From The Press And Marketing Department, Again: Fond Memories.

'Ha ha,' she was suddenly feeling Machiavellian.

Why?

They'd all been emailed by the Press and Marketing Department again.

'Have you seen the latest? It must be the basest? Tell me (honestly, please) if this isn't close to desperate.'

'What now?' he said. His ankles were still swollen, bruised and red. He resented being at work; would rather be reclining in bed. Like Proust he would prefer to be in a permanent state of recuperation. He was loathe to engage with something that sounded like desperation.

'Fond memories.'

'You what?'

'Fond memories; that's what they're now after.'

'You'll have to explain.  My feet are so sore, though you don't hear me complain.'

She gave him one of her looks and, then, proceeded to paraphrase what was worded. 'They want to know if you have fond memories of working at the Uniservity. It's something to do with celebrating the institution's twentieth birthday.'

'Go on.'

'It appears it also involves alumni. But that, surely, is by-the-by. Our commercial success fails to mention us on his CV. Apparently, we have no part in his provenance: his pedigree.'

'You're such a cynic. Are they doing no good at that clinic you attend so regularly?'

'I'm sure the clinic's doing fine actually but, for a change, it not about you lot. It's all about me.'

'So, what's the pay off. Do you still want my child. She's become a teenager, you know. She's getting quite wild.'

'Afraid not, there are no vouchers involved here. But, try to be kind to her; I'm sure she's a dear. Back to the original subject; this is what you have to do. Recount your fondest memory of institutional life on video and provide a still photograph, too. It'll help promote the Uniservity, you see: all good publicity.'

Daylight dimmed and silence fell. All was quiet, but it wasn't well. Try as they might, they failed to think of the things that had felt right. Work was a bore; remained a chore. It was only in free-time that one found respite.