We stand around, huddled, worried.
"Don't like the look of those media reports."
"No sirree Jim. Don't like the look of them there media reports one little bit. Packed lunches in future. Those eight euro ciabattas are gonna have to go mouldy. Spam sandwiches for me."
"I hear sardines are cheap."
"They smell fucking rank."
"They do smell rank. But what's a little bit of odour when we have media reports such as these, Jim?"
"Worrying, Jim. Lots of closed office doors. There's conspiracies a-bein' conspired."
"You paranoid dipweasel."
"Have you not read the reports? The media reports?"
"The fuck have we been talking about the last five minutes? And what's a dipweasel anyway?"
"It was your insult."
"And why are you all 'hood now? A minute ago you were Texan with your conspiracisin' and your drawwwl."
"That was you. I think we need some narrative. A framing device."
And so these ARE worrying times in the media fold, what with the manyforementioned reports and rushing suits up and down the corridor, clutching their briefs as they would a sick and starving infant.
Who's gonna hold me when the hour's notice comes?