Santa Baby - Friday

‘Don’t be such an old spoilsport.’ Chides negotiator S playfully. She knows which buttons to press.

‘I’m not.’ I counter unconvincingly.

‘We all just buy something for £5 then wrap it up and do a lucky dip.’ Continues S, championing the office Secret Santa idea.

‘What can you get worth having for a fiver?’ I carp. The list is quite extensive as it happens.

‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ Suggests assistant manager T, adding. ‘There’s not much else to do.’

He has a point, the year end target became unassailable back in September, for the last few days the phones have fallen silent and the only footfall has been outside the office window as desperate shoppers seek inspiration for presents that will be re-gifted in the New Year.

‘You can get some great tins of biscuits at Tesco for cheap money.’ Says porky finance man M. He knows about overfilled plates and mortgage rates but has no idea when enough is enough.

We should be talking to existing vendors and encouraging them to trim their asking prices, rather then their Christmas tree. Should be gently suggesting a tacky inflatable snowman on the lawn and more lights than Blackpool can muster, on their front elevation, isn’t helping viewings. Should be chasing failed valuations and telling prospective vendors buyers are waiting if they are realistic on price expectations. Advising them to ignore the skewed surveys showing ever-rising values, driven by central London la-la land and Russian oligarchs trying to launder dubiously obtained profits. But sometimes you have to know when to stop.

‘Can I go first?’ Asks S excitedly, her vast breasts jiggling in acknowledgement of the fact I’m allowing staff to slope off to the shops to do their present buying, in the absence of any diary appointments. I’m still not sure if S’s décolletage is a feature or a benefit, but I’d happily support both.

‘Your turn boss.’ Says trainee F when he returns, several bags in his paws, the one from a countrywide pet supplies store has me worried and intrigued in equal measure. I know his girlfriend is rough, but that’s ridiculous. I decide not to ask and to watch carefully when he places his offering in the Secret Santa sack, later.

‘Excuse me can you point me in the right direction for ladies’ underwear?’ Asks a grey-haired old lady earnestly. I suppress the sort of monumental sigh that might weaken foundations and have ‘Bomber’, our sale-killing surveyor, reaching for his seismometer and ordering an engineer’s report.

‘I don’t work here madam.’ I say, for the umpteenth time. It happens whenever I go to Marks and Spencer in my business suit. I don’t usually get an argument though.

‘You look like you should work here.’ Persists the old girl doggedly. I haven’t got a lapel badge on, I’m not wearing a green tie and I’ve not tried to flog her a store card, so I could beg to differ. Instead I send her in the direction of returns, where the queue is already building even before the Boxing Day sale.

‘Can I help you sir?’ Asks a female voice and I jump as if someone has tasered me. I let go of the silky nightdress I was unconsciously fingering and feel my cheeks go a crimson that doubtless matches the Basque and panty set I discounted moments ago. The shop assistant does have a name badge, and is about nineteen years old.

‘I’m looking for a present.’ I stutter, feeling like I did on my first ever valuation – hopelessly out of my depth and a bit of a tit.

‘For your partner?’ Asks the girl neutrally. Nobody assumes you’re married any more, or heterosexual, or even a man wanting lingerie for someone other than himself. Progress of sorts, I guess.

‘Do you know what size she is?’ Cajoles the young woman artfully. I look at her, at the nightgown and try to stop an uncomfortable visualisation. The underwear version of the video house tour would just about cover it. Then my download freezes.

God knows, why I said: ‘She’s about your size.’

Now it’ll be me queuing at customer services on the 26^th December.

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Have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year and thanks for reading. 

Red Card - Thursday

‘Call me old fashioned…’ I begin.

‘You’re old fashioned.’ Interjects assistant manager T to barely suppressed hilarity. Not sure what happened to the respect campaign but when you realise you are starting to sound like one of those grumbling pensioners you used to think euthanasia was a solution for, self-worth can be a dwindling commodity.

‘What is it?’ Asks negotiator S kindly. I reckon she was born too late or I was born too early. Unless I’m as delusional as all those old crumblies living in over-priced sheltered apartments, thinking they’ll be leaving a worthwhile asset to their beneficiaries.

‘A bloody email.’ I say contemptuously.

‘You get loads of bloody emails.’ Says T.

‘Not with a sodding digital Christmas card attached.’ I tell him witheringly.

T and S walk to my computer screen and scan the wretched download, something with all the, goodwill and peace to all men content of a land mine, as far as I’m concerned.

‘I think it moves.’ Suggests S leaning in and brushing my arm with her substantial frontage.

‘Click on it.’ Suggests T as I try not to gulp audibly.

‘Do you mind if I use your mouse?’ Asks S innocently. There’s only so much unwitting innuendo I can take with my blood pressure. I nod acquiescence and try not to let the aforementioned red-stuff rush anywhere but my head.

‘Look it’s rising up.’ Exclaims S to a momentary feeling of horror until I realise the tacky Santa and sleigh montage is moving in clunky fashion, as the reindeer take flight and a Merry Christmas message flashes on the screen like some virtual virus.

‘Seriously?’ I gripe in Scrooge-like fashion.

As the scene plays out to a tinkling digitised soundtrack, I read the attached message stating sanctimoniously that the sender company are saving the environment (their franking machine bill) by not using the physical postal system. Not content with expecting me to swallow that bullshit, the text informs me that any cost benefit from not mailing the traditional way will be donated to a charity. One I’ve never heard of.

Now I’m ambivalent about corporate Christmas cards at the best of times, as the sentiment is more about reciprocal business than Christian – other religions are available – goodwill. But if you are going to make a list of recipients who might be of use to you in the coming year, at least make the effort of actually buying and sending a touch me, feel me, put me in the office window, three-dimensional piece of tinsel-tinted-tat.

‘You don’t like it then?’ Concludes S moving back to her desk.

‘It has all the sincerity of a politician claiming they only do the job to serve their constituents.’ I tell her.

‘You’re so cynical.’ Replies S with a look of disappointment I’ve seen before.

‘You start idealistic, move on to brutally informed then migrate to pessimism.’ I respond before adding and instantly regretting: ‘It’s the circle of life.’

‘That’s more of a linear progression.’ Chips T with a smug smile.

‘It comes to all of us eventually, particularly if you stay in this business.’ I tell him, disliking myself even as I spout the bile-laced response. My romanticism withered after the first few sales fell through and I realised anyone who stated: “My word is my bond”, was a pathological liar.

‘So we won’t be sending out any company Christmas cards then?’ Asks S a hint of sadness in her eyes. I feel like I’ve just told her Santa won’t be coming to fill her stocking ever again, but I just end up fighting a shameful image. One that would give the harridans in Human Resources a whole new inappropriate behaviour chapter to write, on the company standing orders.

‘He’s got a list on the computer.’ Says T knowingly. He’s right and at first I believed in it. Thought it was a nice sentiment to acknowledge those you’ve dealt with all year and to wish them well for the future. But time, a bean counter boss and a less than healthy profit and loss account has chipped away at my belief. At best I’m agnostic now.

God help me.

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