Office life
She fell into my arms
Holly Budd
Wbehaved like 14 year-olds this week. It was mainly the fault of my deputy, Nigel, for being so tall.
With the coming of spring the office sprouted hosts of garish plastic signs direct- ing us to fire exits and evacuation routes in all directions simultaneously. Sensible, I suppose, and no doubt like everything else these days that isn't actually banned, com- pulsory. They are variously coloured and labelled: A for Apple route, B for Bacon route, C for Charlie route and so on. It was Bacon route that caused the trouble. `Streaky' Bacon, bon viveur-in-chief and politically incorrect to his cigar-tips, has his office along the corridor and thought it would be nice if a Bacon sign pointed at it. He was in our office one afternoon com- plaining that they wouldn't let him. 'Free lunch at my club for anyone who'll pinch me one,' he offered.
I ignored him. I was just beginning to feel normal again after lunch with Streaky two days before and, anyway, I was busy. Nigel, however, broke the surface. 'I've never been to a club,' he said.
Next morning the sign that had sprouted in the corner near our door was outside Streaky's, with the B for Bacon arm point- ing at him. The fire escape arm directed people to us. 'Easy,' Nigel explained. `They're fixed by magnet to grilles in the ceiling. If you're my height you can just about reach to pull them off.'
Streaky debated whether this really counted since each stem is festooned with signs pointing in all directions and he really wanted a single one all to himself, but he conceded gracefully and they fixed a date. The sign remained all day. Everyone except Arthur, our Line Manager and lover of reg- ulation — hence a health and safety enthu- siast — knew about'it. I was reluctantly, but increasingly, uneasy: supposing there really were an emergency? 'I'll put it back,' said Nigel. 'Streaky didn't specify how long it had to be there.'
He did so that night but must have been a little rough with it. Being away the next day, he wasn't around to rectify the sad droop that the lower, fire-exist arm devel- oped. By late afternoon, when Arthur called on us, it had declined almost to the vertical. Arthur didn't actually come in ever wary of commitment — but stood talking to me from just outside the door, oblivious, right beneath the ailing sign. I would have been all right if I hadn't looked at Debbie, our secretary, who was hiding her face with one hand. I tried to concen- trate on Arthur. Debbie put both hands to her forehead, her shoulders shaking. I couldn't look at Arthur any more and didn't dare look again at Debbie. I've no idea what he said but I know I agreed to something and bade goodbye with my voice rising as if I were bursting into tears.
That evening, when everyone had gone, Debbie and I decided we'd better fix it with glue and sellotape. She stood shoeless in her wheeled swivel chair, which I held. It was a silly choice. The bag of mini-dough- nuts she was taking home hung over the back of it. Somehow the chair abruptly wheeled and swivelled and sped off by itself, scattering doughnuts and Debbie. She fell gracefully bat heavily into my arms and we collapsed in an undignified sprawl. I remember thinking that I was a woman of a certain age and position, a reasonably senior executive, no longer a schoolgirl; yet really nothing had changed.
The chair stopped at Arthur's feet. He was too embarrassed to speak. Debbie wept with laughter. I managed something about troubles with doughnuts. He smiled rather nervously and went home with half of one sticking to the back of his shoe.
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