I regularly employ office temps to help out
with, well, office work. My aim is to enhance productivity by allowing the
full-time staff time to concentrate on such pressing tasks as handling the
complex logistics of our return to Earth following the regular Friday afternoon
brainstorms down the pub.
Being the fine judge of character that I
am, I allow all temps to work with me for an hour or two when they first
arrive, and so it was that when this week’s temp arrived a mere two days and
four hours late I gave her the honour of taking down the latest instalment in
my magnum opus, “The role of the Toppled Bollard in the history of British
Existentialism.”
“The art of client entertainment in the
direct mail business…” I began and for the next five and a half hours continued
in such mode. However, on asking the lady to read back part of my muse it
became all too obvious that she had not kept up with me at all.
I was somewhat miffed. “Your agency said
that you had a speed of 30 words per minute,” I told her. “What’s the problem?”
She laughed. It was an interesting laugh –
somewhat akin to a London Underground train entering the Piccadilly line tunnel
south of Arnos Grove and then applying its brakes suddenly to enable it to stop
three feet from a clutch of sixth formers who had wandered into the gloom in
the mistaken belief that it this was the best way to get the black bit when
taking monochrome photographs.
“Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I can
read 30 words per minute perfectly well.”
“Ah,” I said, knowingly. “What did you do
in your last job?”
“I sat with the
photocopier and cursed a bit.”
“Have you ever worked in Bodmin?” I asked.
Tony Attwood
P.S. Did you know that in Hamilton House shared mailings you now get 10% more schools without it costing you a penny extra? No? I didn’t know either, but apparently there’s a leaflet enclosed on the subject.