Grandad Patches’ Bedtime Fables:
Boxes.
Once upon a time, children, there was – in
the deepest, darkest Western valleys – a box factory.
Actually, my dears, I told a lie. My poor,
aging brain d’you see?
There were, in fact, two box factories,
side by side and next to the ancient, tumble-down mill by the River Pykulstyff.
Oh – and both factories were very proud of
their products. In fact, they were so proud that they did not talk to each
other, even though they were both owned by the same person.
But, I hear you ask, how can that be? After
all, box factories do not talk. They are not sentient, are they?
Did you? Did you ask?
Well, I’ll tell you anyway - to be on the
safe side, my dears.
It was not that the box factories did not
talk to each other – dear me, no. The problem was with the management. It was
they who did not talk. To each other. Obviously, they talked. It would be a
strange being indeed who did not talk, after all.
During the sixties, when I used to work in
a factory that made Walter’s Puffed Wheat, I actually had a manager who did not
talk. His name was Doctor Spock from Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.
What do you mean you haven’t heard of
Walter’s Puffed Wheat?
Why, everybody back then would shout:
‘Walter’s Puffs – They’ll make the biggest puffs in your bowl today!’ Then does
a most extraordinary celebration jig.
No – not that sort of bowl.
Anyway, I asked why that manager, Doctor Spock,
did not speak. Do you know what he said? He said that he hadn’t got the puff.
Anyway, as I was saying, they were
enormously proud of their boxes.
And news of this product soon began to
travel far and wide across the valleys. Why, it managed to get over the
Llanlumpybrwnscym Mountains, down the River Bylsheet to Aberfynny and onwards
Eastwards, past Pontypyss until it reached the ears and whiskers of old Mr.
Lupus.
And they soon pricked up, believe me.
“Young Mr. Lupus,” he growled. “Send forth
our very best box inspectors to the valleys. There are two uppity box factories
there. Verify and assess the following: quality of boxfulness, behaviour and
attitudes of boxinacity, personal development of boxes and, finally, the leadership
and management of those responsible for right angles.”
“What about wrong angles?”
“What? Don’t try to put nothing over on
me!” Old Mr. Lupus tapped the desk with one of his less blunted claws
pointedly.
“And should I instruct the Boxspect
Inspectors bring back some boxes?”
“Well, where’s the harm?” And old Mr. Lupus
licked his fangs with the tip of his vulpine tongue, stroking his whiskers with
his claws.
Well, my dears, upon hearing of this, there
was hue and cry in the valleys. But, did the two factories talk to each other?
They did not. They preferred instead to become very secretive indeed – just in
case one box factory had an advantage over the other box factory.
I suppose that each factory wanted to be
better than the other. Now, you might think that was rather foolish, given that
they both were owned by the same person. But who are we to question the wisdom
of the powers that make boxes?
Now, the day of the inspection dawned.
Young Mr. Lupus and his inspection team did
not inform the factories that they were coming – instead they hid in the hedges
lining the dirt tracks that climbed past the old mill and led to both
institutions – this was approved practice, you see? So, the factories could be
caught with their pants down and any foul practices exposed.
However, being wolves, they weren’t very
good at hiding.
As the grubs who worked in the factories
ambled past, munching on their snap, they would toss the odd bone into the
hedgerow, causing great excitement amongst the pack.
By the time the whistle blew, the whistle
had been blown, as it were.
Mr. Jockie Llewelyn, the chief earwig in
charge of ‘Valley International Boxes’ spent the morning looking anxiously
through his window at his rivals ‘Valley Boxes International’. The team had
snapped and growled its way in through those gates a couple of hours ago, but
so far nothing.
Then, movement.
The pack of wolves jostled and chundered
back through the gates, followed by Young Mr. Lupus who was beaming genially
and shaking the claw of Mrs. Blodwyn McKelpie vigorously. It looked as though
the inspection had gone without a hitch.
Gulping a little nervously, Jockie scuttled
down the stairs to the gates, carrying a briefcase full of papers that he had
compiled.
There, waiting for him, was young Mr.
Lupus.
“Good morning,” Jockie stammered.
“Shut up. What’s that?” Mr. Lupus snapped,
indicating the pile of papers that Jockie was, somewhat nervously, offering
him. “Fly, my hounds of hell!” He cried. Within minutes, the young pack of
wolves had snarled and shredded their way through the whole kit and kaboodle.
Now it was only fit for a paper chase through the mountains.
Jockie protested. “But that…that was my
evidence.”
“Evidence? Pish and posh. I am only
interested in your values and value added.”
“Well, what on earth is that?”
Young Mr. Lupus prodded him in the chest.
“Next door they believe in ‘Integrity, Boxcellence, and Innovation in All
Things Rectangular.’ They have it displayed all over the factory. You, Mr.
