There once was a fellow who worked at our firm. His name was Oliver. He headed up one of the teams in our London office, and though he wasnt exactly poor, he certainly acted as though every penny counted. He drove a rather handsome Jaguar, wore suits from Savile Row, and looked as though hed stepped straight from one of those glossy mens magazines. But Oliver had one towering flaw: he was incredibly tight-fisted. Especially about food.
Each time wed break for lunch, Oliver would drift languidly past every desk and meeting room where the faintest whiff of lunch hung in the air. Hed accidentally perch himself near anyone tucking in and, uninvited, would help himself to whatever happened to be on the table. Upon catching sight of food, hed murmur things like, Oh! What a splendid aroma! or Goodness, youve chicken wings theremind if I sample one? His trademark line was always, What have we got here then? as his hand instantly reached out for a handful.
Oddly enough, he never chipped in for birthday gifts for his colleagues but was the first to turn up at an office do, tucking into the cake and sausage rolls as though hed brought the party himself. His fellow workers couldnt help but notice that he always charged his mobile at the office, presumably to avoid the extra cost on his electricity bill at home, and wouldnt leave for the day until hed made full use of the office facilitieseager to keep his own water meter untouched. In short, Oliver was miserly, and he wrapped his penny-pinching ways in the fine paper of financial prudence.
At our most recent company bashwith bunting and pork pies in full swingOliver found himself rather merry after one too many pints of ale. When someone asked if he ever thought of settling down, Oliver snorted, Why on earth would I need a wife? Shed only want money for food and clothes. And if she brought a child along, itd bankrupt me! I do quite well all by myself, thank you.
His colleague nodded, saying, Oh, you do live well enoughbut at our expense. At that, Olivers face became crimson and he shot back, Yes, thats right, I live smart. Ive got a brilliant motor, a house thats the envy of the neighbourhood. And you? You fritter away all your cash on lunches!
From that moment on, the entire team shunned him; no one would work with Oliver, nor exchange a word. He had little choice, really, but to pack up his designer briefcase and seek a new job elsewhere, leaving his old world behind like the memory of a peculiar, foggy dream.
