STORIES|The Man Who Wouldn't Work

 

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1 Invisible Man

 

By the time I was first talking to him, he'd pretty well got it down to a fine art.  We were in the local pub, talking about our jobs.  Summer, as it happened.

 

     ‘I really just have to sit in my office and watch the Test Match every day.  You see, I've got a portable telly in there.  And a radio. That's for the rest of the year, really, when I listen to plays and things on Radio 4 and music on Radio 3.  Whatever I want.  After all, it's a bit lonely, sitting there in an office, on your own.  And I'm paid a professorial salary for it.’

     ‘But, presumably, there's something you actually do?  I mean, what does your job involve . . . actually?’

     ‘Well, it's hard to describe it, really.  It's . . . well, I'm a specialist, you see, in my field, so . . . people get referred to me.  From time to time.  Clients.  By other people.  So when they're referred to me, I . . . I see them.’

     ‘It seems amazing that you aren't busier.  After all, it's a huge organisation and I'd imagine, in your field, there's no shortage of . . .  I mean, what’s happening if people aren't being referred to you?’

     ‘Well, that's exactly the point.  There's nothing I can do about that.  You see, my job is simply to see the people who are referred to me.  I can't possibly initiate referrals.  They have to come to me.  In fact, I can't initiate anything.  I just have to sit there, and wait.  For referrals.’

     ‘On a professorial salary?’

     ‘Yes.  And I can't do anything about that, either.  It's just the nature of the job.’

 

We have another pint.  It’s just the nature of the job, he says.  So somebody who knows all about these things, someone at the very top of the organisation, believes that what they need is a person on a professorial salary, who spends most of their time doing very little except waiting, a lot of the time unsuccessfully, for referrals from other people.  Somebody who, presumably, also had a hand in the process when they created this rather remarkable post and appointed Spike.

 

Of course, a job like that was made for him.  His dream ticket.  Or was it?  Did he not, rather, as I suggest to him, get the job first and then fashion it in his own image?  He swallows long and deep, long and deep enough for my suggestion, left hanging in the air between us, to quietly evaporate without disturbing him.

 

     ‘But how can you watch the cricket all day long?  Why do you have so much spare time on your hands?  You’re not really telling me there’s a shortage of cases.  Do you know why you get so few referrals?’

     ‘It's probably something to do with the channels of communication in a large organisation.  Some of them don't really know who I am, or where I am.’

     ‘Some of who?  The clients or the people who refer them?’

     ‘Well, both, mainly.’

     ‘Well, where are you when there’s a referral?’

     ‘I'm in my office, listening to the radio or watching the cricket.  I certainly don't go walking round the corridors in the main building, looking for . . . ‘

     ‘Why not?’

     ‘Someone might see me.  I might be spotted by one of the people who refer clients to me.  Or by one of the clients I've already seen.’

     ‘But isn't that the . . . ?’

     ‘No.  It isn't.  That isn't the point.’

     ‘But surely somebody among them knows who you are.  What your name is.  Don't they say something like "I think you ought to see Mr Lumber. You'll find him just across there, at the far end of that corridor."  It must happen quite a lot.  Why don't they find you?’

     ‘It's to do with channels of communication again, I think.  You see, I don't have my name on the office door.’

     ‘Oh.  Why not?’

     ‘Er . . . I removed it . . . you see, people would keep turning up and bursting in.  Colleagues, referred clients.  All kinds of people.  You may not realise it, but even a cricket match can have its gripping moments of high tension and suspense.  And there's nothing worse than being deeply immersed in the second movement of Mahler's Fourth when some fool comes bumbling in to talk about a case or make some stupid appointment for next week.’

     ‘So what happens when someone is referred and can't find you?’

     ‘I'm quite sure some of them don't admit it and just go away. That helps to lighten someone else's work load. Others go back and say they can't find me.  Then the person who referred them doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know where one of his own colleagues is, and refers them to someone else.’

     ‘Thus increasing someone else's work load?’