Llewelyn are sadly lacking in vision and values.”
“I am? But our boxes are second to none.”
“Pah. You don’t even differentiate your
corners.”
Poor Jockie looked a bit crestfallen
because he had to admit that these were things he had never thought about. For
him, a box was just a box. But it seemed he had become old fashioned and
outdated.
“Sorry. Can I have another chance?”
“Certainly, you may not. I will return to
Old Mr. Lupus with my recommendations.”
“And they are?”
“That you are sacked henceforth.”
“Oh.”
“And I’ll be back next month to check any
recommendations are deployed and all actions are initiated.”
And so it was, dear children, that Llewelyn
the Box packed his bags and left for his retirement cottage somewhere near The
Mumbles, not far from Lemming’s Leap.
Well, now.
You might have thought there would be hue
and cry amongst all the other the grubs that staffed our box factory…but not a
bit of it.
Of course, there was the usual bit of
staffroom gossip for a time – along the lines of ‘well, I told you so’, and
‘came as no surprise to this centipede, my dears’, but that was about it.
In fact, there wasn’t even a whip round.
Nor did anyone nip down to Poundland and
buy one of those tatty bits of transparent plastic jigsaw pieces proclaiming
‘You are the missing link, goodbye!’ that are often passed out at the end of
the year, to save a few pounds on a decent present – like a box of Milk Tray or
something.
Instead, Myfanwy Evans, the termite – who
was once his second in command - was seen to be staring wistfully at the door
of his vacant office. Almost as though she was in love. Could it be that she
missed his daily banter?
How she would howl with laughter at his
premier division wit. “Why, Myfanwy,” he had been known to say, of a morning,
“I feel quite boxed in, today!” or “Any more meetings like that and I’ll take
up boxing!” or “Please. Keep a lid on it!” or “Why was the box a perfect match?
Because it was a matchbox!” or…well, I’m sure you get the picture.
After a few days of such misty-eyed
musings, Myfanwy seized her microphone. Her voice crackled over the intercom
system that was used to make announcements. “No more box related jokes,” she
snapped, harshly. “It is counterproductive to the productivity of boxes.”
So, no, it couldn’t have been that.
Myfanwy helped herself to a large slice of
the chocolate cake she had ordered that morning. She was partial to a large
slice of cake. In fact, since Llewelyn had sloped off, it was noticed that she
was putting on rather a lot of weight.
For a termite.
And, as she chewed, she thought - Who would
be the next chief?
She could think of no better candidate than
herself.
With that decided, Myfanwy picked up the
phone and summoned the deputy deputy chief - a caterpillar from a cabbage patch
just past old Farmer Taff Turnip’s farm called Tykleback. And she asked about
the room at the top – who should be the next chief?
Well, what do you know?
Styklebak could think of no one better than
Myfanwy.
“You really think so?”
“Look you, yes, boyo.”
“Do you think we should have some surveys?”
“Why yes. We should definitely have some
surveys.”
And so it was. The surveys went out by
email to all the employees.
Now, some might argue, my dears, that such
things should be anonymous. Poppycock. If surveys are anonymous, how will we
ever know who filled them in?
And, also, some lesser minded grubs might
put forward some concerns.
Concerns, you see, should always be dealt
with – so long as they are constructive concerns.
Myfanny made sure that she also sent out
the remains of her chocolate cake to the workforce, before she ordered herself
another one.
Now, to your surprise, it seemed that the
workforce were more than happy to return Myfanwy to the top of the totem pole,
and, once in position, she had the difficult task of – well – picking herself a
deputy.
“Can I be your deputy?” asked Styklebak,
who felt she had the relevant experience.
“Well, there’ll have to be a survey.”
“OK, dear.”
And so another survey was forwarded, more
cake, and, a couple of hours later – happy days – Styklebak was soon moving
herself into Myfanwy’s old office.
“But who will be the deputy, deputy chief,
Myfanwy?”
Myfanwy scratched her chin. “Well,” mused
she, “I do believe that Bunton the Slater might be an ideal candidate.”
“Yes, yes. Bunton the Slater. Why, you mean
the deputy deputy deputy chief in charge of card control?”
“Even she.”
“Another survey?”
“Oh, yes. Another survey if you please.”
Well, when all that was sorted – as well as
several filling several other roles – a few weeks had passed by, as you might
imagine. The poor old grubs in the factory didn’t really know if they were
coming or going, you see?
They’d taken so much time filling in
surveys and eating cake that there hadn’t been much time to make any boxes or
read several long peremptory messages that had come from Mr. Lupus.
And so, one morning, Myfanwy reluctantly
hauled herself out bed, crossed the shag pile and stared out of her luxury mound.
