"And your sisters married and you sat there, pint in your hands, lovely shirt and sacked."
OK, well, he said nothing about the shirt but I wanted to put rumours of my sartorial elegance to bed before they got out of hand. It WAS a lovely shirt. Call off the scribes.
Those words fell from Jasper, they were said with all the Irishness of another man who lost his job yesterday. 19 of us in total told to settle any business by the close of the day, hand in our ID cards and "get the fuck out of our faces, we're receivers don't you know."
We took it to Mulligans and made it our own, the entire Irish business stopped by to wish us well, knowing that they too could be out of jobs today or tomorrow or, I don't know, in a month.
Emails and comments and text messages and calls and tweets have been forthcoming in masses, many thanks but as I said to the Latvian girl from accounts who I'd mistaken for a Pole.
She said something back in perfect English but I don't remember what it was now. We spoke for a while before I handed my seat over to Brian from sales. I think they'd make a nice couple. Matchmaking in a recession.
There were other garbled words and declarations of ardour, there was talk of times past and countless examples of my office irritability ("look what happens when you read over Radge's shoulder. It's really quite something. Wear protective headgear.")
There were tears but they all belonged to the office admins and the accountants. We're a stoic bunch, we journalists, we cry in pint form.