     ‘Yes, I know, but it's the nature of the job.  This is what happens.’

     ‘But aren't there papers . . . that follow the referral?  Don't you have to read up the case before you see them?  What happens to the papers?’

     ‘One of the post trays on my desk is marked Papers that Cannot be Traced in this Office.  Virtually everything that manages to find its way to me eventually goes in there.  Unless it's to do with my salary, or a rare invitation to a very good party.  At the end of the week, when I get back from the pub, I sling the whole lot in the bin.  It's the most important bit of work I do on a Friday afternoon. In fact, it’s the only . . .  In any case, the people who send me the stuff never expect to see it again.  They imagine I've actioned it or passed it on to someone else.’

     ‘Don't some of them follow up their cases?  Don't they telephone you sometimes to find out what's happened?’

     ‘Well, they used to, until I – ‘

    ‘Don't tell me you had the telephone taken out!’

    ‘Well, yes, I did.  You see . . . well, for the same reasons.  It can interrupt you.  When you're doing something important, like watching the . . . ‘

     ‘How did you deal with calls before the phone was taken out?’

     ‘In those annoying days, I used to tell people I was busy with a referred client and would call them back when I was free.  I never got round to doing it.  Never intended to, really.  In fact, we know that hardly anyone ever rings you back when they say they will.  Sometimes I'd say I was holding a very important meeting in my office, or I was just about to go to one and couldn't possibly be late for it . . . senior figures involved, major policy issues, that sort of thing.  I couldn't easily make an appointment for another time or another day because I needed flexibility in my schedule for the emergency referrals.’

     ‘Has there ever been an emergency referral?’

     ‘Not as far as I know.  There wouldn't be. You see, it's not that kind of work.  Emergency referrals just don't really come into it.  But lots of people aren't aware of that.  Not in a day-to-day sense.’

     ‘So it's a bit like Catch 22.  You make yourself virtually invisible.  No one can refer anyone to, or have a meeting or an appointment with, an invisible man.  So you're left largely alone to concentrate on remaining invisible, or becoming even more so.’

     ‘Increasingly alone.  Increasingly invisible.  Yes, that's how it seems to work.’

     ‘What do you do when you receive an invitation to a very good party?’

     ‘Gloria and I like very good parties.  So we usually go.  I tend to wear fairly formal clothes, and adopt a slightly aloof style. It gives the impression that I'm just a bit too important or high-ranking to be approached with trouble-making comments like "I don't think I actually know who you are". Or "Haven't I seen you around the main building somewhere?"  Anyone to do with the main building is automatically something slightly special.  If I think I'm about to be cornered, I say "Oh, main building, you know", and go quiet.

 

‘Some people will recognise me, or believe they do.  They know they've seen me around the main building occasionally, but won't want to give it away that they don't really know who I am.  Others won't ever have seen me anywhere except possibly in the supermarket on Saturday morning.  I do get recognised there by complete strangers now and again because of  . . . well . . . my obvious physical resemblance to – ‘

     ‘Yes, I can see that.  So, at these parties, you can say anything you like to anyone, attack the organisation, drink yourself silly, behave outrageously if you wish, without anyone –‘

     ‘Yes, that's basically the sort of thing.  You see, they can't even drop me in it back at the office because they don't know who my colleagues or superiors might be.’

     ‘And what about Gloria in all this?  How does she –‘

     ‘I don't think that's really the point.  Another pint?’

 

 

2 Home Front

 

At work or at home, public or personal, paid or unpaid, there's no real difference.  It's structural, intrinsic.  You don't, or can't, turn off a system like this just because you're at home.  A single event, like this barbecue, provides an innocent, small-scale example of the method in action.  Nothing offensive, nothing viciously or rabidly exploitative. A neighbourly, friendly occasion, Sunday afternoon in a long semi-suburban garden.  Summer again, necessarily. Vigorous swallowing from tall glasses of ecstatically chilled beer.

