Reject

  ***************

  Dave paused to inspect the coatstand which had appeared in the entrance lobby. It stood as high as himself, a slender, dignified object with a smooth black metal stem spreading at the crown into six curving swan necks each ending in a red, pear shaped plastic knob, like so many tulips in bud.

  "Good morning", he addressed it politely. "I wonder who you belong to." The coatstand obligingly fluttered the label which had been tied round one of its necks. It read: 'Mr Melksham, Admin. Officer'.

  "I really think you're making a bit of a mistake", he told it. "Melksham is such a bore. Why don't you come along with me, we've got plenty of lab. coats in the office you can hide behind and you can help us with the crossword each morning." He gleefully tore off its label and made off with the coatstand to the chemist's office just along the downstairs corridor.

  "Hello", said Mike looking up from his copy of the 'Telegraph' crossword. "Who's your friend?"

  "I found it in the lobby, looking for Melksham, but I persuaded it to come and join us instead. Let me introduce you. Mike, this is a coatstand. Coatstand, I'd like you to meet Mike!"

  He placed it in the corner next to his battered filing cabinet, took a padlock and chain from the top drawer of his desk, wrapped it twice round its stem and secured it to a convenient water pipe.

  Pat, as usual, had visited the photocopier en route to the office on his way in. He handed a copy of the crossword to Dave before flopping into his chair.

  "Heavy night?" enquired Mike.

  "Heavy enough!" he grunted, scrutinising the clues through bloodshot eyes.

  "Nasty anagram for 3 across", murmured Dave.

  "Got it!". Mike jotted a few scribbles on his memo pad. "Morning sickness!"

  "Must you?" Pat threw down his copy, put his feet up amongst the papers on his desk and draped a newspaper over his head. "Wake me when it's teabreak." His muffled voice trailed off into the beginnings of a snore which was just out of key with the distant bellow of the Fans. The air of academic calm which descended over the office was interrupted only minutes later by Dik bursting in, pale and trembling, to collapse into the spare chair.

  "What the Hell happened to you?"

  "I got caught in the bog with the Old Bastard, didn't I!" He sniffed and took out his tobacco tin, rolling a few wisps into a tube scarcely wider than the match he used to light it with, inhaled to the bottom of his lungs, consuming a third of it, coughed a huge racking cough and then turned deep red in contrast to his former pallor. "That's better" he wheezed, sending a blue cloud in Mike's direction.

  "Bad timing on your part", he waved the fog away with his copy of Mr Folklore's American Report. "He's regular as clockwork since he's been on that high protein diet."

  "It was an emergency. Didn't want to risk a Worthington Fart in the office, not with Grey in the mood he's been in lately."

  Due to a design error the departmental toilets had been built too close together so that before the partition wall between them had been put up, it would have been possible for a man of Mr Folklore's bulk to rest one cheek on each of the sit-downs without undue discomfort. Dik had hardly settled himself on one when he heard the other door open and with sinking heart saw the spotlessly polished Folklore footware through the gap at the bottom of the partition which toilet designers leave for vapour exchange between the occupants. Before he could move, the seat nextdoor clanked under its heavy burden and he was instantly serenaded with a strange medley of noises and the deadly, almost visible cloud rolled up through the gap. Dik shuddered at the recollection, took another drag and flicked the butt expertly into the waste bin. "What's up with 'im?" pointing to Pat.

  "Much the same as you, except it takes him differently."

  "That's because he drinks whisky. Burns out your guts."

  "Better than droppin' 'em" the newspaper fluttered.

  "Oh, he's still alive, then!"

  Pat's reply was cut short by the ebullient arrival of George, immaculate in his freshly laundered boiler suit, the inevitable respirator dangling negligently at his throat. Dave groaned.

  "Guess what?"

  "The Gluey Women got Dan at last?"

  "I've been promoted from Plant Supervisor to Plant Superintendent."

  "I knew I shouldn't have come in, this morning." Pat screwed up the newspaper and threw it feebly in the general direction of the waste bin.

  " - so I get a 10% rise and Pete does all the work. I've come to do the crossword for you."

  "I am going into the lab to do some testing." Pat pulled on his labcoat with great weariness and hobbled out through the doorway.

  "I think I might join him" added Mike sadly.

  "See what you can make of it, then." Dave gave George his copy. "I've got lots to do after Saturday's fiasco.

  He found himself alone. 11 across had been underlined in red. "Robe everybody finds tedious (4)."