Frankly, I reckon this whole business is little short of what the Americans would call 'elder abuse'. Here I am, a cheery bloke in the autumn of my life with a nice little voluntary job. I'm not talking about one of those agreeable non-exec numbers where you turn up once a month, sign off the minutes and knock off for a drinkie - Hell no. I'm out there, in all weathers meeting my KPIs and exceeding my customers' expectations.
By almost any standards I'm the ideal employee. Do I whinge about the high-level access operations, working with animals, visiting seven continents within 24 hours, making lists, checking them - sometimes twice? No, I'll tell you what's making me seriously question my work life balance - it's squeezing myself down my nine millionth effing chimney to discover yet another glass of Christ awful, paint stripper sherry and a sodding mince pie.
Look, I love kids. I love their shiny-eyed enthusiasm and, well, let's face it, total credulity, but they don't have much imagination. You grown-ups need to give them a little steer occasionally. I have desires, preferences like any man of maturity and taste who's travelled widely and experienced much. OK, I've got a beard, a red suit and, granted, I'm entirely fictional but otherwise I'm just like you: after a long flight I expect a hot shower, somewhere comfortable to lie down, maybe a martini, but most importantly a really good club sandwich.
So, what are your kids going to put out tonight? What did you leave when you were a kid and, please, can we not come up with a few more creative menu suggestions?