 

     ‘I can see the slight smoke rising from your device down there, Spike. Obviously it's all working nicely.  So, er, what are we having?’

     ‘M-mmm, well, you probably don't realise it, but I was up pretty early this morning doing the charcoal and everything. You know, getting everything organised, getting it going and things. You want your charcoal glowing, immense heat, no smoke, no rubbish.  Then you start the cooking.  It's a long process.  It takes time.’

     ‘What, you mean all the . . . clearing out the remains of the last barbecue, and laying out the new charcoal, then setting light to it at the best moment and watching it to perfection?’

     ‘Well, not exactly.  It's a matter of timing, really.  You have to be in the right place at the right time.’

 

We swallow more beer. The butt-end of his latest cigarette falls from his hand onto the patio. It stays there, among others, unstubbed, until it goes out. Moments later, he lights another.

 

     ‘Timing?’

     ‘Yes. You see, I happened to be in the bath when Gloria decided to clean out the ashes from the last barbecue and get various things ready for today. You know, the charcoal, the garden chairs and so on.’

     ‘Ah, I see.  So, in the end, all you had to do was walk down the garden and light it.’

     ‘Ah, well . . .  yes, really.  But (a long, deep draw on the fag) you can see from here, it's a bloody long walk down there to light a couple of matches.’

 

Frankie stretches in her chair beside me, relaxing into her beer and the sun's increasing warmth, and the promise of more drinks and interesting food to come, consumed over a seemingly infinite period of slow moving time.  She puts her glass down on the small, elegant but not stupidly outrageous modern table in front of her.  She turns to our host.

 

     ‘Er, Spike, all these cigarette ends, er . . . ?’

     ‘M-mmm?  What?’

     ‘Well, you know, all these . . . lying on the ground . . . all round your chair . . .’

     ‘Oh.  Er, well, don't forget, Frankie, I'm quite a heavy smoker.  That's why there's so many tabs down there.  If I was only a five-a-day man, you'd hardly notice them.’

     ‘No . . . I mean . . . you just sort of drop them . . . you don't tread them out at all, and then . . . well, do they just . . . stay there?’

 

Not leaving his chair, and with the minimum of observable physical effort - he is close to twenty stone - Spike reaches out for another couple of bottles nestling in the cool box, positioned strategically close.  He hands them to me, offering also a bottle opener.  He holds his glass out towards me.

 

     ‘Let's have some more beer.  Yes . . . the fag ends . . . well, they tend to go out on their own . . . once you've dropped them.  Oh no, they don't just stay there.  Someone picks them up and they're taken away.’

     ‘Someone . . . picks them up?’

     ‘Yes, someone clears them away.  They don't stay there terribly long.  Ever.  The ones you can see now . . . they won't be there tomorrow.  It's the same with used matches.  There'll be a few of them down there by now. And, indeed, I've known entire empty packets and the cellophane wrappers to disappear completely within twenty-four hours.  I can come out here the next evening for a couple of drinks and a smoke and everything's been cleaned up.  Neat and tidy, that's how I like it out on the patio.’

     ‘But . . . someone, Spike . . . someone . . . does that . . . for you.’

     ‘Oh, yes.  Someone does it.  That's really how it gets done.  Then it's all neat and tidy again.’

 

The three of us have a silence.  Gloria is in the kitchen, preparing bread, salads and delightful little tasty things.  Probably some puddings, too, appropriate to the season and fitting the style of the occasion.  With a very acceptable selection of cheeses to follow.  Plates, cutlery, glasses, serviettes, all ready. And even the first cafetière primed up, I wouldn't be surprised. We gaze down the garden to where the barbecue sends up its fragile wisps of smoke. Spike lights up again.  My salivaries are stimulated by yet another slug of cold beer.

 

     ‘So, er, what are we having, Spike?’

