The Weapon - Apocalypse - part 10 By Diana the Valkyrie DON'T pull on my CAPE Duncan: So I had my VP of Production; Jeff was out in Texas looking for a dry oilfield at a good price. I had my VP of Sales, and my VP of Babies, er, I mean of Rescue. What I needed now, was a good accountant, because there was going to be a lot of money sloshing around, and we had to keep track of it, pay tax on it, and try to stop people stealing it. Wendy suggested that we just put it all in a big bucket and tell people to take what they need. I despair of that girl sometimes, she's got a blind spot as big as the Throgmorton Street where money is concerned. "But we can always get more, Duncan." "Yes, sure, but what do we do when Her Majesy's Taxman hits us with some impossibly huge and totally wrong tax demand? We need an accountant." "So let's hire one." "Wendy, love, we need an honest accountant." "Aren't they all honest?" "Er. No." I thought of advertising in the Telegraph. "Honest accountant wanted, criminal record would be a disadvantage." Yeah, right. That would attract a horde of newly-redundant bean-counters from international accounting companies that have recently been disbanded for dishonesty. Damn! Finding an honest accountant was like finding a virtuous citizen in Sodom or Gemorrah. So I chewed a pencil and tried to imagine Wendy doing the company accounts. "Why are you giggling, Duncan?" she asked, as she played with Matty and Rosetta on the floor of my office. Bunny bunny bunny bunny whoops bunny whoops bunny bunny bunny bunny. I thought about joining them down there; playing with Wendy can be rather fun, but then Sally walked in. Without knocking. "Hi, boss." I thought of telling her not to walk in unannounced like that, supposing I'd been on the floor with Wendy? And then I thought, tell her that and she'll do it all the time. Well, she's a big girl, she's probably seen grown men crawling around on the floor before. "Don't call me 'boss'," I said - it goes alongside of "My door's always open" and suchlike platitudes. "Come on, big boy, come see the new offices, we're moving in next week!" Big boy. Huh. No respect. So I heaved myself out of the chair, and followed her out the door. On the way out, I grabbed Wendy's cape, and pulled her after me. Bit of a mistake, that. It was like pulling a mountain. Worse, actually. She looked up, glared at me, and said "DON'T pull on my CAPE!" Damn, she had this intimidation thing down well. I knew she wasn't about to hurt me, and even I felt my hair prickling. The glare made you think of lasers stabbing into the air, or daggers at least. The voice was low and grating, quietly menacing. I froze. Stopped dead somewhat in a state of shock. I felt my palms go sweaty. Then she laughed, rose to her feet and pulled me towards her embrace. "I got you there, baby," she giggled. I started to breathe again. "Yes, you sure did," I replied, still a bit shaky, "hey, just hold me a minute while I recover, OK?" "So are you guys going to play games all day, or are you coming to see the new Pretty Flamingo HQ?" said Sally. "Coming," trilled Wendy, and scooped up her two babies. The new offices were rather fine. "Wasn't all this a bit ... expensive?" I asked Sally. "Feh," she replied, "if you don't have an expensive-looking office, people don't take you so seriously, and you don't get such a good deal on the product. It'll pay for itself, trust me." "It's kind of empty, though. there's enough space here for a couple of dozen people" "Dunc, you're about to set up an organisation of several thousand people to look after a million babies, did you think you could run that out of your back room?" "I guess not," I answered. "Where's the creche?" asked Wendy. "Creche?" queried Sally. Wendy turned to look at her. "For the babies," she explained. "I know what a creche is, why do we need one?" replied Sally. I jumped in on that. "Wake up, Sally. Half the staff here are women, and most of them are dragging an infant around with them." "Not me," she said. Wendy smiled at her, and I could see her thinking, "you will, you will". "Yeah, ok, well, one of the offices can be a creche, we'll just decorate it with kiddy wallpaper and get some toys in." Well, I don't claim to be a baby expert, but even I knew there was more to it than that. "Talk with Fiona," I told her, "she'll tell you what's needed. Oh, and by the way, amongst your ex-colleagues at Imperial Oil, do you know any good accountants. By 'good', I mean 'honest'. We don't have any shareholders to fool, there's no stockbrokers analysts needing wool pulled over their eyes. We just need to keep track, and not pay more tax than we need to." Sally thought about it for a moment. "An honest accountant?" she said, doubtfully, "I don't know, I'll ask around. I suppose there could be such a thing." This wasn't easy. The Her Majesty's Taxman will ask for the shirt off your back and the fillings in your teeth, and you have to demonstrate to him that Her Majesty isn't actually entitled to those, but here's a cheque for what she is due. And then your accountant and the tax-squeezer hunker down for some serious haggling. So you need an accountant who isn't too squeezable, and can stand up for herself when the Revenue start to apply the thumbscrews.