‘Long time no see.’ Calls a familiar voice, as I battle
through the lunchtime workers, clutching my low-calorie meal deal. I can walk
on and feign deafness, or turn and manufacture delight at the recognition.
Neither is a great option. I’ve only just agonised over another thankless
decision - albeit a culinary one - that left me feeling empty, and that’s
before I tear open the joyless packet of reduced-fat chicken/no mayo sandwich.
I’ll be starving again by mid-afternoon. I stop and wait. The Boots bag with my
lunch inside feels like my head, almost lighter than air. Either one could
float off at any moment.
‘Thought it was you.’ Continues the disembodied voice, as
I stare at the oncoming tide of barely-washed humanity with the distaste my
flavour-free lunch is going to provide, once I shake off whoever wants to talk
to me. Then I spot the rolling gait and the florid face. It’s the hobbling
banker. I thought they’d operated on his hip, so either the other one is
failing, or he’s been uncomfortably shafted recently. It would make a pleasant
reversal of roles. He stops and flashes the sort of insincere grin I trained
myself out of – after several days in front of the shaving mirror – soon after
I started in sales. It’s a wonder he shifted so many worthless Payment
Protection Policies with a smile like that – but then the public can be pretty
gullible. Fortunately.
‘You got a couple of minutes?’ He asks, nodding towards a
bench just vacated by a pair of whiskery, equally unsteady, Tennent’s Super
lager drinkers. I look conspicuously at my watch, something you should never do
in a sales pitch, but then I don’t want to share my brief re-fuelling stop with
a charisma-free moneylender, and anyway I’ve a feeling he’s the one pushing
product. I nod and we hurry, as fast as two middle-aged men with medical
history can manage, towards the seat. I may not be that agile any longer and
the back condition can only worsen, but I still ensure hop-along banker-boy
gets the bench-end spattered with dried pigeon shit. I search for the small
victories.
‘How’s it going?’ Ask the man, perching uncomfortably on
the only exposed bit of timber that isn’t mottled white and black with
droppings. The culprits are just rats with wings as far as I’m concerned, and
the ancient woman who feeds them is the same mad old bird who comes in to the
office every few months looking for a bungalow she and her husband can afford.
She’s on benefits and he’s dead, so not a lot I can do. If I’m feeling
mischievous I occasionally refer her to S, our lettings lush.
‘Not bad.’ I answer neutrally. Never give away your
position lightly. I wait, silence being a strong weapon. Frankly, unless he’s
got some corporate freebie tickets to handout for a major sporting event, I’d
actually rather eat the, seemingly helium-filled, bag of not-really-crisps but
so much better for you baked nibbles, which came with the meal deal.
‘Did I tell you I have a new boss?’ Says the man
mournfully.
‘Yes.’ I say abruptly, thinking The Samaritans’ phone
number is in the last un-vandalised phone box in town. Just go there instead,
pal.
‘And that she’s a f***ing woman?’ He continues, with unreconstructed venom. I
suppress an unhelpful giggle as the wannabe writer in me thinks, the
punctuation in that last sentence changes everything. I nod, not daring to risk
anything more for fear of a laugh escaping.
‘She’s on my back every day.’ He says with anguish, as I
try to picture that position without clutching my hand to my mouth. And to
think I was feeling down earlier. This is fantastic. Go on ask me for some
referral business.
‘I tell you, I need to jump through hoops to satisfy
her.’ Informs my entertainment for the day. I might have to feign a sneeze in a
moment. I’m almost ready to weep with mirth.
‘You seem happier.’ Says S, my negotiator, ten minutes
later.
You can bank on it.
----
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