In the background she could see the two box factories, sitting side by side and
the sun rising over the chimney pots.
Her chauffeur, on time as usual and happy –
she knew because he’d filled in a survey – drove her the short distance and
through the gates.
Two other grubs, of nondescript shape due
to cake consumption, helped her into an electric cart that, with the flick of
her limb, would convey her to her office. “Are you experiencing workplace
well-being?” she asked, absently – mainly because she always asked this. “Do
you need more cake or surveys?”
“No, Madame.”
“Maybe some more time in the well-being
centre?”
Shaking their heads hastily, the two grubs
backed off to allow her forward passage.
Well, she was a bit suspicious of back
passage, as you know.
Now, she was about to press the button
marked ‘GO’, when she stiffened – spying a large misshapen object lying in her
path.
She pointed at it with her…well, do you
know, I’m not sure what she pointed with. Do termites actually have fingers?
It’s possible I can’t see because Myfanwy
has, to be honest, become rather bloated by this point in the story. But, on
the other hand, fingers can be a bit tricky to spot on a termite.
No, honestly.
Back in the 60s, I knew one once. A bloated
termite. He was called ‘Tricky Fingers’ and played honky-tonk piano in the band
at Robert Brother’s Flea Circus – pounding away at the ivories with gay abandon,
oh, he was renowned in those parts.
But, eventually, old Tricky had to retire
when they fell off. One day, he flexed his hands into the shape of an orange
and watched in dismay as each of his digits, one by one, decided they’d had
enough and plopped onto the ground, scuttling away into the undergrowth.
They were wandering fingers, you see?
Anyway, Myfanwy pointed, as I believe I
mentioned. “What on earth is that?” she cried, in a tremulous and somewhat shocked
voice.
The object she was indicating was large,
blobby, brown and damp.
“It’s a box.”
“A box? A box?” Myfanwy screamed, shocked –
because she’d seem some boxes in her time and they’d looked nothing like this.
“Why, yes,” explained one of the indeterminate
grubs, proudly. “It’s the first one we’ve made in quite some time, and, in
point of fact, the shop floor foreman is very proud of it.”
“But boxes don’t look like that, do they?”
“Well, nobody knows any more. We all filled
out some surveys on the matter and this was our best guess.”
“What’s the brown stuff all over it?”
“Cake, Madame.”
“Oh, crumbs,” muttered Myfanwy.
“Exactly.”
There was no time to lose. She pressed the
turbo button on her electric cart and lurched forwards towards the building
with all haste.
Now, Myfanwy had moved her office onto the
bottom floor by this time – finding the stairs arduous. In fact she was
thinking of having a lift installed and had issued a survey to see if anyone
objected.
But, once she had got through the office
door, another unpleasant surprise awaited.
It was none other than Young Mr. Lupus. And
he looked none too pleased.
“Why, Young Mr. Lupus, what a pleasant
surprise,” Myfanwy stammered, in a voice that suggested the opposite was true.
“Is it?” he growled.
“Would you like some cake?”
“Wolves don’t eat cake.”
“They don’t? What do they eat?”
Young Mr. Lupus stared at Myfanwy’s bloated
shape and licked his chops. But, that could wait.
“Since taking over from your unfortunate
predecessor, without the permission of Mr. Lupus, I might add...box production
at this factory has halved by 100%,” Young Mr. Lupus snapped. “ I know. I
checked with the owner.”
“Ah, well, there’s a good reason, you see…”
“Shut up.”
Myfanwy wasn’t used to being spoken to like
that. The last grub that had done such a thing had been given a very severe
survey indeed, no cake and ten hours in the well-being centre. She’d personally
supervised it. “Shut up? How dare you?”
“It seems to me that your workforce has
been paid for a whole month for eating cake and filling out surveys.”
“But surveys are important. We need to know
opinions before we can move forward. They reveal important data – once compiled.”
Young Mr. Lupus glared at her. “I’ll tell
you what they revealed. They revealed that they you are allergic to work, that’s
what.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are. I’m closing this factory
down. As from today ‘Valley Boxes International’ will take over from your
shoddy operation. We’re having a merger.”
“Having a merger? We’ll see about that.”
But, alas, my dears, before she could see
anything much of anything. Myfanwy was gone. Where she was gone, I will leave
up to your own imagination. But Young Mr. Lupus was certainly more than
satisfied with the result and didn’t order out for lunch. All that cake, you
see?
But, let’s not finish on a sad note.
The rest of the grubs were more than happy
to move next door where there were less surveys to fill out.
All except for Styklebak.
She, poor soul, was told there was no
position open to her or office available. She’d have to join the other grubs,
constructing boxes, it seemed.
Because, as you know, there’s always room at
the bottom - of the box.
