Well, Badconsultant woke up this morning wondering just where his cheese was. Things are changing and, as a student of the business literature, I had long known that change was simply a matter of monitoring said fermented milk product to ensure that it had not altered its position. In fact, I have become highly adept at monitoring my cheese.
This morning, the cheese had definitely moved. Or been moved. Yes, definitely ‘been moved’.
[cheese being an inanimate object, after all)
I took a look out of the window – snow, ever snow – and began to wonder if indeed my iceberg was melting. That would make sense as the sky was a beautiful, clear blue and the sun shining hard.
[For a moment, I thought that I was ready to soar like an eagle on thermals of invention, but not too close to the sun for fear that the wax holding my wings together may melt. OK, so maybe I’d hold off on the soaring until a little later in the day]
But where, oh where, was my cheese?
Got dressed, wandered downstairs. Checked the fridge.
That’s logical, right?
The cheese is in the fridge.
[Well it would be logical if there wasn’t some omnipresent somebody who kept on moving the cheese – ever wonder whether business books are designed to reinforce your corporate status as little more than a lab rat?]
But the cheese had definitely been moved.
The dining room? Cheeseless.
Living room? A cheese-free zone.
But there was a camel in there. So that was all right.
“How are you doing today?” I asked.
“Oh, you know,” the camel replied, “not too bad. Could be worse. I’m just about ready.”
He shrugged to highlight his glorious hump, replete with fatty deposits; energy stored for some long journey.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
“Well, I would be,” he said, “only I seem to have mislaid…”
“Your cheese?” It came to me in a flash. “You’ve lost your cheese haven’t you?”
He stared at me. And I stared right back. If the camel and I had both lost our cheese, that raised the stakes way above the anxiety I’d felt earlier.
“Did you know our iceberg is melting?” I asked, checking beneath seat cushions for errant gorgonzola.
The camel tutted. He actually tutted. Then he spat in my face
[camels do that]
and batted his long, silky eyelashes.
“Well, I’ll be off,” he said.
He looked at me for a long moment, long enough that I felt compelled to fill the silence.
“How can you leave when you haven’t found your cheese? How can you leave when the iceberg might be melting? Don’t you know anything? You’re not meant to start your journey until you’ve found your cheese and secured your iceberg!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head.
“I do know one thing,” he said.
The room grew silent, the air holding its breath in anticipation.
“Animal metaphors,” he said, “are a pile of poo. And if you don’t get out of the way, that’s exactly what you’ll get for having a camel in your living room.”
And as he strode out of the room, completely ready for his journey, I wondered what a dormouse might make of his summary judgement. Or Disney. That lasted a moment, then I got back to the serious business of hunting down the turophilic penguin who had obviously stolen the fromage.
[who came across a copy of Who Moved My Cheese? while clearing out the basement yesterday]