Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (14 page)

Jen was behind me in the sandwich queue this lunchtime, so I felt like I should make conversation. I tried complaining about queuing, but she said she didn’t mind it. I
tried complaining about the sandwiches, but she said she liked them. How are you supposed to make small talk with someone who won’t moan? I even resorted to complaining about the local area,
assuming that no one could find anything positive to say about that. But Jen said she liked it because it had a ‘village-y vibe’.

No it doesn’t. It’s right in the middle of a city. It couldn’t be less like a village. And why would we want it to be? What’s so great about places where everyone has six
fingers and no passport? Why spend all your money moving to a city and then obsessively seek out the bits that aren’t like one?

Jen waited until she got to the front before reading out the options on the blackboard. Then she chose something, changed her mind, changed her mind again and asked if the hummus was organic. A
man in the queue behind us tutted, and a woman looked at me and shook her head. I don’t see what it had to do with me. I chose my order before I even got in the queue. I had the exact change
ready and everything.

Josh popped over this morning to check how I was getting on with the brochure. According to my diary, he wasn’t supposed to see it until Friday. How did he know I’d
had a fit of madness and finished it? Maybe I was typing too loudly.

I printed out the document and showed it to him. He skimmed through and said, ‘This is really punchy.’ It made me feel really punchy when he said that. And really slappy. And really
stabby.

‘We should fire this off now,’ he said. ‘Get ahead of ourselves.’

Fan-fucking-tastic. So now I’ve got to find something else to pretend to do for the rest of the week in case he comes over for any more impromptu meetings.

My hair’s getting out of control again. If I look at it from the front it’s just about neat enough. But if I turn my head even slightly to the side I transform into
a maths lecturer who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.

I need to go to the barber’s, but I can’t face it. I’d honestly rather go to the dentist during an anaesthetic shortage. Last time I tried to get my hair cut, I didn’t
get any further than the moody black and white shots of male models in the window. Why are those preening himbos supposed to entice us in? And why do they always look so deep in concentration? Are
they trying to count higher than ten?

If I were a barber, I’d have no photos at all in the window. Just a sign that says, ‘We’ll give you exactly the same hairstyle as you’ve got now, only a couple of inches
shorter, and you won’t have to describe what you want in any way. We won’t even ask where you’re going on holiday this year.’

I suppose I should be grateful. Most men my age find themselves pulling clumps out of their bath plugholes as their hairlines retreat backwards. But at least they don’t have to go to the
barber’s.

No news on the brochure front yet. I keep expecting Trevor to call me into an emergency meeting where he’ll steal my lunch money and give me a wedgie, but I haven’t heard anything at
all. Maybe he’s had his little revenge now, and I’ll never have to see him again.

I snotted out my latte in surprise this morning. Even though she was sitting just a few feet away from me, Jo emailed to ask if I wanted to come for a drink. I said I’d be
glad to, and asked what the secrecy was for. I was hoping she’d say she wanted some time alone with me, but no such luck. She was simply inviting everyone by email because she didn’t
want Jen to come.

I looked over at Jen, who was flicking through a woman’s magazine and repeating the words ‘That is so true’ to herself. I told Jo I thought it was a good idea.

I have to admit I was getting my hopes up that everyone else would leave early, and I could finally ask Jo about the Valentine’s Day card.

Then just before five, my phone went off. Like an idiot, I answered it.

‘Hi, it’s Trevor. I’ve just got a few comments on the brochure copy.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a call back?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t give me call back, Chalky Balls. Remember what I said? Do what I say, or the account’s walking and several tons of shit are going to fall
on your head. Now, my first change is to page one, paragraph one, sentence one, word one…’

Jo was getting her bag ready. I put my hand over the receiver and said, ‘I’ll see you down there.’

Jen’s head popped up from her desk. ‘Oh, are we going out for a drink? Cool bananas.’

Jo tutted and shook her head.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

I eventually finished the call at quarter past ten. Trevor had carefully gone through every word and explained why it was wrong and also why every other word would also be wrong. Then he told me
he expected to see a revised version first thing on Monday.

Everyone had gone from the pub by the time I’d arrived there, but it didn’t matter. It’s not like I could have got drunk anyway. I’ve got to be up at seven tomorrow to
work on the brochure.

The Great Escape
is on TV today. There’s a sale at the local garden centre. And an old friend is in town and wants to know if I can meet up for a pint. But none of
this is relevant to me because I’ve got to write this stupid brochure all weekend. Is this how it’s going to be now? Seven-day weeks with early mornings and late nights? Perhaps I
should stop dividing time into weeks at all and get on with the mind-numbing, soul-destroying work that will fill all my time between now and death.

Even sleep isn’t a respite any more. I had a dream about bins last night. It wasn’t even an interesting one. I was just walking through a yard full of bins and
ticking a clipboard. I wonder if Josh will let me put the dream down on the time-logging website.

I thought it was Monday when I woke up. Then I realized it was actually Sunday and for a couple of brief seconds my spirits lifted. But then I remembered it was a Sunday I’d have to spend
working and my spirits plunged right back down again.

Today was obviously determined to be utterly horrendous, so I admitted defeat right away and got on with the brochure. At lunchtime I cooked macaroni cheese and watched the shopping channel, as
I knew that if I tried to do anything remotely pleasant, today would find a way to ruin it for me.

I sent my brochure copy to Trevor this morning. A minute later I got a reply which read, ‘This is great. Thanks.’ Another minute later I got an email which read,
‘Actually, this is all wrong. I’ll arrange a meeting soon to discuss.’

At least this is helping me get over my guilt about how we treated Trevor in school. All my life I’ve had this niggling sense of regret about the time we dipped his Kit Kat in the urinal.
Now I wish I’d dipped his face in it.