He said he can’t take questions—‘I’m reading
from a script’—and read it out as if we were
on stage, not two feet apart in a glass meeting
room. I was, after twenty five years,
being sacked, by someone acting. Through
the distortions of meeting-room glass and
through his eyes he looked as if, finishing,
he wanted me to clap. I wanted to, too.
Certainly, his delivery had been flat.
But his speech had been affecting. My boss,
waiting, but not for me to get my hat:
for me to say a word. Don’t call us,
I should have said (but I’m the one who
won’t keep the day-job); I’ll call you.