Walking across the park nothing much has changed. The
detritus of last night’s takeaway meals look broadly the same. A scattering of
branded boxes, some fox-stripped chicken bones and a selection of high-strength
lager cans are strewn amongst the meagre flowerbeds. A lone council employee is
over the far side in his dayglow jacket, poking disconsolately at the debris
with one of those long-handled pickers that give the illusion you’re at arms
length from a rubbish job.
‘Spare some cash for a cuppa?’ Pleads a scarecrow-like
figure slumped on one of the benches, in a vast army greatcoat glistening with
dew. The unshaven man has that look of despair in his eyes, the look I tend to
wear on a Friday afternoon when the weekly stats are due and I’m still trying to
piece together a deal that might save me from transmitting negative figures.
‘Sorry. No change.’ I tell the unshaven man curtly. It’s
not exactly true in relation to the pound coins in my pocket but I’m guessing
it’s spot-on when I get back to the office. The man mutters something
unflattering behind my back and I only just restrain myself from spinning and
giving him the Daily Mail readers’ rant about getting a job and taking some
responsibility for a being washed-up failure, but I realise it’s too close to
home.
‘Hello.’ Calls a familiar voice I don’t want to hear.
‘Been somewhere hot?’ I paste on my public persona smile and turn to see the
hobbling banker. He looks like shit.
‘Holiday.’ I tell him with a thin smile. I can feel my
skin starting to flake and I’m guessing the tan will be gone before the credit
card bill arrives and I wonder just what I bought from an unknown shop, with
such a poor exchange rate.
‘Alright for some.’ Rejoins the loan peddler. ‘I can’t
afford to get away.’
Neither can I mate, particularly with a mortgage from
your pension-plumped bosses, I think sourly. That’s why I’m heading back to the
office hoping against hope they’ve had a decent few days while I’ve been away.
‘Somewhere nice?’ Enquires the banker, pleasingly
struggling to keep up with my slightly brisker now, pace. Just another flyblown
island where they’ve over-borrowed and overspend on property projects I feel
like saying, but I just give him the destination instead.
‘Get a good exchange rate?’ He asks as we cross the road
together and I see the office fascia looming ominously. Not for the pottery
pieces my wife insisted on buying which were in pieces when we opened the
suitcase. I give a neutral answer. You never know when you might need a loan,
or another holiday - this time a payment one.
Nobody is in the office yet, as expected. I scan the
window display looking hopefully for a batch of new, realistically priced, sole
agencies and maybe a couple of freshly appended sold stc stickers. It looks
exactly the same. Even the dead wasp is still slowly desiccating on the
windowsill on top of those glossy corporate brochures extolling our group
virtues. Brochures that no potential seller reads when all they want is a high
price and a cheap fee. As office manager you like to think you’re the best
salesman, so paradoxically and against my financial benefit, I’m almost glad
they haven’t done too well in my absence, but then again... Sighing, I stoop to
unlock the door. The alarm starts to sound as I wonder if they’d miss me if that
dream of becoming a writer - or more likely the lottery numbers coming up -
ever came to pass? Probably not. I’ve seen colleagues exit for varied reasons:
greener grass, mewling maternity and nervous breakdowns. You’re quickly
replaced.
Codes punched in, I notice a light bulb out in the window
display and growl in disapproval. And yes, I spotted the weeds growing outside
the office hadn’t been tugged up. Firing up my terminal I find my password no
longer works. About the only thing that has happened judging by the manual copy
of the stats I peruse instead.
And another piece of me dies inside.
---------------------------
Still alive and kicking the e-book
3 comments:
Just in time for the Olympics. I can feel the gestation of a new post already. ;=) Welcome back to:
This royal throne of accountants, his septic bile,
This earth of travesty, this seat of mini cars,
This other meeting, semi detacheds,
This fortress built by Connells for herself
Against all common sense and the hand of reason,
This miserable breed of men, this little insular world,
This depressing office set in the high street,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less fortunate house buyers,
This messed up plot, this earth, this realm, this England...
The Bard himself would be proud.
:-)
S.A.
@hotairmail
"England's greed & unpleasant land"
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