I slowly opened the door, calling out. “Mr Doyle, it’s me. Are you… oh.”

He was passed out on the floor. It wasn’t a surprise really, but I had no idea how he got the blow-up children’s pool past me into his office.

“What? Huh?” he sat up startled. He glanced at his watch, still holding a drink. “It’s still early.”

It was eleven in the morning. He slammed the drink back, and threw the glass through the open window. My mouth dropped open.

That was new.

Stretching he mumbled, “That’s okay though Jacinta. I feel fan-bloody-tastic.”

“It’s Alendra sir. You weren’t even close that time; I’ve been working for you for…” I drifted off, finally taking stock of the situation. “Are you wearing a coconut-shell bikini?”

“What?” He looked down at his chest. “Huh. Looks like it.”

I sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

I had been working for Mr Doyle for the last eighteen months. Eighteen long months, and during that time we’d come to an understanding. I wouldn’t spring an intervention on him, and he’d try to wear pants. Sure he didn’t always keep up his end of the bargain, and I had to treat him like an attention-seeking man-child, but slowly he’d grown on me. He’s a brilliant man, if a little lazy and self destructive, and he has a beautiful mind when it isn’t pickled like a foetus in a jar. He has the ability to take olilolo to the top, if only he’d sober up and wrest control from that lecherous Stu.

“Want some prawns?”

I snapped out of my thoughts and looked down at Doyle. He was gesturing at me with a less than impressive looking shellfish. I could see more of them floating around him in the water.

“Uh… no thanks. Not today.”

“Your loss,” he tossed it out the window.

“Why did you do that?” I stammered.

“I’m allergic. You know that.”

I rubbed my temples, longing to be at my yoga class.

“Okay Mr Doyle, fair enough. It’s time to get up.”

“Get up? What on earth for? It’s November. Stu’s doing that silly challenge thing, and you and I can sit back and relax for a while. Now grab yourself a piña colada, and get back to doing nothing.”

“But Mr Doyle, it’s…”

“No buts… there’s plenty. Now where’s my Cold Chisel CD? Cheap wine and a three day growth…”

His singing was always grating.

“The challenge is over!” I spat out. “It’s December 3rd. You were meant to have had an article in by now.”

“December third?” He sat up suddenly, a wave of water emptying onto the carpet. “Shit, I missed the Pearl Jam concert!”

“Pearl Jam? That’s what worries you right now?”

“Damn right,” he muttered reaching for the rum bottle. “I bought these babies for five hundred bucks on eBay! You know how long it took me to filtch that much coin from Stu?”

“Well, sir, you have to have an article in… today. It won’t write itself”

He peered into the empty bottle, tipping it up trying to get the last drops into his mouth. “What? You’re right. Why didn’t I think of it before. It won’t write itself. You’re a genius!”

He jumped out of the wading pool and embraced me. My brand new pant-suit was ruined.

“Right,” he said triumphantly. “I’m off to the bottle shop.”

I nearly lost my composure then. “The bottle shop?” I asked rather impatiently. “What about your article?”

“What article?” he looked at me dumbfounded.

My head started to spin. Had he finally lost it? I couldn’t afford to lose my job because my boss had cracked.

My face must have betrayed my disbelief. Laughing he said, “I’m just kidding Alyssa. I remember the article. it’ll be done today… because you’re going to write it.”

“Me, sir?”

I never considered myself the creative type, more a nurturing soul, but I thought it could be a rewarding experience. Good for the CV at the very least, and Mr Doyle had that determined look on his face. I knew there was no swaying him on this.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Never been so sure of anything in my life. Now, I’m off to the bottle shop!”

“Uh, sir.” I interjected. “One last thing before you go.”

“Anything,” he said with a cheerful grin.

“Put some pants on.”