Media Mogul - Tuesday

‘Usual crap?’ Asks H my vertically-challenged rival manager, as we meet in the hotel car park. For a moment I think he’s referring to my ageing company car - replacements delayed as part of the bean counter boss’s budget cuts - but he’s thinking about the forthcoming managers’ meeting. 

‘Nothing much is new.’ I tell H, blipping my remote and getting a lifeless soft-touch click in return. The battery has gone and I haven’t got round to facing the copies in triplicate grief, arranging a replacement will entail. Ignominiously I have to walk back to my car and secure the doors manually. H doesn’t help matters by clicking his Ultimate Driving Machine fob from several paces away. Higher office turnover, higher band and on the car list. It’s the only think lofty about the little twerp.

‘I reckon these are a waste of time.’ Pontificates H as we walk towards the entrance door, one of those intimidating revolving ones. I clutch my briefcase handle tighter still. The wedged document receptacle in a spinning lobby door incident, still hasn’t entirely faded from my memory. Expensive counselling might erase the trauma but I like to spend my time on vendors’ couches.

‘That’s what my staff think about my morning meetings.’ I tell H as we have that embarrassing will you, won’t you moment when the door spins our way. I end up in the same personal space as him and have to do the dolly-steps shuffle, keeping just ahead of the door panel snapping at my achilles tendon without entering the short arse…

‘I don’t bother with morning meetings most days.’ Says H, riling me unnecessarily. He already has the best catchment area and a lower rent than my office. If you asked me I could do better than him if we swapped places - but nobody asks me.

‘You need to plan and prepare, need to communicate to your team what you expect.’ I say, rising to the bait despite myself. H grins, nods to the Romanian girl on reception and says. ‘We’re too busy fielding offers to do all the crap you do.’ I should have shoved him into the door mechanism when I had the chance and claimed an industrial accident. I’ve thought of it enough, believe me.

‘Here we go.’ Whispers H as the bean counter arrives in the meeting room a few minutes late. If the roles were reversed I’d reprimand the figure-fiddler for tardy timekeeping. Sadly, it seems accountants, not the meek, are inheriting the earth - or at least what’s left of it once depreciation and dilapidation figures have been offset against built in obsolescence.

Ninety minutes in, the fatty bacon sandwiches churning in my stomach like a cheap tumble dryer, the bean counter gets to item nine on the agenda. I look again, intrigued, as he toggles his laptop and the heading Social Media rises from the bottom of the overhead projector.

‘Do we really need to be doing this?’ Asks the bean counter, as I think if only he knew.

‘Corporate blogs and dull product placement Tweets are worse than no presence at all.’ Suggests the woman just back from her second maternity leave. The bean counter didn’t like her being away twice in three years and word is he won’t recruit another female at management level if they haven’t passed the menopause yet. I’m hoping I can sit in the public gallery at the tribunal - heavily disguised of course.

‘I couldn’t think of what to say.’ Offers another manager. That’s because you have the charisma of a carrot, I think sourly.

‘And you’d have to vet anything you wanted to publish.’ Adds a third voice. ‘The slightest contentious point and some tool would want to sue us.’

That’s why I do it anonymously I think, trying not to grin.

‘Agreed,’ responds the bean counter. ‘But I still think we need to have a profile.’ He pauses before adding. ‘Would anyone like to volunteer to pilot it?’

‘I’m too busy.’ Says H woundingly. He managed to sit beside me, despite my best efforts. Just trying to make himself look big if you ask me.

Meanwhile - I’m keeping a low profile. 

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Grass Is Always Greener - Wednesday

‘Think I want to go home now.’ I shout angrily through the bathroom door.

‘Had enough sun?’ Calls my wife from the hotel bedroom.

‘Had enough of the plumbing.’ I tell her, grimacing as I look at the waste bin alongside the toilet. You can have too much information and the sign instructing wipers not to dispose of paper down the loo is an instruction too far. Once a rebel always a rebel, I tell myself as I ignore the notice and curse the flimsy gauge of the toilet roll. Scant material with the robustness of that tissue paper expensive lingerie shops wrap the underwear you buy your wife in. The garments she’ll be returning for a refund a day after her birthday.

‘Paper failure.’ I tell my wife as I emerge hands and nails scrubbed fastidiously. She grimaces and continues packing clothes she hasn’t worn, including the chain store dress we saw a fat-arsed woman wearing on the first night.

‘Hah, same dress as you.’ I’d said injudiciously.

‘It better not look the same on me.’ She’d hissed in reply.

‘No, that’s at least two sizes bigger than yours.’ I’d replied encouragingly.

‘Try four.’ Was the icy reply and now I’ll be humping the item, along with half a wardrobe of other unworn pieces, home again.

We hadn’t been to Greece for about twenty years so I’d figured the plumbing and the food would have improved. Wrong on both counts. About the only thing that can go down the toilet is the economy and I’ve remembered why they smash their dinner plates.

‘I fancy a look round the town before we go.’ I tell her. She doesn’t as it turns out, preferring to do the pool aqua aerobics one last time. I’ve refused that indignity. Twenty overweight holidaymakers mimicking the hot Greek girl’s movements I can do without, especially as I can watch her from behind the safety of my sunglasses without exposing myself.

