We don’t get the job done.
Tomorrow, my boss will be waiting for me and wanting me to explain myself. He will be shaking his head at me. He will be disappointed. He will be frantic with disappointment. And some part of me will care about this. It will feel guilty and eager to please him and do anything it can to put right the wrong I have done him.
Meanwhile, another part of me will be watching this first part disgustedly, as if the first part is a carefully manicured poodle, standing on its hind legs, performing a trick in return for a biscuit, and the second part is a bitter, wheelchaired kid – no legs below the knee – left in the shade of the now-closed gift shop, while the rest of his family are off using the public toilets (a sign: ‘key for disabled toilet in gift shop!’ tacked to the door).