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.

Corporate Speak

If there’s anything I dislike, it’s pretentious people.

People who feel the need to give the impression of being important and knowledgeable, oftentimes pretending to be more so than they really are; pompous enough to believe that successfully giving such impressions make them superior to others.

Nowhere are such attitudes more prevalent than in big business, and there’s one of its symptoms I hate just as much…corporate speak.

Have you heard some of the terms used these days? They’re a load of codswallop; big words attempting to masquerade as intelligence. But they have no real meaning!

I mean, just what does “We need to touch base” mean? If we need to keep in touch, why not just say that?

The Test

It was a crazy idea, but Abi knew this was her last chance.

As she preened herself, she thought back to when it had come to her.

It had become a running joke among her friends now…the whole drama surrounding her quest for a driver’s licence. “The Abi Driving Saga,” was how they referred to the various mishaps she had endured along the way. And even though she took pride in her wacky sense of humour and her ability to laugh at herself, it wasn’t funny anymore.

How difficult could it possibly be? It should have been simple: take a course of twenty or so lessons, book the test, take the test, pass it…finito.

But, no. It had been anything but simple for Abi. She’d taken the test three – three! – times, and had still not achieved the desired results.

“Does my bum look big in this?”

For the umpteenth time, Amanda looked at herself in the mirror.

It was futile. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she looked or what adjustments she made. Nothing she did could make her look any slimmer.

Her outward appearance revolted her, and she was sure everyone she met was just as repulsed as she was, if not more.

And who could blame them? Infact, if she could extricate the “real” her from this massive body of fat, she might just join them!

Everywhere she went, people’s eyes followed her, mocking, silently disapproving. No one ever said anything to her, but she could tell what they were thinking, see the disgust in their eyes. And it was easy to see why.

Blue Rucksack

It was obvious. You could cut the atmosphere on the train with a knife.

Everyone knew there was something amiss, but being British – Londoners in particular – meant no one wanted to be the first to say something that might provoke any kind of embarrassment. No one was keen to be seen as awkward.

What the hell, I wondered, is it about us British that makes us so coy? This would never happen with our American cousins. As for Londoners, we are so afraid of confrontation we can’t bear to look the next person in the eye! I should know, having spent many a Tube journey staring down fellow commuters just for the fun of it. And to date not one of those wimps has had the guts to hold my gaze…

…and still, no one was speaking. The silence was becoming unbearable though, with people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The cause of all the commotion: a man who was clearly of Asian descent, appeared oblivious to the growing furore precipitated by his presence and actions on the carriage.

Since he had got on at Covent Garden, he’d been fidgeting. No one had particularly noticed or minded: the Piccadilly line was never particularly quiet or comfortable on a Saturday afternoon. It was always full of tourists, and anyone boarding one of those packed carriages was wont to fidget for a while as they found a little space and made it their “territory”.