Full Denim Jacket

Last Friday at work was, as usual, a day to cast off the suit/business-casual chinos and whip on the Speedos and flip-flops in order to embrace the dress-down, weekend-starts-RIGHT-HERE vibe that ripples through our happy organisation. As a pay-off for getting to dress in beachwear, the staff make a small cash donation and the proceeds go to a different charity every week. To collect the donations, a couple of volunteers always linger at the front door with buckets or tins and once you’ve dropped in a few pennies AS LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE TO GIVE THE IMPRESSION YOU’RE A MAJOR BENEFACTOR you can usually pass merrily on your way, beach towel slung haphazardly over your shoulder and knotted hankie perched playfully on your head at a jaunty angle.

However last week, in addition to the gauntlet of front door collectors, a gaggle of volunteers had also gathered in the canteen (I can’t quite bring myself to call it a restaurant) and were selling all manner of charity shop-type bric-a-brac to raise funds for the Teenage Cancer Trust. In order to get to my desk as quickly as possible to wolf down the roll ‘n square sausage (x2) I’d just purchased, I had to pass very close to the volunteers and their wares and was dreading having to buy yet another of those multi-coloured wrist bands to show my support / awareness / benevolence.

Imagine my delight then when the nice lady explained that multi-coloured wrist bands are just SOOO last year and instead, this year’s must-have charity support / awareness / benevolence accessory IS... this set of very cool dog tags. Before she had time to yell, “Now hit the deck soldier and gimme twenty,” I’d handed her an Andy Jackson and was marching proudly to my desk, dog tags clinking round my neck every step of the way and senses on high alert for the merest hint of Charlie in the undergrowth.

I thought basic training was hard (“Only two things come from Falkirk… steers and queers… and I don’t see no horns on you boy”) but that’s nothing compared to these punishing days in the DMZ (De-Motivated Zone). I’ve lost a lotta good buddies on this tour; some done gone AWOL to second-rate media companies whilst others just disappeared overnight - ruthlessly captured by the other side.

But it’s not all deadly river patrols and village-burnin’. Me and the platoon got a little R ‘n R time in Sum Yunguy at the weekend. Man it was good to blow off some steam. And I sure do love the smell of square sausage in the mornin’; it smells like... mmnnnn… breakfast!

Finally, for my good buddy Donald back home – since he asked so nicely (and because he’s such a tender lover. Apparently.) – here’s that photo of the dog tags together with a denim jacket worn in his favourite style.