     ‘What, the barbecue? Ah, well . . . it's corn on the cob for starters.  They're each carefully wrapped in silver foil.  Straight on the barbecue, they'll be lovely.  Then we're each having a trout.  They're in foil too, with some herbs and almonds.  After that, joints of chicken.  In foil.  Cook everything in foil so you don't lose anything.  The chicken's been marinating for hours.  Lovely.’

 

Stretching and repositioning ourselves in our chairs and more swallowing of beer all round as we contemplate this extremely promising prospect - and the wines that will doubtless accompany it.

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      ‘Ah, so that's why you got up so early.  It's not the barbecue itself. It's all this preparation, making the marinade, seeing to the trout, sorting out the more succulent chicken pieces, wrapping them all in foil, getting the leaves off the corn . . .’

 

A long, perhaps longer than usual, drag on the fag.  Spike looks down the garden to a spot well beyond the barbecue, to somewhere between middle distance and infinity.  It's a space where thoughts can be formed if you have the energy or the will to make them happen.  Or where nothing need necessarily happen at all.

 

     ‘Well, not really . . . no, not as such.  Erm, I did have a hand in managing the silver foil business.  It's quite difficult to deal with if you don't . . . if your hands are all sticky with the marinade or you've been handling slippery chicken flesh . . . you can get stuff everywhere . . . so I pull the foil out of the box and tear it off neatly . . . you know, the right size for what we're wrapping . . .  then . . .  erm . . . actually, not all that early really, you know, though a bit early for a Sunday.  Anyway, I've got to look after all the drinks.’

 

 

3 Refining Strategies

 

Returning home from London one evening, I walk down the train to the bar.  A large, familiar suited figure sits alone, with a can of beer, plugged into a music-playing thing.

 

     ‘Hallo, Spike.  Haven't seen you for some time.  Been busy?’

     ‘Ah, no, we haven't coincided for some time, have we?  What did you ask me just then?’

     ‘Oh, nothing.  Silly, really.  Day out in London?’

 

Music thing detached from head and turned off.

 

     ‘Have a beer?’

 

He heaves his many stone to the bar, returning with four big cans of extra-strong, special brew something or other.

 

     ‘This'll help.  You know there's no bar service after the penultimate station.  We'll get some quickies in before that.’

 

We open cans and swallow.

 

     ‘So what takes you to London in the middle of the week?  Some kind of conference?’

     ‘Oh, no.  I'm the Union delegate now.  Our professional association.  You know, my specialist field.  Regional meeting in London every three months. I go down the afternoon before, have a good dinner, decent hotel, few drinks, go to the meeting next day, come home.  Everything paid for.  By the brothers.’

     ‘What do you mean, Union delegate?  When were you ever a man of the Left, even the softest of the soft Left?  You're not interested in the class struggle, or looking after other people's working terms and conditions.’

     ‘No, of course I'm not.  You've missed the point.  It's nothing to do with political commitment.  It's about days away from the main building.  Days away from work.  There's a meeting at work every month that takes a good half day, then there's these London ones, quarterly.’

     ‘But how did you come to be . . .  I mean, how can you represent these other people who don't even know who you are?  They don't even know whether you exist or not.  Were you . . . were you actually elected?’

 

     ‘Well, not actually elected.  No.  Nearly, though.  You see, in our association no one wants to be the delegate.  A note just came round saying that if anyone was interested in it, the job was theirs.  There wouldn't be an election because no one else would be standing.  These meetings are all so mind-crushingly boring that they were amazed anyone was interested at all.’

     ‘So you became the delegate by default.  Why were you interested?’

     ‘Well, it gets me out of the office and then there's the odd day in London with everything paid for.  I can go to a play or a concert the evening before. And it all helps with the invisibility.  And it's a genuine reason for not being able to see people, or take phone calls, or get involved in tedious referrals.  Sorry, I'd like to, but I'll be in London that day, articulating the legitimate aspirations of our members.’

     ‘But if these meetings are so dull, how can you handle it?’

