to another. “Eerily” the word was, if anyone was looking for it.

“Where’s Bobby Boy?” asked Mr Fudgepacker.

“Off sick,” said Frank. “Stomach trouble.”

“Something catching I hope. I enjoy a good illness. See this hand?” He extended a withered paw. “The nails are dropping off. Doctor said I should have it amputated.”

“Good God,” said Frank. “When?”

“1958, silly bastard. I told him, this hand will see me out. And it saw him out too. And his successor. What’s that horrible smell?”

“It’s me,” said Russell. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, lad, nothing wrong with a horrible smell. I collect horrible smells. Keep them in little jars. Little black jars. What did I ask you lot here for anyway?”

“You sent us a memo,” said Frank.

“Ah yes,” said Ernest. “And you bloody watch it, Frank, trying to distract me with talk of sickness and bad smells. Sucking up to me isn’t going to help your cause.”

“Eh?” said Frank.

Morgan sniggered.

“Business,” said Ernest.

“Yes,” said Frank.

“We don’t have any,” said Ernest. “Any don’t we have.”

“It will pick up,” said Frank.

Ernest sniffed. It was a quite revolting sound, like half a ton of calf’s liver being sucked up a drainpipe. “I’m not going to beat about the bush,” said Ernest. “Prevarication never helps, if you prevaricate it’s the same as if you dither. There’s no difference, believe me. A prevaricator is a ditherer, plain and simple. And I’ve been in this business long enough to know the truth of that statement. When I was a boy my father said to me, ‘Ernest,’ he said. ‘Ernest, don’t do that to your sister.’ He didn’t prevaricate, see.”

“I see,” said Frank.

“So let that be a lesson to you.”

“Right,” said Frank.

“Well, don’t just stand there, get back to work.”

“Oh right,” said Frank. “Is that it then?”

“That’s it,” said Ernest. “Except that you’re sacked, Frank, so you won’t be getting back to work. Well, I’m sure you will be getting back to work, but just not here.”

Frank made tiny strangulated noises with the back of his throat.

“Are you going to have a heart attack?” Ernest asked. “Because if you are, I’d like to watch. I had one once. Two actually, but I didn’t get to see what they were like. I’d have liked to have filmed them. If you’re going to have one, could you hold on until I load my camera?”

“You can’t sack me,” gasped Frank. “I’m the manager.”

“Oh,” said Ernest. “Who should I sack then?”

“Sack Morgan,” said Frank.

“You can’t sack me,” said Morgan. “I’m the packer.”

“Oh,” said Ernest. “Who should I sack, then? One of you has to go.”

“Sack Russell,” said Frank.

“Oh,” said Russell.

“No,” said Morgan. “That’s not right, Russell is the salesman.”

“If one of us has to go,” said Russell, “then it had better be me. Last one in, first one out.”

“I agree with that,” said Frank.

“Right,” said Ernest. “You’re sacked then, Russell.”

“Thank you,” said Russell. “I’m sorry that I have to leave, perhaps if things pick up, you’ll take me on again.”

“No, no, no,” said Morgan. “That won’t do. Russell is just being Mr Nice Guy again. You can’t sack Russell.”

“Why not?” Russell asked.

“Because Russell is the salesman. He takes the customers round, writes up the orders, supervises pick ups and returns and does the loss and damage reports. You can’t sack Russell.”

“Oh,” said Ernest. “Who should I sack then?”

“Sack Bobby Boy,” said Morgan.

“That’s a bit unfair on Bobby Boy, isn’t it?” Russell asked. “With him not being here to speak up for himself.”

“Keep out of this, Russell.”

“I think Bobby Boy should have his say.”

“Bobby Boy, you’re sacked,” said Ernest, “wherever you are.”

“But –” said Russell.

“Be quiet, Russell, or I’ll sack you too.”

“Oh,” said Russell.

“Well,” said Ernest, “I think that all went rather well. Now back to work you lot.”

“But –” said Russell.

“What?” said Ernest.

“Could I wash the cups up?” Russell asked.

“Are you sure you can fit that in, with all the other things you have to do?”

“I’ll try,” said Russell.

“Good boy, now off you go.”

“Thank you,” said Russell.

They squeezed outside and Frank shut the door.

“That was close,” said Frank.

“Yeah,” said Morgan. “Thanks for putting my name forward.”

“You liked that?”

“No, I was being sarcastic”

“I’m going back inside,” said Russell. “If anyone has to go it should be me. Last in, first out.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Morgan.

“Oh, and why not?”

“Because I met Bobby Boy at lunch-time and he’s got himself another job.”

“Phew,” said Russell. “Then I’m saved. Thanks a lot, Morgan.”

“Least I could do,” said that man.

The voice of Ernest Fudgepacker reached their ears, it called, “Oh, and we’ll have another meeting this time next week and if business hasn’t picked up, I’ll have to sack somebody else.”

“Do you mind if I say ‘fuck’?” Russell asked.

“Grease,” says the old song, “is the word,” but this is not altogether true. In fact, it isn’t true at all. “Stress” is the word. Stress. Stress. Stress.

In movies, the hero or heroine is put under stress. Hollywood scriptwriters understand this. They understand this because this is what Hollywood producers demand of them.

“Is the hero being put under stress?”

The reason for this is because a movie must not be “plot-led”. The hero or heroine must take the initiative. Forces are up against them, but they must do all the doing. They have a goal that must be reached. You may argue that all movies aren’t like that. But they are, you know. Pick any movie you like and think about the plot and the hero (or heroine). It’s all to do with stress.

Hollywood thrives on stress.

Russell didn’t thrive on stress. Russell hated stress. Stress was not Russell’s thing. But stress he had and stress he was going to get lots more of.

He didn’t get sacked the next week. Morgan didn’t get sacked the next week, nor did Frank. Although Frank really deserved it.

The reason none of them got sacked was because something rather unexpected happened. And what this rather unexpected something was, was a rather unexpected upturn in the fortunes of Fudgepacker’s Emporium. And how this rather unexpected something came about was all down to Russell.

Who was under stress at the time.

“Under stress” and “at the time”.

We’ve done a bit about stress, so now let’s do a bit about time.

James Campbell once said (last week, in fact, at The George), “The future and the past have a lot in common. This being that neither of them actually exists. Which leaves us with the present, whose round is it?”

“Yours,” I told him.

“It was mine last time,” he said.

“But that was in the past,” I told him, “and the past does not exist.”

“Fair enough,” said James and went off to the bar.

Presently he returned, with just the one drink. For himself.

“Where is mine?” I asked him.

“Good question,” he replied, “I believe, at the present, we’re buying our own.”

An evening out with James is always instructive. Though rarely profitable.

But, time. Time is a bit of a bugger, isn’t it? It doesn’t really exist at all. It appears to be a series of presents, perhaps a never-ending state of presentness. But something must happen, because you definitely get older. Which is strange if you spend all your time in the present and never in the past or the future. Mind you, you have spent some time in the past, which used to be the present. But you’ve never spent any time at all in the future. Because when you get to the future, it turns out to be the present and by the time you’ve thought about it, it’s already the past.