My wife has left me. A health spa, she assures me, courtesy of some company's hospitality programme. I'm not convinced. I think she's divorcing me by stealth. On the plus side, I now have some free time. I delivered my son to his grandparents who are looking after him for two days. After a hard weekend being retired, my father in law did his best to look pleased as I interrupted his appreciation of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake with my son's Scream in Yell Minor. With no wife and no son to look after, my home is unnaturally quiet and free for me to use at will. So I have planned a project. It is entitled: "Several Evenings of Simply Awesome Films Accompanied by Beer, Really Unhealthy Food and Minimal Household Chores". Not the 'naked type' of films, I hasten to add, I'm referring to films that mainly men appreciate because they contain some form of Alien, Vampire or Zombie, lots of blood and hopefully much decapitation. Maybe that's just me, then. It's an antidotes to any film starring Meg Ryan, I suppose. So, I watched vacant zombies aimlessly lumbering about in confusion until midnight. As I went to bed, the thought struck me that George A Romero had obviously hired staff from my previous employer to star in his seminal work, Dawn of the Dead. What incentivisation programme would you need for Zombies, I wondered as I drifted off to sleep. What sorts of employee benefits? Healthcare? Flesh......
