Gonk

I had arranged a chat with Cow-Lick, my plucky young team member. I had booked one of our silly meeting rooms that have lots of wires that lead nowhere and TV's mounted on the walls which don't work.

As I arrived I saw that Cow-Lick was already there. He appeared to be taking a selfie of himself and horrifyingly was doing a bit ofduck-face pouting.

I harrumphed like a bull with no teeth and he looked up, guiltily fumbling his phone away.

Alright boss man?

Yes indeed I am.

I replied with a handsome flair. Not too handsome though as I didn't want the young feller-me-pip to pop seventeen boners.

He shifted in his chair.

So what can I do for you?

I smiled to ease the tension. It is something I have found in young fibbertygibbets. In work, they seem to think that at any given moment in time they are going to be scolded, parent-style as if they have left skid-marks on their underwear again.

Nothing to worry about, just a quick review of the test coverage for the user stories you are working on.

Despite being told not to worry, he looked worried. Which on his young face made him look like a gerbil smelling a fox.

What's wrong with the coverage?

He asked nervously.

Ach, relax, it's just standard stuff.

He relaxed slightly.

I always worry when I get called into a meeting room that I am going to get the sack.

He said apologetically.

Pbbbrrbbr.

I made a noise like a farty-bum-bum being chewed by a llama.

Ha, don't be a Gonk. It's fine. So, let's look at story 117...

I pulled out some sheets of paper. As I did so I heard a strange noise. Like a weevil gnawing at a milk carton. I looked up. Cow-Lick was trying to stifle a giggle.

What on earth is a Gonk?

He asked as if the world and its dog didn't know what a Gonk was.

A Gonk? It's one of those little furry things. You know, like a cardboard tube covered in fake fur with googly eyes?

He looked mystified as if I was telling him of my great love of medieval vases. I whapped my own phone out and swiftly looked up Gonk on google images.

There see?

He held my phone for a moment, drinking in the sheer Gonkiness of what he was seeing before passing it back with a snigger.

Like, is that from the eighties or something?

I frowned.

Erm, aye, probably about then.

Cow-Lick narrowed his eyes and looked at me as if seeing me for the very first time.

Were you like, born in the eighties?

He asked with a mixture of wonderment and disdain.

No.

I replied.

NOT the eighties?

He shook his head in disbelief, then lowered his voice.

Wait, so you were born in the seventies?

I examined him for a moment and imagined in my head that I was booting him squarely in the balls.

Yeah, I was.

He flinched as if I had asked him to come and sit on my knee.

How old are you?!

He asked in bewilderment, his world shaken to the core by the news that people as old as me still existed in this day and age.

I flopped the papers I was holding down on the table between us and gave him the vinegar eye.

Old enough to see that your work leaves an awful lot to be desired, young man. So shall we continue?

He looked suitably chastened and nodded.

I allowed myself a little smirk. Wee bastard, he'll learn...