‘If I see another f***ing PowerPoint presentation I’ll
top myself.’ Hisses my vertically challenged rival manager H as we settle into
another bland hotel meeting room and the bean counter boss unfolds his laptop.
He has a point. The graphic of the be-suited man climbing
some sort of snakes and ladders sales mountain had a certain novelty value
about a decade ago, but now I just long for an old-fashioned overhead projector
and a couple of acetates. Maybe even some A4 handouts.
‘The first and last refuge of the terminally dull
presenter.’ I tell H, as I sit reluctantly next to him after missing out in the
unseemly scrabble to be seated by the new and smoking hot female manager, who
is having some early sales success in an office where the last incumbent spent
more time downing measures, than measuring up.
‘She won’t last long on top.’ Sneers H, conjuring up a
vision I have trouble shaking, until the eastern European girl with the
embryonic moustache and the unflattering nylon housecoat turns up, with pots of
stewed tea and coffee strong enough to strip the enamel from your teeth.
‘She’s producing some good instruction figures.’ I tell
H, pouring a dark and suspicious smelling brew into the already stained cup in
front of me. And I look at my new colleague and give her, what I judge to be, a
companionably but in no way salacious smile of encouragement. She smiles
radiantly back and I realise why she’s getting quite a few sole agencies with
boards - at least from the male vendors.
‘It won’t last.’ Gripes H ungraciously. ‘They always get
hormonal or pregnant once the first flush of enthusiasm goes.’
He really is a whole heap of chauvinistic unpleasantness
for such a small package. It really irks me his office outperforms mine, ten
months out of twelve.
I watch the bean counter as he fiddles with his tracker
pad and tries to line up the first image, one his secretary probably prepared
for him, with the portable projection screen. Despondent, as I imagine scores
of slides a ten year old would be ashamed to produce flashing before my eyes
for the next ninety minutes, I look at the pile of dusty Imperial mints in the
saucer in front of me and wonder how long it would take to overdose on sugary
spheres?
How did I get here? Asks that annoying inner voice, one
that grows in intensity with each passing year and each newly increased sales
target. A salesman’s career is finite, like any other, but unlike say, a doctor
or lawyer improving with the accumulation of age and knowledge, estate agency
is essentially a young man’s – or woman’s – game. There are only so many late
night viewings and valuations you can do with utter wasters before you start to
lose that youthful enthusiasm. Next time round I’ll definitely pay more
attention at school and try not to grow up in a dysfunctional family.
‘Financial service performance is far from acceptable.’
Drones the bean counter, as I begin to yearn for the temporary high of the
soggy bacon butties that we’ll be having at the comfort break. I already have
virtual indigestion, the physical version might as well accompany it once the
industrialised white baps and water-pumped bacon arrives. When the absurd,
Americanised, breakfast meeting idea arrived on these shores, it seemed radical
and not a little exotic. But budget cuts soon ditched the full English for poor
man’s transport café fare and the realisation that the whole charade of shared
sustenance and team-building was just an excuse to get you out of bed a couple
of hours earlier, and back in the office before opening time.
‘I hate clapping for someone else.’ Gripes H as I think
welcome to my world short-arse. The pretty new manager has just collected a
bottle of cheap bubbly and the embarrassingly naff, new instruction performance
cup. At least she has the good grace to blush – it will soon fade.
‘We’ll see if the bitch has sold any of them next month.’
Says H poisonously.
The Imperial mints are rattling around in the car coin
tray. Not sure I’ve stolen enough.
-----
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