penultimate day

My penultimate day at work today, and not a client scheduled as I put my head down to complete final reports and letters. Mid-afternoon saw my “tea”, hosted by our friendly Speechies who are also up for facilitating some social communication! The entire afternoon-tea thing is a premise, of course, to provide an opportunity for the last rites of passage. These traditions have been built up over time on the simple premise that you may improve staff retention by punishing those who would dare to leave!

Photographic evidence may follow, though my camera batteries did not charge last night so they are all on other people's cameras currently. Now, it has commonly occurred in the past that people have been thrown in the hydrotherapy pool. However, with the only solid male—Richard the physio—being away today, the group of women remaining decided there might be health and safety issues with trying to get me in the pool. Considering I (quite literally) weigh what two of them put together would weigh, I don't think I'd have been the only one in the pool, either.

At various work events I've developed somewhat of a reputation for my Chocolate Brownie. The order of the day, therefore, had to be Brownie related. First though, they presented me with a new, too-small Hulk-impression white shirt, which they proceeded to write farewell messages on (while I am wearing it) with various pens and markers. It was a bit like being nibbled by piranas. The team read out a really nice multidisciplinary poem that they'd written for me. Aww. But then it got nasty.

I am instructed to stand. Plastic sheeting is laid around and under my chair. (This can surely never be a good sign.) It is no coincidence that my watch is locked in my office drawer, and I am wearing carefully selected older clothes. I've met these people before. A nursing apron is applied, I am blindfolded, I am sitting back down. A large vat is placed on my lap, filled with... goop. It is Brownie mixture. On the “all, some or none” scale, this is “all” the Brownie mixture. I am instructed: there are nine types of sweets within the mixture. Since I am the King of Brownie, I shall identify the nine types of sweets. Otherwise, the mixture goes on my head.

Suddenly, I understand the value of culture-fair tests. I don't know English sweets! I get the marshmallow, the popcorn, the Worther's Original! There is something small that tastes just like a Tangy Fruit; that holds no water. Ah, raisins. Apparently they don't count. I'm still at three. A Rolo. There is a debate about accent and pronunciation—I repeat in my best British plum... accepted. A few more but time is running out. I'm up to my elbows in Brownie mix, waving my hands in the hope of hitting my tormentors, to no success. A weight is lifted. My head suddenly feels... strangely cool.

I sit, contemplating the dripping mixture that is making it's way into my pockets, down my trousers. I'm still blindfolded. “What now?”, I say. “I'm between you and the door”, I note. I agree to do it the nice way, though accidentally smear Brownie mix all over ringleader Claire's face, when I misstep on the way out the door... A shower at the therapy pool is prevented by three horrified elderly women who have the facility booked and cannot believe what I was intending. A reccy reveals the men's changing facilities downstairs have no shower. And so (for the first time, I hasten to add) I make use of the women's changing room instead, figuring it is mid-afternoon and it probably never gets used.

And it didn't. Except just after I got out of the shower, when someone came into the outside changing area to use other facilities. I kept quiet, not keen to explain myself or embarrass her. She came, she err... went.... she left. I slipped out, undetected.

Did you know a hot shower can cook Brownie mixture?