Office life
Small Expectations
Holly Budd
Iam one of the fortunate for whom most things work most of the time. Shops are generally open, restaurants and flights rarely absolutely booked, cars start, some- one at the bank reads my letters, trains are more or less punctual and even builders are at times roughly approximate to their promises. It is like that often enough for me to be surprised and annoyed when things don't work. Traffic jams and train or flight delays can still twist me into stomach- clenching fury.
Nigel, my deputy, is subject to different gods. Ticket machines clam up at his approach, buses and trains vanish, travel agents go broke, cars disintegrate, comput- ers debit where they should credit, new shoes leak and the major utilities either ignore him or think he is a 600-bed hotel. His presence has a degenerative effect on heating and air conditioning systems and it is unwise to share a lift with him. He also has four children under seven. Only his work, at which he is very good, seems unblighted. He bears the rest with admirable stoicism.
After one particularly trying period, cul- minating in the collapse of his bicyle on the way to the station, I said I would take him to lunch, as a change from his cheese and marmite sandwiches (prepared by himself). When the day came he took up his coat and umbrella.
`You won't need those today.'
`I shall if I don't take them.'
`Don't be so defeatist.'
The restaurant I had booked was sur- rounded by rubble and filled with dust and men in hard hats. The building next door had collapsed. The nearby bistro was full; it didn't help that Debbie, our secretary, was sitting in the window with an admiring would-be from marketing. She gave a guilty little wave. The Greek place round the cor- ner had a sign on the door saying 'Closed for Lunch'. `Staff must eat,' observed Nigel.
The Indian was full of familiar faces from the office, which left the health food restaurant. 'Very happy, if you are,' Nigel said politely. I knew a good Italian a taxi- ride away. It came on to rain. Nigel lent me his umbrella. The taxi-driver, when eventu- ally we found one, was deeply gratified. `Bomb scare. Can't get near it. Don't even think about it.' We stood for five minutes in a noisy pub, trying to get near the bar, then returned to the rain. Nigel was embarrassed for me but I was simply angry. `Don't worry,' he said sweetly, 'It's always like this.'
`What is?'
`Everything.'
`You're being defeatest again. There's always the Last Resort.' There wasn't; by that time the staff restaurant was closed. We returned to our office, wet and hungry. Debbie wasn't back. 'Nigel, I'm sorry. If the rest of your life is like this, I don't know how you stand it.'
He handed me a cheese and marmite sandwich. never expect, so I brought them just in case.'
They're nice, when you don't expect.
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