Apparently, it’s Movember.
For the last two or three years different departments at work compete with each other to grow a moustache for prostate cancer. Or rather to raise money and awareness of men’s health issues and fight prostate cancer.
The control room has not escaped. Where ever you look there is someone with a wild rodent trying to escape their top lips, and some of the blokes are growing one too. It’s getting that you don’t know who to sponsor next. I’ve run out of money this month already from the allowance Mrs Weeks gives me, and the begging emails are still coming in.
Some of the younger, more fresh-faced members of staff seem to be struggling, while some people seem to have a full old English waxed-tipped affair within two days, we’re 18 days into the month and some others barely have a shadow, bless.
It has to be said that the Gucci boys of the firearms department usually put in a display winning the prize for the group most looking like a bunch of out-of-work 70’s porn actors, usually going the whole hog with the full tache down the sides to the chin.
The best has to be one of the guys who now looks like he should be wearing a red jacket and pith helmet and should be picking spears off the ground and chucking them back at the Zulus. Not bad for 3 week’s effort.