     ‘If it isn't work, I can do it.  I've got plenty of ways of switching my mind off when everything around me goes torpid.  It's all much better than what I might have to do if I stayed there and dealt with referrals and things all day.  Or took part in forward planning sessions. Or team-building role play sessions run by external facilitators.  Or had to think of new ways of avoiding all those things.’

     ‘But how do you represent your colleagues, whoever they are, at these meetings?  You're attending on their behalf.  Don't you have to say things? ‘

     ‘Well, I could, but there's never much point.  All the activists run it.  They do all the talking.  I just do the aloof bit, keep my distance.  They see the dark suit and the facial expression and, well, it's the old going-to-a-party routine again, really.  I get a copy of the minutes and then send the colleagues a little note to tell them how well their interests are being looked after.  Sometimes I don't bother.  They don't know when the meetings are and, because they don't really know who I am or where I am, they never ask me to raise anything at the meetings.  And I certainly don't ask them for points to put on the agenda. One of them would be the delegate themselves if they really wanted anything to happen.’

     ‘So why doesn't anyone want to be the delegate?’

     ‘They're all too keen on getting on with their work.  They want to do their jobs.  Impress their line manager.  Make themselves highly visible. Build up points for promotion. Going to these meetings would get in the way of all that. It's the way they define themselves.  That's why I'm the delegate. I don't find it a problem in the way that they would. Whoever they are.  Defining myself through my work is the last thing I want to happen. Difficult to do, really, in my case. As long as they know our professional field is represented, that's about as far as they're interested in it.  They couldn't care less who it is, and they never have any points they want raised.’

 

The aluminium grille starts rattling down over the bar.

 

     ‘Ah, I'll just get us a couple in before they close.  It's all on the expenses.  What about a few drinks somewhere when we get back?  ‘

 

The train is practically empty now.  Click and hiss of the opening cans.  We swallow.

 

     ‘Oh, something else since I last saw you.  Did you know I'd become a magistrate?’

     ‘Ah . . . er . . . er . . .’

 

There are moments in your life when words simply won't come.  They can't come because they aren't there.  No words would possibly do. Nothing for it but to swallow long and deep from your plastic glass of extra strong special brew mind-leveller.  And collect yourself and your thoughts for this, the latest shock to the system. A stunning segment of logic-defying data bursts through your credulity with all the delicate subtlety of a squadron of JCBs being driven back to base on pay-day.

 

     ‘Magistrate?  Er, oh . . . er . . . oh . . . er, have you?’

     ‘Yes. You know, JP.  On the bench.’

     ‘M-mmm.  I . . . er, I thought you had to be nominated for that.  Recommended by a pillar of the community.  How did you – ‘

     ‘Ah, yes, you used to be.  Now you simply have to apply when they need someone.  They advertise for them.  I simply applied and . . . well, there you are.  I'm a magistrate.’

 

Long, deep swallowing. In the face of the implications of this revelation, thank heaven for beer.

 

     ‘M-mmm.  I'd never really seen you as a . . .  as someone with a sense of serving the . . .  or really even, er . . .’

     ‘No.  But that's not what it's all about.  It's more a question of –‘

     ‘I know!  It's even more time when you don't have to be up at the main building.’

     ‘Exactly.  You've got it.  It gives me something over thirty days in the year when I have to be in court.  Employers love it, they respect you for it.  Bit like being a mason, except that it's not secret. And there's no problem about taking the time off.  It doesn't come out of your annual leave.  They're required to give you the time.’

     ‘So . . . er, when do you do it?’

     ‘I've put myself down for the Friday or Monday sessions only. That means a long weekend every time.  So, if you think of an entire working year, I don't often have to do more than a four-day week.  In fact, when there's a Bank Holiday at one end of the week and a court session at the other, I have an automatic three-day week.  What with that and the union meetings . . .  And I still have my full holidays to take when I want them.’

 

We’re quiet again, swallowing, reflecting.

 

     ‘And that's all before you even start on any of your sick leave.’

