The British prime minister shuffled up to the lectern as the cameras went live. He was once described as being like a dishevelled blond orangutang. Tonight that description seemed apt.
A last-minute news conference had been called on the Saturday before Christmas. All across the country, people were looking forward to a brief respite from the lockdowns. They had been promised five days of freedom by the orangutang.
They weren't going to get it.
The Coronavirus had mutated and now there were thousands of confirmed new cases every day. London was being hit particularly badly. Instead of five days of freedom now they were going to get none. Christmas was cancelled. There was to be no visiting, no mingling, and no unnecessary travel. People were given six hours' notice to leave London.
This announcement was like a collective gut punch. The younger staff, in particular, took it very hard. Quickly they were not going to be allowed to go home to spend Christmas with their families.
Blah, blah blah, the orangutang droned on with the same complacent platitudes that had caused the deaths of over 60000 people. Blah, blah blah, Britain, great, Churchill, blah blah blah
A TV newsroom is a place where it pays to be tough and resilient, the people who work in them are used to being and hearing the very worst.
For the last few years, in addition to my work role, I had voluntarily taken on an unofficial role as both a mentor and a father figure for some of the younger staff. Particularly those who were living in London for the first time and also dealing with the sometimes brutal reality of a competitive work environment.
It was a role that I gladly took on as it had distracted me from my disintegrating marriage and acrimonious divorce. I found that I much preferred the company of young enthusiastic people to that of an embittered, joyless mistake. At no time did I ever cross a line with any of them. It was a relationship built upon trust.
I sensed that a few of my colleagues were upset and anxious about the news they had just broadcast. As soon as I finished my handover I gathered them all together, socially distanced around a long table. I let them talk. I tried to reassure and I said I was always available to them. I hoped I was able to make it easier.
Two young women in particular realised that there was now no way they were going to be able to get home at all. Like me, they had volunteered for the early shift on Christmas morning.
After my divorce, I had managed to keep my house. My daughter was serving in the RAF and was currently posted to a station in the far north of Scotland. She relished the opportunity to have somewhere to come to in London when she was on leave. My son was spending Christmas in Ireland with his girlfriend and her family.
I had the house to myself. Although it was a technical breach of the lockdown rules I offered my colleagues the use of my spare rooms. I figured it was acceptable because it was better for their mental health than to be alone in a deserted shared house or small flat.
They both gladly accepted. We made plans to have a great Christmas lunch after we finished work.
The days that followed were wonderful, my house was once again filled with the sounds of music and laughter. We all drank far too much and laughed more and relaxed with each other.
I’m a decent guy, but I make no claim to being a saint. One morning I opened the washing machine to find it full of some very flimsy lingerie. I was cool about it but very very turned on. I wondered whether it belonged to Natasha or Vikki.
I’m also a light sleeper and I’m convinced that one night I heard Natasha masturbating after all three of us had watched a film together that had contained some pretty raunchy sex scenes. I tried settling and tried to ignore the noise of her pleasure but in the end, gave in, threw back the covers, and wanked until I came. That felt good.
Christmas Eve was wonderful, we enjoyed a gammon with all the trimmings and again too much red wine. We prepared the turkey and veg for tomorrow because I planned to use the oven timer and start it cooking while we were at work.
We all went to our beds, separately but I did enjoy a proper kiss with both women. We needed to be up before five am.
Christmas morning was hectic but we were all organized people. It was lovely to catch glimpses of both Natasha & Vikki wrapped in towels as they left the shower. I was amazed that both of these attractive confident women who were aged twenty-seven and twenty-nine, had not yet found loving partners.
I prepared everything for our Christmas lunch and then took the last shower. We were ready to leave at 05:15. I drove us all to work. We wore face masks and were as distanced as possible in my car. We had our temperatures taken at the gate and all passed. The look the security guard gave me as I drove in with these two women was priceless.
We quickly settled into our social distanced workstations and logged on ready for the day ahead. Christmas day in any newsroom can sometimes be quite challenging to find anything to report on. This year we were spoilt for choice. One advantage of having an entirely useless government run by a lazy orangutang supported by a cabinet of clueless third rate morons.
It quickly became apparent that this year we would need to decide what to leave out, there was so much news to report.
The bulletin when it went out just after one pm was a triumph an accurate portrayal of a country being overwhelmed by a virus. There were pictures and interviews with those front-line staff who were doing their very best. That there were no pictures of any government ministers pretending to be interested told its own story.
