It was well after midnight when my phone rang. I was in bed although I wasn't asleep. There were way too many hamsters running in circles behind my eyes to even think about sleeping. I pushed back the duvet and reached for the Demon-haunted rectangular slab of silicon that has become my one, true faithful companion for the last decade.
There it is again. The unmistakable ring tone. The caller's initials, "CJ", writ large in the middle of the display.
The Boss. El Supremo. The Man.
The urge to roll over, to pull the duvet back over my head and to just ignore the incessant, insistent 'ring', 'ring', 'ring' was overpowering.
But no. My conscience got the better of me and I was somehow strangely compelled to respond his child-like demands, or else face the rest of the night tossing and turning, wondering what form this latest crisis might take.
"Hey, sorry to call so late," he said. "But can you be in the office for a nine o'clock meeting? It's Ten-Seventeen. They've called an emergency meeting."
His tone suggested that he was somewhat preoccupied. Maybe he'd bitten the head off one too many street urchins at dinner or perhaps they'd cancelled his subscription to "What Sadist?" Or maybe he actually had a family life after all. We know more about the surface of Mars or the bottom of the Marianas Trench than I do about my Boss's private life.
"Sure, no problem," I replied. "But I had planned on working from home this week. I need to get the US stuff sorted before I go, and I would prefer to do so without distractions. Is it okay if I slide off home afterwards?"
"That's fine," said CJ. "I need you there. I need your expertise, as backup, in case they try to pull the wool over our eyes. Again."
"No problem," I said.
"Great," said CJ.
"Super," I replied.
The line went dead.
This exchange would be lost on any reader not immediately familiar with the sitcom "The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin", which aired on the BBC in the mid-seventies. I have it on DVD, on rotation. Still funny. Still relevant.
Ten-Seventeen. This company had become the bane of my life. They promised much and yet failed to deliver. The Yellow Brick Road leading to the Emerald City, they said. And yet, not once, ever, did they do what they said they were going to do when they were supposed to do it. They excel in only one sphere of operation - they're very good at generating excuses, a bit like the classmate who never, ever finished his homework on time, forgot his swimming kit or who was permanently late for lessons.
I dutifully rolled through the front doors at half past seven the following morning. My first port of call was my own office, mainly to sort out any niggling little issues back at the ranch before preparing myself for the Battle Royale to come.
Once sorted, I took the stairs up to the Conference Room on the sixth floor. The lift was hopelessly busy, crammed full of various competing clans vying for the all-important kill. I really did feel sorry for poor saps that Ten-Seventeen were sending along for today's blood sport. Sacrificial Lambs to the slaughter. Think of "Spartacus" (The TV series) but with less blood and fewer severed heads and you have an idea what this particular arena will look like in an hour or so.
The room was already more than half full when I entered. Therein, I found the usual crop of executives and middle level managers, all with a beady eye on the Boss's chair. I went directly to the back of the room and sat down with my technical team. Why do technical teams always seem to gravitate towards the back of the room?
I drew my team around me and began with a quick pep talk. The usual stuff. We did everything right. The specifications were approved and handed off. We've reviewed their work and it's readily apparent that the work they've produced is not to specification. By they're own admission, they're over budget and low on deliverables. They faked the software demonstrations and openly lied when they stated that the project was on time and under budget.
A nod circulated amongst the team. We're all singing from the same Hymn Sheet.
The room fell silent as the Vice President for Research and Development entered. She sat at the head of the table, opened her various folders and paused before smiling. "Show them in, please," she whispered in the direction of her Lieutenant.
The Consulting Group from Ten-Seventeen entered in single file, trailing their Senior Technical Systems Engineer, a pompous dick called Ian who knows less about Banking Services than I know about laying mastic asphalt. There were six of them in total, all bedecked the latest pseudo-Armani power-suits. The over-abundance of hair cream and fake smiles left an uneasy feeling in their wake. They're like a soap opera, an episode of Dynasty, come to life.
From their individual expressions, I could clearly sense that each and every one of them wanted to be miles away, a million miles away. Certainly somewhere else. Anywhere but here and now.
They smiled politely. Some nodded. Many shake hands because they've convinced themselves that shaking hands and smiling might just improve their situation one iota. This is the Corporate Way. And they are good little drones.
The group sat, as one, at the far end of the table, little automatons acting in unison, thinking in unison. If Star Trek's Borg had a Human Resources Department, this is what they'd look like.
There were some new faces in the line-up. It was also readily apparent that some of the old faces, individuals we've come to know and despise over the last few years, were missing, presumably either sacked or re-assigned.
Collectively, their body language screamed, out loud, that they were on the defensive, on the back foot. They were here to bargain their way out of a pickle of their own making. The room expected fireworks. Blood on the carpet, perhaps a head hanging from the flagpoles at the front of the building before the sun had passed the Yardarm. I'm not one to enjoy the sight of a fellow programmer being stretched across the carpet and kicked in the soft and Danglies but I thought through all of the pain and misery, the frustration and the lost sleep, that this shower had caused and decided that this could be fun after all.
My Boss, CJ, stood and waited until the room was calm and still.
"Good morning," he said. "The purpose of this meeting is not to apportion blame. Rather it's to determine what we can do, in both the short term and the long term, to rescue this situation."
The room remained silent. Completely silent.
Ten-Seventeen were content to let their manager, Ian, do the talking (and wriggling) for them even though this was a collective effort. And Ian certainly laid it on thick.
I leaned over to one side and whispered to a member of my team, Andrew Landis. "He's certainly well versed in the art of bullshit," I said. "In fact, he could bullshit for England. We should poach him. Put him to work in Marketing."
Andrew laughed out loud and then instantly regretted his outburst. The ever watchful, ever vigilant eye of CJ scanned the room in search of the culprit, like Sauron probing Mordor for Sam and Frodo but could find no sign of the errant Hobbits. Lucky for Andy, I thought.
I stared at the faces opposite, scanning each in turn for any sign of a response, or any trace of humility or contrition.
But then I stopped dead in my tracks. "Huh? What the?"
An alarm went off in the back of my head and I suddenly found myself jerked back into another version of reality. My mind began racing ahead of itself. I started to panic.
"Surely not?" I whispered under my breath.
The woman at the back. The rather large lady at the end of the line. She's new. She had short, cropped hair, big glasses and a tight, ill-fitting suit replete with Miss Marple shoes.
"I know her..."