 

 

4 In Sickness and in Health

 

Many people have a spot of illness from time to time.  Enough to prevent them from going to work.  It's in the nature of things.  Women, we’re told, tend to visit the doctor rather more often than men. Frankie only goes when it's absolutely necessary. She believes they know little or nothing about health or illness. She won't take an aspirin unless she really has to. I haven't seen a doctor for thirty years. I haven't needed to. Perhaps we're just lucky.

 

Many people see health, sickness and employment as inextricably linked. If you're well, you feel you have to go to work.  If you're sick, you don't have to. When the job's getting you down, or you've been suddenly caught out by an unexpectedly severe hangover, you ring in sick. Have a day or two off.  In my last job, I was always put off doing this because of all the arrangements I'd have to make beforehand to cover my absence.  It was much less trouble to go in to work and suffer.

 

This Wednesday, I find I've read most of The Guardian and lunchtime looms.  Nice day for a stroll down to the local for a couple of pints and a chat.  That's one of the good things about self-employment.  You can define your own working day.  As the true experts know, working from home doesn’t have to mean working at home.  Warm enough today, no wind, pleasant little walk.  I push open the welcoming dark green door and look round the bar.

 

     ‘Oh.  Hello, Spike. Don't usually see you here at this . . .  Er, what . . .’

     ‘Ah, hello.  Good.  Have a pint.’

 

He passes me the money and shifts his seated bulk along the bench under the window. He's wearing less formal clothing than I would expect, clearly not a working day for him.

 

     ‘Bit of a cold, actually.  Felt it coming on last Thursday morning. Much worse by mid-afternoon.  Made it known where I could.  You know, secretaries and anyone I bumped into.  Put myself about a little. After all, there are times when you actually do need to be seen around by other people.  Not too much, though. Anyway, they tell other people, and before you know it, the word's gone round that you're terribly ill.’

     ‘And then?’

     ‘Simple.  The main job's done.  Phone in Friday morning, hoping to be back after the weekend.  Okay, they say, take it easy.  Don't rush back until you feel strong enough.’

     ‘How often do you manage this one?’

     ‘It gets a bit critical when I see a five-day week coming up and no Bank Holiday or court hearings arranged.  That's when the tension builds up.  It can become quite acute during the long winter months when the Bank Holidays are rather thin on the ground. It's not surprising that I sometimes get a cold or something.’

     ‘Have you actually got a cold now?’

     ‘Oh, er . . . no, not really.  No, not at this very moment. No. But that’s not the point. Other people think I have.’

     ‘Does all this keep you awake at night?’

     ‘Oh, er . . . no, not really.  No point in worrying about your health. In any case, I’m a very deep sleeper.’

     ‘So you've been off since Friday?  You should have given me a ring over the weekend.  We could have . . .’

     ‘Yes . . . but then I generally just tend to wait for the phone to ring.  You know, it's the whole business of phone numbers and finding the book and looking them up.  Then I've got to get up and get over to the phone.

     ‘What, and then actually dial the number?  That sort of thing?’

     ‘That's it.  Dreary little tasks like that make it all hardly worth the effort.’

 

The afternoon warms.  We have another pint.

 

     ‘I suppose it doesn't matter too much if you're away now and again like this.  After all, you’re more or less invisible up at the building.  Do you think anyone really notices?’

     ‘That's interesting, because it's the one time they do notice.  And I don't mind it then, because I'm not there. When I phone in to say I'll be away, they remember that I exist.  It reminds them that I work there.  That's a good thing.  Of course, I only deal with the admin. people.  You know, personnel and pay-roll.  There's no point in bothering people in the department.’

     ‘But they're your colleagues.  Shouldn't they know about it?’

     ‘There's no point.  They'd only start worrying about workloads, and referrals, and doors without names on them.  Anyway, some of them probably do get to hear that I'm away.  Then they imagine they've automatically got more work to do.  Oh dear, Spike's off sick.  How are we going to manage?  That could build up the pressure on them and then they'd have to take a few days off themselves.  For the department's sake, it's probably best for me to keep fairly quiet about it. They'd hardly notice my absence anyway. In fact, most of them often don't even know I've been away. I've just been sitting at home, relaxing.  But the long weekend . . . that's a much better idea.’

