Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!

Please do not mock goldfish. They are extremely sensitive. Especially when teased about their rubbish memory.

Do keep me posted.

Less than two minutes later, he replies:

Did you know that goldfish sleep with their eyes open because they don’t have eyelids?

P.S. I’ve got a spare tennis ball if you ever need it.

Ronald McDonald

I’m smiling as I return to the invoices.

‘Shona-a-a-a!’ The Boss jerks me from my daydream. ‘More coffee! And get me an up-to-date list of all our customers. And I mean all of them, including that tit Mrs Hetherington.’

‘Okay.’ Shona slips off her reading glasses and dashes into The Boss’s office to gather up the morning’s accumulation of used mugs.

Mrs Hetherington, a customer for several months, had the gall to write a letter to the local paper, complaining that having ‘ruined’ her parquet flooring, we only agreed to pay for the damage when she threatened us with court action. The Boss was furious with Mrs Hetherington. Not only because of the legal threat, which we all thought unfair. But because of a small paragraph at the bottom of the letter, which said, ‘Perhaps if the owner of Spit and Polish spent less on designer clothing, she would have a budget readily available to compensate clients for shoddy workmanship.’

Every morning this week, The Boss has burst through the door, held up her handbag or pointed to some item of clothing and announced, ‘Ten pounds from Oxfam!’ or ‘Twenty pence from the jumble sale!’ before charging to her office and slamming the door off its hinges.

The Boss takes a perverse pleasure in being miserly – thrift rules her life – and Mrs Hetherington wounded her pride.

‘Do you think she’s busy?’ Ella asks me, with a nod at The Boss’s door.

‘Um – not sure. Why?’

‘I need to check something out with her.’ She flicks back her blonde-streaked hair, releasing a freshly-washed scent of summer meadows.

‘Oh? What is it?’ I ask casually.

She touches the side of her nose and murmurs confidentially, ‘A PR opportunity she simply can’t afford to pass up.’ Standing up, she slips off her fake fur and hangs it on the back of her chair.

I wait for her to give me more but she doesn’t, so I say, ‘Oh, great. Why don’t you talk to me about it first and then I can tell you if I think it’s something she might go for?’

Ella eyes me coolly, probably worried I am going to steal her idea. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. I am merely keen to stop her barging into the lion’s den and becoming lunch.

Just then, The Boss emerges from her office, points at Shona’s empty chair and barks, ‘Where is she? I need that list.’ Her voice has a hint of gravel, especially when she’s going through a chain-smoking phase. The air emerging from her office is thick and acrid, and Ella starts to cough.

‘You asked for coffee,’ I remind her. ‘Shona’s making it.’

The Boss is tall – over six feet – with the angular shoulders of a swimmer and a high metabolism that ensures she never puts on weight, lucky cow. Her blonde crop makes her look principal boy handsome and ultra-feminine at the same time. When she smiles, that is. But bad temper is taking its toll. Her recent habit of substituting meals with fags has dulled her complexion and given her a creased look, which reminds me of my pile of ironing that needs attention.

Suddenly, I feel a pang of sadness. It’s a cliché, I know, but there was a time she could light up the room with a smile. At what point did the desire for money hijack her personality so completely?

‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t she get me the list first and then make the coffee?’ she growls, shooting a filthy look at Ella.

I can’t think of an answer to that. And anyway, poor Ella is now coughing so furiously she’s hanging onto a chair, so I doubt I’d make myself heard. I dash into the kitchen for water and The Boss stomps back to her fume-filled office.

Ella sips gratefully from the glass then spends the next ten minutes trying to rescue her mascara with a folded paper hanky.

‘She shouldn’t be smoking in the work place,’ she announces, far too loudly considering The Boss’s door is partially open.

‘Try telling her that,’ mutters Shona, returning with a coffee tray.

‘No, don’t!’ I yelp, fearing our elephant-skinned junior is about to sacrifice herself on the altar of passive smoking.

Shona delivers the coffee then shuts the door firmly behind her.

‘Do something about the temperature, Shona,’ The Boss yells. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’

‘You mean put the heating on?’

‘Well, what else would I mean? Build a friggin’ bonfire? Oh, and Bobbie, did you find the coffee machine?’

I put my head round her door. ‘We’ve run out of the freshly-ground stuff. Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’

The Boss pulls out her purse and draws a note from its compartment. She checks carefully to make sure there aren’t two stuck together and holds it out to me. ‘Get the good stuff.’

‘Wow. Who’s the lucky visitor?’

‘And some biscuits.’ She ignores the question. ‘Chocolate.’

I nod.

Her grip is firm on the ten pound note.

‘Let go,’ I murmur.

‘What?’ she snaps. ‘Oh, yes.’

I get my coat, pocket the money and head along to the local supermarket, glad of the breather.

I walk back into a Tense Situation.

Ella is standing by The Boss’s office, effectively blocking her from getting in, and I arrive just as she’s gushing, ‘ … amazing way to publicise the business!’

Shona’s head bobs up in alarm.

‘The thing is, I was out with my friend, Amy, at the weekend, and she works for the local radio station and she’s helped organise this incredible initiative where people donate money and they give food parcels to the needy at Christmas time. They’re asking companies like ours to make a donation.’

In the silence that follows, Shona sneaks a look my way.

‘So I told Amy I would ask you.’

I can’t bear to look at Ella’s pleased expression.

The Boss arranges her features into a smile. ‘To donate to a charity?’