Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (22 page)

‘It wasn’t bad,’ I said.

Trevor took a diary with flaky yellow pages out of the box. ‘April 1st. “It turns out that today wasn’t a no-uniform day after all. It was just another prank by Dave Cross. I
was sent home by Mr Jenkins, but not before Dave had rubbed chalk on the crotch of my birthday jeans.” Was that one of the greats?’

‘Again, it was a decent effort,’ I said.

The next diary that Trevor pulled out of the box was so old that the front cover had fallen off. ‘April 1st. “Dave Cross told me that a bird had done a shit on the back of my blazer.
When I took it off to look he grabbed it and threw it in one of the large bins. I had to climb in to get it and when I did Dave got everyone to spin the bin round and round.” Was that one of
the greats?’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘That one was a bit mean. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ said Trevor. ‘While I was lying in that bin, watching the grey clouds spin round and round, I made a vow to do something with my life. And now I own the
second-biggest industrial bin supplier in the south-east. Do you have your own business?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You know I don’t.’

‘That’s right,’ said Trevor. ‘Because I’m a winner and you’re a loser. Now for the real April fool joke. I do want you to write me another brochure, after
all. I want it to cover our full range of galvanized wheel bins and I want it by close of play tomorrow.’

Three hours. That’s how much sleep I had because of that shitty brochure. I went to sleep at four, and had to set my alarm for seven to have any chance of finishing the
thing.

I couldn’t even make myself a coffee this morning because my kettle broke. I tied it in a plastic bag, chucked it in my wheelie bin and ordered a new one. I felt a slight twinge of guilt
over this. I’m sure there was a time when, if something broke, you’d take it back to the shop and ask them to mend it.

But where would I have taken that broken kettle? Did I pay for a guarantee when I bought it? Did I fill out the little warranty form in the box? Did I even keep the receipt? Would the men in
short-sleeved shirts in the electrical megastore look at me like I was bonkers if I showed them a broken kettle? I’ll never know because new ones were only £20 on Amazon. And even if
I’d had enough sleep the humiliation of begging for help in that aircraft hangar wouldn’t be worth £20. But at least I felt mildly guilty while chucking it in the bin.
That’s something.

I was in the office even before Jen, and I got on with the brochure as soon as I sat down. I was hoping to take some time out for lunch, but my computer rudely interrupted me just before eleven
to tell me it wanted to update its operating system. I foolishly clicked ‘accept’ and as a result I spent my only break of the day staring at a progress bar and willing it to speed
up.

My laptop obviously sensed weakness because it kept telling me I had to install ‘critical’ updates for all my other programmes. I clicked ‘Accept’ on everything and
agreed to the endless lists of terms and conditions. I had absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to, and I doubt anyone does. We’ll probably just be woken up one night by armed soldiers with
Apple logos on their uniforms, demanding that we hand over our first-born children as detailed in the iTunes small print.

At a quarter to five, I send the brochure copy through to Trevor and slumped forward on to my desk. While I was drifting off to sleep, Jez invited me to his party on Saturday. I was so tired I
told him I didn’t want to go, which was surprisingly mature of me.

I’m right, I shouldn’t go. The only reason I’d want to go would be to make another pathetic attempt with Jo. And now I’ve accepted that will never happen, I don’t
have to waste a night shouting over the top of dance music in some sweaty council flat. I can settle back in bed with a mug of cocoa and a Jane Austen novel and wait for the sweet release of death,
just as someone my age should.

I had to go to a presentation about new media in a hotel in town today. It was unbelievably dull but I kept myself awake by imagining how I’d kill Trevor if I had an
unlimited amount of time and a full Black & Decker toolbox.

Jen came along too and she spent every coffee break introducing herself to people and commenting on what a great networking opportunity it was. You’re not supposed to admit you’re
networking. That’s like admitting you’re chatting them up.

She kept bringing people over to meet me, which I suppose was nice of her. I could always call them and beg them for work if Trevor gets me fired.

Jen gave me a lift home in her Land Rover afterwards, which was also nice of her.

‘Leave the car at home?’ she asked. I was so used to her sentences ending with an upswing that it took me a while to realize she was asking a question.

‘Oh, I er … don’t have a car.’

‘Really?’ asked Jen. ‘I thought you’d be one of those car men. Is it an environmental thing? I know this one’s a bit naughty, but it’s fab for
hills.’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t drive a car if they invented one that farted out rainforests.’

‘So why don’t you have one?’ she asked.

‘It’s just … Don’t get me started on cars.’

‘Go on,’ said Jen.

‘Well, it’s the speed cameras and the fines and the congestion charges and the sleeping policemen and the “Baby on Board” stickers and the pigeon shit on your windscreen
and the pedestrians who veer out into the road without taking their eyes off their phones and the difficulty of maintaining a speed that’s slow enough so you won’t get a fine but fast
enough that you don’t end up annoying everyone else and getting stuck behind caravans on bank holidays and Sunday afternoons in Halfords and conversations with distant relatives about whether
A roads are quicker than motorways and traffic wardens fining you for being a millimetre over the white lines and the garages that say they’ll have your car ready by Tuesday and then pretend
they have to send off for some parts because they didn’t get it done on time and men with squeegees who throw filthy water over your windscreen and demand money to wash it off and people who
sneak into the parking space you’ve been waiting half an hour for and getting a puncture on a motorway at night and trying to work out how to use the jack so you won’t have to make a
humiliating call to the AA and getting stuck with an ambulance behind you and a guy who doesn’t seem in much of a hurry in front and not knowing what the button next to the steering wheel
does and pressing it only for nothing to happen and drivers who’ve somehow passed their tests without learning how to signal and drinking mineral water because you’re the designated
driver at a party that would need at least three bottles of gin to get through and BMW drivers who can afford to pay the fine so they double park and stick their hazard lights on while they pop
into Waitrose for some sun-blushed tomatoes…’

‘OK, I get it, grumpy bear,’ said Jen.

‘But I haven’t got on to cyclists yet,’ I said. ‘They’re the part I hate most.’

Another of Josh’s ‘kickstart’ meetings this morning and this time the finger quotes went into overdrive. Apparently our latest account wins show we’re
‘on the runway’ and we’ve got the ‘bandwidth’ to succeed. If he doesn’t stop using these buzzwords soon, he’ll give himself repetitive strain injury. He
said he’d like more of us to ‘take ownership’ of accounts to foster an environment of ‘co-opertition’.

Josh used the phrase ‘what I like to call’ so much that he even started saying it before perfectly normal words like ‘results’. When he’s at home he probably asks
his wife for ‘what I like to call a cup of coffee with what I like to call two sugars’.

I drifted off about ten minutes into Josh’s bullshit, but I’m sure I heard him mention the word ‘hotdesking’ at one point. I think that means everyone has to move desks
all the time for no reason other than to introduce the stress of musical chairs into the workplace. If he thinks I’m going to give up my spot against the back wall just so he can trot out
more jargon, he can shove it up his bandwidth.