City Gents

To describe the day I’d just had as crappy would be a gross understatement.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, there had been a global credit crunch since last August, and it was only a matter of when – not if – the effects would trickle down to the City firm I worked for.

Because we had issued a profits warning and subsequently failed to meet the expectations of City analysts, the company was uncharacteristically vulnerable. To put it bluntly, the next twelve or so trading months did not fill anyone with hope.

That still hadn’t made the news any easier to hear. An e-mail from the Managing Director’s PA had summoned all employees to the floor at 2.00pm.

Looking glum and paying an inordinate amount of attention to his black Loake shoes, poor Robert spluttered that the company wasn’t doing well.

We all knew that – no surprises there.

We hadn’t hit any of our year-end targets.

Again, nothing new.

So, basically, things weren’t looking good…

Mate, if you don’t tell me something I don’t already know in the next five minutes I’ll…

…and it looks like we’ll be the subject of an acquisition or merger within the next couple of months. Whichever way, a third of the workforce has to go…

Shit. Now that I didn’t know.

The rest of Robert’s speech was a blur. You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to meet your Maker? Well, for the rest of my working day, and as I walked to the station later that night to catch my train home, images of my finances flashed before me.

And they weren’t pretty.

Only six months ago I’d put down a huge wad of cash as the deposit on my dream pad. I’d subsequently renovated and furnished it, lavishly engaging the services of two architects, and an interior decorator who was so extravagant she made Liberace look positively austere in comparison. But then, she could afford to be. It was my money she was spending, after all…

Once the house was done, I’d bought a Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet, with all the props.

Did I say ‘buy’? That wasn’t strictly true. I hadn’t had much left in the old bank account after the architects and Cleopatra were done with me, so I made an initial payment on the car and committed myself to paying the rest over the next twenty-four months.

These and many other thoughts whirred around in my head as I stepped onto the train and looked round for a free seat. Spotting two free seats together, I made to go over…

…when a man, almost shoving me out of the way, brushed past me and  practically jumped into the seat!

But that was my seat, I wanted to say. Just then, he looked at me sweetly with an ‘Are-you-new-in-the-City?’ expression as if to say, “Sorry lady. This is London, y’know. No ‘Ladies First’ rules apply.” There was still a seat next to the moron, but I’d be damned if I was going to sit near him for the next half hour or so!

Humph! I was fuming. I wanted to throttle him – as if I hadn’t had enough for one day.

Whatever happened to the era of City gents, eh? I mused to myself. When men wouldn’t sit if any women were standing? When a man would offer a woman his seat, and even then, his gallantry didn’t entitle him to her phone number?

The train was rapidly filling up, and if I didn’t make a move soon, I knew it was highly probable I’d have no choice but to stand for the duration of my journey. And with the four-inch heels on the Choos I was wearing, that wasn’t even an option.

I eyed Moron Man – as I’d now christened him – and in one fluid movement eased myself into the seat next to him. He looked at me again and smiled apologetically, but I ignored him and continued settling into my seat. Too late, I thought. You can’t almost send me flying and then want to be friends. Apology most definitely not accepted!

Dumping my bags on the floor underneath my legs, I closed my eyes for several minutes, trying hard to get a moment’s peace by pushing the memory of today’s events out of my head.

It wasn’t working.

With a big sigh I reached down to get the book I was reading out of my tote, which was on the floor along with my handbag and the groceries I’d hurriedly picked up from Tesco.

I must have been reading for about fifteen minutes when my tummy started making noises. I glanced around furtively, wondering if anyone else had heard the loud demands for food. Why was I so hungry? I wondered.

Ah, I’d missed lunch, hadn’t I? I’d been so dazed after Robert’s announcement that I’d returned to desk and worked, zombie-like, until the day was over. Now I was starving.

Remembering that I had bought fruit, I reached down once again into my grocery bag. There wasn’t enough space to bend down and take a proper look, so I fumbled for a few minutes. My hand finally found what it was looking for: a juicy apple.

Biting into in gratefully, I was about to return to my book when Moron Man seemed to inch my grocery bag towards him with his feet.

What?! It’s not enough that you stole my seat, now you’re trying to steal my shopping too??

He had tried to be subtle, but obviously he hadn’t been subtle enough, because I had felt his soft movements. Using my feet and with no reciprocal attempts at subtlety, I moved my Tesco bag back in my direction, giving him a cursory glance and daring him to try anything funny.

It wasn’t like I was spoiling for a fight, honest. I was just fed up and couldn’t work out what this guy was up to.

He looked at me too, the combination of a lopsided grin and a questioning look on his face as he moved the bag closer to him…again.

Frustrated now, my jaw dropped as I stared at Moron Man. I was incredulous. What did this man want from me? Was this some sort of weird character test? My apple had long fallen to the ground, my hunger pangs long forgotten as I tried to fathom the motive behind his tomfoolery.

Aha, I had it! He had, after all, tried so hard to get my attention, first by scrambling into my seat, and now this. On any other day, I may have found the prospect of a game of ‘footsie’ with my groceries amusing, maybe even flattering. But today I was like a bear with a sore head, and these childish games were only serving to stoke my fury.

I hadn’t realised it amid all the excitement, but we were almost at my stop. As the train pulled in to the station, I slammed my hardback shut and snatched up the rest of my things from the floor.

I stepped over Moron Man’s legs and made to head for the door, when something made me turn back abruptly and say, just loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Don’t know what the world’s coming to. Why would someone like you try so hard to steal my shopping?”

His eyes grew wide and he started to say something, but I was on a roll.

“And next time, if you want to get a lady’s phone number, just ask for it!” At that, I tossed my hair and got off the train. As it left, I saw Moron Man through the window, staring at me with his eyes as large as golf balls and his face crimson from being shown up in public.

Ha! That’ll teach him, I chuckled to myself. Some people.

I bundled my bags past the barriers and up the stairs that led to the exit and car park. It was starting to drizzle, so I broke into a jog and headed for the car.

“Who knows, Turb?” I said, talking out loud to the car. “This may be the start of the end of our beautiful friendship. What can I say? If you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.” Turb was giving nothing away though; he was the strong, silent type.

As I loaded the car, my tummy seemed to remember it was still hungry and took up its symphony once more. I sighed and thought of my half-eaten apple. I reached into the Sainsbury’s bag for another…

…Sainsbury’s?!? Hang on, I hadn’t shopped at Sainsbury’s! I opened the bag and stared at its contents.

For there, was someone else’s shopping. It certainly wasn’t mine. Champneys aftershave balm, the evening paper, vegetarian ready meals, and the bag of apples I’d ripped open…

…by mistake. I groaned as realisation dawned on me. I’d been eating Moron Man’s apples, and had taken his shopping when I’d left the train in a huff. I put my hand to my forehead and held it there.

Who was the moron now?