town of Coolangatta farther south, but give me somewhere bustling and lively to go to every day to earn my daily crust. Surfer’s has more energy than a litter of puppies drunk on Red Bull. Hordes of tourists mingle with the local surfers and party people among the forest of glass and metal. The sun beats down relentlessly on thousands of people who know they are lucky enough to be in paradise and are damn well going to enjoy it every second they can.
Worongabba Chocolate is situated in the shopping mall underneath one of the skyscrapers right next to the beach. It’s a prime bit of real estate with very high foot traffic all day long. I saw how much the rent was for the floor space the first week I was here and nearly had a heart attack.
Today promises to be a particularly important day in Laura Newman’s new antipodean life. Alan Brookes, owner of Worongabba Chocolate and my boss, is visiting for the first time since he sent me down here to run the place and is expecting a report on what I’ve accomplished so far. Therefore, I drop Poppy off a good hour earlier than usual at Surf Tots Day Care and am upstairs in my office by eight, finishing off the Excel spreadsheet I’ve been compiling for the past week.
It’s a masterpiece of financial brilliance, even if I do say so myself. Not only have I collated an accurate overview of turnover from the past six months, I have also identified a $40,000 tax overspend that can be claimed back. I have no doubt Brookes will promote me instantly once he realises I’ve saved him that much money in barely six weeks of work. It may have taken all of my free time over the past seven days to complete, but the results will be totally worth it. Yes, I was one of those insufferable kids at school who always handed their work in early and made you look bad—how did you guess?
Alan is due in at ten thirty, and I have everything ready for him a good half an hour beforehand. The spreadsheet is projected on my white office wall in all its PowerPointy glory, a stack of neatly folded financial reports sits on my desk awaiting his eager gaze should he wish to view them, and I even have a selection of new chocolate flavours I intend to bring into our collections sitting on a plate next to the reports, awaiting his equally eager taste buds.
Everything is set. Everything is ready. This will be my finest hour.
My finest hour will have to wait it seems, as ten thirty comes and goes with no sign of Brookes. By 10:50 a.m. I’m boosting the air-con in my office to make sure the chocolates don’t melt. By eleven I’m pacing on the shop floor, worrying shop staff and customers alike.
By eleven fifteen I’m back in the office checking my diary to see if I’ve got the day right.
By 11:40 a.m. I’m back downstairs telling the shop floor manager Jake that he needs to rearrange the mint fondues in the front window so they don’t spell MINTY ! I appreciate his efforts at creativity, but I don’t think it’s really giving the right impression of the store, seeing as we’re supposed to be upmarket.
Being upmarket is obviously not something Alan Brookes is all that concerned about, either, as he eventually rolls in at 11:50 a.m., wearing an ancient bushman’s hat, a pair of board shorts, a bright orange vest, and a pair of leather flip-flops that look like they’re about to fall apart. He’s accompanied by a stern-looking Asian woman in a power suit and the number two man in the business, Brett Michaels, who is as shabbily dressed as his boss, given that he’s wearing a Captain America T-shirt over a pair of board shorts that look like they’ve been savaged by a shark.
“You alright, Laura?” Brookes says to me as he walks up.
“Yes Mr. Brookes,” I reply in accepted subordinate fashion.
“Ah, drop the formal crap there, Laura. Call me Brooky. Every other bastard does!”
“Okay… Brooky .”
“Sorry I’m late. Stopped to chat to a mate of mine down at the surf club. Great
Worongabba Chocolate is situated in the shopping mall underneath one of the skyscrapers right next to the beach. It’s a prime bit of real estate with very high foot traffic all day long. I saw how much the rent was for the floor space the first week I was here and nearly had a heart attack.
Today promises to be a particularly important day in Laura Newman’s new antipodean life. Alan Brookes, owner of Worongabba Chocolate and my boss, is visiting for the first time since he sent me down here to run the place and is expecting a report on what I’ve accomplished so far. Therefore, I drop Poppy off a good hour earlier than usual at Surf Tots Day Care and am upstairs in my office by eight, finishing off the Excel spreadsheet I’ve been compiling for the past week.
It’s a masterpiece of financial brilliance, even if I do say so myself. Not only have I collated an accurate overview of turnover from the past six months, I have also identified a $40,000 tax overspend that can be claimed back. I have no doubt Brookes will promote me instantly once he realises I’ve saved him that much money in barely six weeks of work. It may have taken all of my free time over the past seven days to complete, but the results will be totally worth it. Yes, I was one of those insufferable kids at school who always handed their work in early and made you look bad—how did you guess?
Alan is due in at ten thirty, and I have everything ready for him a good half an hour beforehand. The spreadsheet is projected on my white office wall in all its PowerPointy glory, a stack of neatly folded financial reports sits on my desk awaiting his eager gaze should he wish to view them, and I even have a selection of new chocolate flavours I intend to bring into our collections sitting on a plate next to the reports, awaiting his equally eager taste buds.
Everything is set. Everything is ready. This will be my finest hour.
My finest hour will have to wait it seems, as ten thirty comes and goes with no sign of Brookes. By 10:50 a.m. I’m boosting the air-con in my office to make sure the chocolates don’t melt. By eleven I’m pacing on the shop floor, worrying shop staff and customers alike.
By eleven fifteen I’m back in the office checking my diary to see if I’ve got the day right.
By 11:40 a.m. I’m back downstairs telling the shop floor manager Jake that he needs to rearrange the mint fondues in the front window so they don’t spell MINTY ! I appreciate his efforts at creativity, but I don’t think it’s really giving the right impression of the store, seeing as we’re supposed to be upmarket.
Being upmarket is obviously not something Alan Brookes is all that concerned about, either, as he eventually rolls in at 11:50 a.m., wearing an ancient bushman’s hat, a pair of board shorts, a bright orange vest, and a pair of leather flip-flops that look like they’re about to fall apart. He’s accompanied by a stern-looking Asian woman in a power suit and the number two man in the business, Brett Michaels, who is as shabbily dressed as his boss, given that he’s wearing a Captain America T-shirt over a pair of board shorts that look like they’ve been savaged by a shark.
“You alright, Laura?” Brookes says to me as he walks up.
“Yes Mr. Brookes,” I reply in accepted subordinate fashion.
“Ah, drop the formal crap there, Laura. Call me Brooky. Every other bastard does!”
“Okay… Brooky .”
“Sorry I’m late. Stopped to chat to a mate of mine down at the surf club. Great
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