The Adventures of a Small Businessman in the Forbidden Zone - страница 8

“Spend it?” She sounded puzzled.

“Yes, spend it. Live a little. Splash out on some of the finer things in life and just enjoy it. Take a round the world cruise, first class. Get yourself a toyboy! Tell you what, we are going to Ibiza in the morning, come with us!” I joked. My girlfriend would have gone ape shit if the old dear had turned up at the airport.

“Seriously,” I told her, “You already have all the investments we could recommend. All you could do is buy more of them. Why not use the money to make yourself happy?”

“I will think about what you have said and act accordingly,” she said. Then she rose slowly from the table, thanked me politely for my time and left.

I had a nice two-week holiday and returned to find out just how much she had appreciated my candid advice. This time I wasn’t even summoned into the office for a dressing down. Village just left the written warning from Head Office in the middle of my desk.

I still maintain it was good advice…

Every six months we would get an appraisal on our performance. It was supposed to be a private and frank discussion between the manager and the member of staff. The manager would tell me how he judged my performance, in this case not happy and not impressed. I then had a chance to tell him how I felt, in this case less happy and much less impressed. He was then supposed to tell me his plans for my further training and I would have the opportunity to request certain training courses that I felt might be beneficial.

At the end of the appraisal everything that had been said and agreed upon would be written down, signed by both parties and sent to Head Office for review.

It was early December and McFier and I had just had a particularly unhelpful discussion. The only thing we agreed upon was that he wanted rid of me and I wanted to go. We both signed the appraisal, sealed it in an internal mail envelope and left it for posting.

Imagine my surprise when Jane the office typist whispered in my ear that McFier had taken the envelope back into his office and replaced it later when he thought no one was watching. What was he up to, I wondered?

So on my way to the staff room at lunchtime I lifted the envelope and took it somewhere private to see what he had done. The sneaky bastard had stapled a hand written note to the front of the appraisal.

It contained several accusations:

Firstly it claimed I was a total drunk, always in the pub. He knew because he passed my house most evenings on his way home from his snooker club and I was never home. Quite correct. I was always at martial arts classes.

Secondly he suspected that I was having sex with most of the staff, he didn’t distinguish between the males and females, and this could be a serious security threat (You need two sets of keys to access any place in the bank holding cash). He had reports that members of staff were seen regularly leaving my home on Sunday mornings having obviously spent the night. This was partially correct. Lots of staff used my place for free overnight accommodation. They lived in rural villages so if we had a night out on the town they would stay over to save on taxi fares. I slept on my own in my own bed.

Thirdly he suspected that I was subject to potentially violent mood swings and he feared that one-day he might be the victim of an unprovoked physical assault. This at least was a plausible accusation. Except the bit about unprovoked. He was so annoying to work for that even Mother Teresa herself would have ended up head-butting him eventually.