See Me After Class - Friday

En-route to a meeting, I have a feeling my gross kerb weight might have been exceeded, as porky mortgage purveyor M sits in the passenger seat. It might be my imagination, or the ageing suspension on the much delayed replacement date of the company smoker, but it feels as if we’re canted to one side.

‘Christ I’m Hank Marvin,’ moans M, as we dip round a left hand curve and he picks at his teeth unpleasantly. ‘I hope they’ve got bacon sarnies at the meeting.’ He has enough body fat to survive longer than a stranded seal, and if the traffic chokes to a complete standstill I could probably live off the blubber right through another winter.

‘Bloody nonsense anyway,’ Continues M, as my mobile phone rings insistently but I ignore it. I forgot to clip on that absurd attachment that makes my ear ache and I swear could be causing a tumour. ‘I don’t know why I couldn’t have brought my own car.’

The latest company standing order – a rulebook now approaching Russian novel length – is to share business journeys where possible. So far I’ve not persuaded negotiator S to come with me as with appointments sparser than I’d like, she rarely leaves the office. So regrettably, it’s M’s flabby man breasts separated by the straining seat belt rather than S’s delectable curves. I swear the inertia real hit the end of its travel when he wound the webbing out to fit his bulky frame, on entrance.

‘What’s your exit strategy?’ Asks M as the traffic clears momentarily and I gun the engine and head for the gap. Probably out my window if we flip onto your side, I think absurdly, as the brief acceleration is halted by another bank of red brake lights.

‘When it all goes belly-up?’ Presses M, seeing the confusion writ large on my face and not enlightening me greatly, as I have a vision of his vast stomach rolling sideways with G-force and tipping the car onto its door handles. Then I realise he’s talking about the market and our immediate job prospects.

Truth is, you may have dreamed about something happening, lusted after it even, but unless it’s an invitation to treat from S, the reality can be somewhat more sobering. My CV remains as up-to-date as the British army’s hardware and I have a feeling in the job market, I’ll be similarly outgunned.

‘I used to think I’d go and work for a bank.’ Chuckles M ruefully his whole frame rumbling unsettlingly, unless the tick-over needs tweaking again. The thought of another morning in the main dealers service reception reading back copies of our property adverts with comical two-year old prices to reflect on, leaves me hoping it’s the fat man.
‘Of course that’s a non-starter now,’ continues M, as my phone jangles again. ‘You not going to answer that then?’ He says frowning, fat paw straining lustfully to answer the call, with all the restraint he shows in the pie shop every morning.

I leave the mobile, figuring it’s more likely to be the ringback service than a head-hunter wanting an embittered estate agent to start immediately on double bubble with a car upgrade, then M asks disconcertingly.
‘Did you always want to do this then?’

Hell no I want to scream, and I’m whisked back to a careers advisor conversation buried deep in the sub-conscious, but clearly still festering.

‘Soo,’ the teacher ventured barely able to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘If a rock star and an airline pilot doesn’t work out, have you considered anything more down to earth?’
‘Aiming too high then?’ I asked, with a wry smile.
‘Do you always use humour as a defence mechanism?’ Responded the man, with what in hindsight was my first psychoanalysis.

Telling him I always liked English and maybe fancied writing brought a swift disparaging look at my report card marks and a handful of leaflets on clerical jobs.
‘Or you could try selling,’ He added almost as an afterthought. ‘You don’t need too many qualifications - just the gift of the gab.’

I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants ever since.