Office life
Sod the colonel
Holly Budd
This week's lowlight was the visit by Monsieur Bertrand and his party from our French equivalent. Before privatisation we had a section dealing with foreign visits but that was regarded as wasteful and now indi- vidual departments make all the arrange- ments. I am beginning to see the virtues of the old system.
They wanted, they said, to hear about the pleasures and pains of privatisation. Twen- ty minutes after they should have arrived, the driver who was to pick them up at their hotel rang to say they weren't there. He couldn't wait because he was on another job. There were no other drivers because we'd cut them. We eventually learned they'd moved to another hotel and Nigel picked them up in a taxi.
M. Bertrand was a tubby little man who seemed to think smiling a threat to dignity. His companions were bland, boring and bored. The first session was in our new conference room. We couldn't get in because Debbie's key didn't fit; the woman who had taken in the coffee things had returned the wrong one. When at last we were seated Debbie poured first for M. Bertrand. The pot was empty. She went off and got it filled. M. Bertrand asked for tea.
During my introduction I had the impression I was taking up their shopping time. No one asked any questions. They also listened passively to the presentations that followed but as we broke up for lunch M. Bertrand asked me to show him the new wall panelling. The others left me to do my best. The door closed, locking itself. Banging didn't work and reception didn't answer the telephone.
Eventually I got Nigel. While we waited M. Bertrand slumped against the door and grimaced. I was about to call for an ambu- lance when I realised it was his smile. 'Can this be fate?' he asked.
Though I can no longer take attention absolutely for granted, I am not so far gone that everything is welcome. 'Non, monsieur, c'est fabrique d'un colonel Anglais qui s'appelle Colonel Sod.'
Lunch in the staff restaurant was late, overcrowded and over-cooked. The lady 'as done the coffee 'ad done the table, so it was one place short and at first poor Nigel was left standing. M. Bertrand sat next to me.
Our speakers during the afternoon ses- sion were pretty dire, I admit, and when M. Bertrand wasn't very obviously dozing he was very obviously looking at me. Nigel and I were to dine with them in their hotel that night but by then I had gone beyond des- peration and had reached a plateau of res- ignation and self-sacrifice. I let Nigel off. He called me a heroine.
That word made me cautious. Before leaving I rang the hotel and asked for how many M. Bertrand had booked dinner. Two; the rest of his party were dining else- where. 'Please send my regrets,' I said, 'and say I have been prevented by le colonel Anglais.'
'Perhaps we should check them for rabies!'
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