On the way to reception I pass a few familiar faces and some pasty new ones. I’ve named a few just to amuse myself. Anal Retentive businessman is under a sunshade, talking loudly into his mobile phone while his bored trophy wife slathers sun cream suggestively. Heil Helga, the German woman with the saggy tits is sitting topless on the side of the pool still being ignored by the waiters. She’s twenty years and a long in the memory World War, too late. Then I pass newly prefixed Ms Miserable, the thirty-something slightly plump and getting plumper recent divorcee, who is with her elderly parents. You think you’ve finished holidaying with your mum and dad once you’ve left home but she’s back on both counts. I see her every night looking miserable comfort eating and drinking heavily while her parents play cards. She’ll make sure HE pays though. Maybe I can leave her a business card and get the matrimonial house sale if she’s local….

The hotel cat is sitting under a sparse tree languidly licking its private parts again, presumably just because it can. And the group of fifty-something blokes with beer bellies and bad Hawaiian shirts are propped against the bar talking loudly. The one with the dodgy combover I’ve nicknamed Steve McGarrett, is in full flow. I toy with the fashion police gag I’ve been working on and holding up an imaginary yellow card shouting: “Book him Danno”, but I leave it. Greek dentists are not going to be cheap.

Past the supermarket and a few tacky gift shops I see the estate agency. I’ve been avoiding thinking about work but now I’m drawn to the window like a fly to a turd. The door is propped open and an olive-skinned man, who to be fair does actually look passable in a short-sleeve shirt, is sitting in front of a giant oscillating fan. He looks at me and looks away. Never judge a book by the cover I think, as I scan the window and see the absurd Energy Performance Certificate rules apply to concrete shacks with no need of thermal retention in 40c temperatures. The prices are as laughable and unsustainable as ours and there’s no Waitrose...

My bags are packed I’m ready to go.

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Room For Improvement - Monday

‘How’s the room?’ Asks my wife cautiously, over a crackling mobile connection – surely nobody uses a hotel phone any longer?

‘It’s alright.’ I say unconvincingly, before adding. ‘Bit dated.’

‘Character then.’

‘I’m not trying to sell it.’ I snap back ungraciously. I don’t want to be here, she knows I don’t. Another day of force-fed figures and obscure guest speakers trying to flog over-priced product, followed by heat and eat sub-standard catering food and a night in a pricey bar with a bunch of half-cut property people. Unappetising.

‘Better than one of those motorway junction identikit boxes though.’ Coaxes my wife gamely.

‘If you mean crooked stairs, creaky floors and an en-suite in one corner made of chipboard, then possibly.’ I concede. I didn’t used to be this grumpy but time and dealing with the public will eventually leech vigour from the most optimistic of characters, and I was pretty pessimistic to start with.

‘Did you learn anything today though?’ Presses my missus doggedly.

‘Not to drink too much stewed coffee.’ I bat back, as my stomach cramps again and I look towards the claustrophobic facilities and wonder if the asthmatic extractor fan can cope with any more demand. The wretched thing will doubtless wheeze for thirty minutes in the night after any stumbling visits occasioned by the bladder alarm.

‘What’s the food like?’ Asks my wife as we run out of things to say to each other.

It’s bland, cheaply sourced and eaten with the sort of dinner guests you’d only inflict on someone you seriously disliked, but I can’t tell her that. I already sense she’s losing interest. So I ask about the boys, about her day, about anything other than here and now.

‘Do you know there’s actually a Corby Trouser press on the wall?’ I announce to a long silence. Momentarily I think I’ve lost the phone signal but she’s just pondering an appropriated answer.

‘Do your suit trousers need pressing?’ She finally asks.

They are currently hung over a radiator that only does full on, in the overheated room. One of those little bastard long-life milk sticks exploded on me as I tried to make a cup of tea, with the midget-sized kettle with more fur inside than a sickly cat. I just know the strides are going to smell bad come the morning – like their owner.

I tell her I’ve been baffled by the idiot-proof visual instructions on the Corby and demoralised by the daunting prospect of watching the timer creep round for thirty minutes while I sit in my pants and try to find anything other than another bloody property programme, on the unknown brand flat-screen Freeview television. There’s no porn channel, but I decide not to mention that. The image of me bored and in my boxers with half an hour to kill is probably enough for her to cope with.

‘Are you going down to have a drink with the others later then?’ Probes my better half, as I sense she’s trying to wind the conversation up. Eastenders must be on BBC shortly.

‘The trouble is I don’t really like mixing with estate agents.’ I say, realising how absurd it sounds even before I’ve finished the sentence

‘Just have a couple.’ She suggests. ‘It might help you sleep.’

Sleeping well is something that has eluded me for months, if not years now. I’m just going to be staring at a different digital clock later, then attempting to creep across the creaking floorboards trying not to think too hard. Once the brain engages and starts running sales figures you’ll be wide awake until fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off.

Phone call over. Loneliness engulfing me like a wave. I decide to face the beer and bullshit downstairs. The trousers are still a little damp and there’s an unfortunately placed white stain I haven’t quite shifted, but I’m past caring. I glance at the instructions, in the event of fire, on the back of my room door as I prepare to leave. I can’t make out the easiest route to the exit. Presciently, a previous guest has managed to break the glass in the frame though.

In case of emergency.

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