The Lunch Club # 1

I asked: “Do we have to be blood brothers or anything?� I unsheathed my Leatherman Skeletool CX LT. A Christmas present from a fatally trendy aunt. It has a nail file and bradawll – which I have deployed since purchase – but I hadn’t touched the blade so you could imagine my fervour, slice-wise.

“Wowser,� said Jack, yanking at his new Duchamp tie. “I’ve seen enough blood for one day.�

He didn’t elaborate. Instead he stabbed at my clipboard with his finger (I had a clipboard! How’d that happen?) He said: “Just take the minutes, will you?�

There are four of us: Gideon, unemployed (“unemployed documentary maker� was his nomenclature of choice), Katy, marketing; Jack, analyst; and me.

“Why did you write down our jobs?� said Katy. “I’m not my job. That’s what 2009’s all about. Not being my job.�

“Not having a job. That’s the motif de l’annee,� I added, my scything satire lost in the brouhaha of the crowded mall.

Jack piped up again. “Yeah, forget marketing, write down ‘gobby fruitcake’ for Katy. Then add that she’s a… she’s a…� Daunted by the unbounded scope for comic creativity Jack was suddenly overwhelmed into silence.

I said: “I’m not crossing out now. That way anarchy lies.�

“What are you?� said Katy. “Nine?�

Gideon brought us to order with the hot wraps. Jack got sauce down his tie on account of his “problems with aggression,� (I’ve seen his performance review).

This was going to be a feature of the club, said Gideon. The sandwich.

“Like a… like a…� said Jack.

Along with the three aims of frugality, self-improvement and mutual support, added Gideon.

“… like a club sandwich is what I meant to say,� said Jack, finally.

“Funny ha-ha lard boy,� said Katy, hitting two of our new targets in one go.