Urning The Right - Monday

The phone jangles early doors. Prior to published business times I’m invariably the only one in the office, so I have a quick decision to make. Grab it on the third ring and rattle-off the corporate greeting, or make them wait until we should be open. Of course I answer it, you never know when it might be a business opportunity you are spurning. And in the real world of sales you can’t afford to work to rule.

I’m greeted by a less than convincing croaky cough in a familiar timbre and my heart sinks in direct opposition to my rising ire. It’s trainee F calling in sick again. Now I’m from the old school of entitlement to time-off for ailments. I’ve struggled in with every infection known to man and a few picked up from slightly less salubrious sources. I’ve laboured with migraines, struggled with a crumbling backbone – physically and metaphorically - and seen off SARS

I’m guessing F hasn’t had some horrendous overnight accident involving a threshing machine and his genitals – mores the pity - so I’m figuring he’s pulling a sicky. As I’ll be covering for him with no extra remuneration and doubtless skipping lunch again, I decide to have a little fun.

‘You sound grim.’ I tell the fool gravely.
‘Really?’
‘Yep, you been to the doctor yet?’
F hesitates, of course he hasn’t. In the absence of actually mangling his todger in some whirling farmyard equipment, I’m figuring he drunk too much last night and just fancied a day in bed. I’m also well aware that he can self-certificate for up to five days – an act of human resources lunacy on a par with age discrimination legislation compelling me to interview crumbly would-be negotiators smelling of liniment and urine, with as much chance of hacking it in house sales as TV’s Phil and Kirstie.

’Do you think I should?’ Ventures F, voice returning close to normality as the clown forgets to fabricate his suspect larynx.
‘Could be swine flu?’ I tell him brutally. ‘You may have to be quarantined.’
‘It’s just a bit of a sniffle actually.’ Replies F, tone oscillating plaintively.
‘Yes but you can’t be too careful,’ I continue gathering momentum, despite the seldom heeded little voice at the back of my head beginning to tell me I may have gone far enough. ‘There was that woman who died last week.’

‘I don’t think it is swine flu.’ Pleads F, looking for some sort of confirmation on his diagnosis, from me. It crosses my mind any prognosis I give after this brief telephone analysis would still be about as valid as ringing some bored call centre drone on the NHS snuffle-line.
‘Sound suspiciously like it to me.’ I continue inner voice totally ignored now. ‘You may be off for some time, I don’t fancy the paperwork if you die on company property.’

‘I think I might be okay to come in after lunch.’ Ventures F, all pretence of a sore throat evaporated.
‘You got pissed watching The Ashes in the pub didn’t you?’ I question, knowing I was enthralled all Sunday afternoon too, only without the alcohol. I was tempted mind, a sunny afternoon, England actually winning something for once and a chance to get one over an Aussie without having to order a drink from them. All rare, not to be missed opportunities. Only I had the leaden weight of responsibility for my office and my figures bearing down on me, even as the last wicket tumbled and the celebrations begun.

In sales your average is constantly monitored with ruthless multi-angle slow-motion scrutiny. Your own personal and team figures poured over by the bean counters, with all the rigour of cricketing statisticians. Inevitably, getting the finger is just a matter of time.

Yes, I’d wanted to have a drink, but I actually felt the first stirrings of a prickly throat and a clammy forehead, so it was early to bed with the wrong type of Night Nurse.

‘You’ve been caught out.’ I tell F. ‘Just take an aspirin and shift your arse.’

Currently can’t shake the vision of F having a well-deserved medicinal mix-up with some suppositories.