 

The first week of December, a Friday afternoon.  Chilly outside, warm in the pub.  I don't often make a specific arrangement to meet Spike, largely because of the telephone problem.  But he sometimes wanders in on Fridays after he's been on the bench.  They don't always sit during the afternoon.  I walk into the bar.

 

     ‘Ah, what are you having?’

 

He's there before me.  I join him at one of the corner tables.  This could be a long afternoon.

 

     ‘Early finish today?’

     ‘No.  I haven't been doing that today.  I'm on the sick.’

     ‘What, er, one of your colds?’

     ‘No, this is long-term.  This time it's the real thing.  The stress.’

     ‘Er . . . stress?  What . . . what's brought this on?  Not overwork, I imagine.’

     ‘Ho, ho, very droll.  No, it's the new canteen up at the main building.’

     ‘I didn't think you ever went near it.’

     ‘I don't.  But they've brought it near me.  It's been relocated into the block next to my office.  The extractor units from the kitchens blow their cabbagey fumes right at my window.  Any time I have my window open, all I can smell is over-cooked food of every imaginable kind.  I can't do my work under those conditions.’

     ‘But I thought you didn't actually . . .’

     ‘That's not the point.  As far as they're concerned, my capacity to perform my official duties, which is what they pay me for, is seriously hampered by these obnoxious fumes.  Every single day.  No one should have to work under those conditions.  And don't forget.  I'm the Union delegate.’

     ‘And they've . . .’

     ‘Swallowed it.  Yes.  I've made it known that the whole thing is worrying me so much that I've developed significant and recognisable symptoms of stress.  I can't bear the thought of being in my office, or even of approaching the door.  The smell of ruined institutional food haunts my every waking moment.  I can't go back to work until they find me another decent office well away from the canteen.  I've been off all this week.’

     ‘So you've seen your doctor?’

     ‘Yes.  I know what the symptoms should be and I've told him I've got some of them.  It doesn't matter whether he believes me or not.  He can't prove it one way or the other.’

     ‘But won't he prescribe some kind of medication?’

     ‘I said I'd rather try and get over it without chemical interference.  He thinks that's a very good thing.  Admirable approach, he said.  If he does prescribe something, well . . . I don't take it, do I?’

     ‘How long do you think you'll be off?’

     ‘He's signed me off for this week and next.  I'll go for another two after that.’

     ‘That'll bring you pretty close to Christmas, won't it?’

     ‘Looks that way to me.  So there'll be no point in going back then, will there?  In any case, they close down the main building completely at Christmas until the first week in January.  I should be looking at six weeks in all.’

     ‘That ought to give them enough time to sort out another office for you.  Then you can get back to – ‘

     ‘Yes, it should.  But it won't matter if they don't.  The thought of going back to the old office will simply keep my stress levels up.  But when I do get back, they should have completed my performance-related pay review.  I'm in line for about fifteen hundred quid this time.’

     ‘Your performance-related . . . but with your record of . . . you don't actually do any . . .’

     ‘It's a very neat arrangement.  You're given a set of targets to achieve during the year.  Your immediate superior is also given targets.  So is the person above them.  Everyone has targets, all the way up the line. One of your superior's targets is to make sure the people below them achieve all their targets. If they don't, your boss won't get any performance-related pay.  Or not as much as they could.  So it's in everyone's interests to show that everyone else has achieved their targets.  All the way up and down the line.  Then we all get our full performance-related pay.  Simple, isn't it?  It's completely self-contained and self-fulfilling.’

     ‘So, although you couldn't possibly achieve your targets, any of you, you'll still get the bonus because . . .’

     ‘Exactly. That’s enough of all that. Another pint?’

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