Meetings and holidays

In my meeting today, we get to talking about holidays. I find this is a common conversation topic in meetings I am running. I think it’s because the people round the table desperately need to remind themselves why they are enduring the meeting in the first place. But on a day like today I don’t mind; the sun is still shining outside and we are making good progress, working in co-operation, not competition, and my mind too is turning to the next chance I will get to jump on a plane and be somewhere else. The sights and sounds of Istanbul, only three months ago, feel far too distant.

Besides, it’s inevitable, an occupational hazard when the nearest station to the office is at Gatwick Airport. Everyone else on my train was grinning, showing off in shorts, pulling huge suitcases onto seats or wrestling them onto the overhead racks while I sat there, buttoned up and buttoned down, peering at bad news on my Blackberry and rejigging my to do list for the hundredth time.

The only exception was the glacial blonde sitting opposite, who kept staring over at me in between pages of the Metro. It’s the new glasses and the haircut I told myself with a certain smugness. I’ve still got that old magic. My left hand crept beneath my newspaper and suddenly with horror I realised that my flies were wide open. Shortly after that we stopped at Guildford and she got off, as all the attractive people did, but not before shooting me a look of mild contempt.

Thinking about holidays is the only way to stay sane on a journey like that, otherwise you would go mad and start shouting at strangers. I consoled myself by deciding that they were going to places I had no desire to see, and would have an awful time. Disappointingly, they showed no understanding of this.

I get off the train and walk through the station, trying to ignore the palpable excitement of practically everyone in the departures lounge. Only the other workers in the airport, my fellow sufferers, lift my spirits. Loitering in the Marks & Spencer Simply Food I see two hairy workman in reflective jackets grabbing houmous and choosing between tubs of olives and find myself oddly cheered by the incongruity. And then it is time to stand at the side of the lay-by and wait for Paul to pick me up, in his standard issue Vauxhall.

“I went to Palma a couple of weeks ago mate.” says Paul as we sit in the windowless room, poring over systems and screens. “It was brilliant, great weather, cheap, everyone was really friendly.”

“I bet the food was nice too.” I say, because in my world holidays are just trips to giant living restaurants and if you’re lucky there are some monuments or shops to look round between meals.

“Yes, just amazing - lots of tapas. Have you ever had those things, they’re called devils on horseback?”

“Yes, they’re prunes wrapped in bacon, right?”

“That’s the ones.”

The me outside work would quibble at this stage and point out that, technically, those are Christmas party food rather than authentic Spanish tapas. But I am at work and I’ve learned at least a few social conventions in the last ten years, so I nod and don't pick him up on it.

“My wife’s going to Egypt this year with my mother-in-law.” I say. “They’re going on a cruise down the Nile.”

“You not going with them?” says Eddie, looking up from his screen. He works for Paul, and he’s a lot quieter when Paul is around. I give a wan smile.

“No, I think I’ll sit that one out. It will be nice for them to have that bonding experience. And besides, if I don’t go with them hopefully I’ll get to go away on holiday with my friend Dave. We go away most years, usually to Prague.”

Paul makes a face.

“I’m not sure I fancy Prague, all those stag weekends.”

“I know a funny story about that, remind me to tell you later when we’re on our way to the station.”

We tap away and read more reams of notes on the flickering projector, back in work mode. Through the open door I notice a man in a wheelchair trundling past. Paul spots him and tuts.

“I tell you what, for a man on disability benefit he doesn’t half take a lot of fag breaks. I ought to disable the lifts, see how he likes that.”

I’m not sure what facial expression to adopt at this stage, so I settle for a mixture of contemplation and a lack of confidence in my own hearing. I’m not one hundred per cent sure he really said it. How to respond? I decide to surprise him, and myself, with compassion. I don’t remember until many hours later that Paul’s child is also in a wheelchair.

“I don’t know, if I was stuck in a wheelchair I’d probably take up smoking too. It must be pretty miserable.”

“He’s got ME, hasn’t he Eddie?”

“No, it’s MS.” says Eddie helpfully, acting as Paul’s built in spell-checker. Nobody is up to the job of correcting Paul’s grammar at times.

“What happened to that woman in your team with ME, by the way?” I ask Paul.

“Oh, she left in the end.”

“She was a bit wet, wasn’t she?” I say. I remember her well, drippy and pale, strangely without substance even before the diagnosis. I’d always thought she was awful at her job, and then felt awful when I found out what she was ill with, because nobody deserves that.

“What, wet between the legs?” chuckles Paul.

“No, behind the ears.” I say, unable to prevent myself from sounding curt. Sometimes I forget just how inappropriate he can be - even by my standards, and my standards are more forgiving than almost anybody’s.

At the end of the meeting we have finished our work and established that things are a little better than they were and a little worse, in a way that would be impossible to sum up in a single slide. It’s the worst possible outcome, because it means that explaining what we have learned will place too much of a demand on anybody’s attention span. But never mind: we have had a pleasant day and we know we’ve achieved something, even if only the three of us know what that is. I get my stuff together and head out with Paul to his car.

“You were going to tell me a story about Prague.” he says.

“Oh yes, that’s right. This is a good one. Have you ever met Posh James in our team?”

Paul pulls away, into the quiet industrial park. It is hours before these roads will clog up with people desperate to get home.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, he went on a stag week to Prague with some friends. Not a stag night, not a stag weekend, but a whole week. And on their first night they walked down one of the streets in the Old Town which is lined with… there’s no nice way to put this, titty bars.”

“Titty bars.” said Paul in shock. I think he never quite expects me, with my posh voice, to say anything disgusting. It’s nice to think there are still some people who believe I am above that sort of thing.

“And there’s someone outside each of the bars trying to lure the punters in, hassling them, telling them how hot their girls are. So James and his friends walk down this street getting more and more tired of all the banter. So at the very end of the row of bars, this guy says ‘Come in, come in! We have beautiful girls.’ and one of James’ mates - fed up of all the attention by now and feeling a bit bloody-minded - says ‘Do you have any midgets?’”

“Jesus, mate.” chuckles Paul.

“And of course they don’t. So James’ friend says ‘Sorry, but if you don’t have any midgets we’re not interested.’ and on they go. The next night, they walk the same route and they get hassled in exactly the same way. And at the end of the row it’s the same guy and the same question. ‘Do you have any midgets?’ ‘No, my friend.’ ‘Sorry, if you’ve got no midgets, we’re not coming in.’ and so on.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, true story, I swear. Anyway, this goes on all week; every night they go past the bars and every night they say the same thing to the man outside the last one. No midgets, no show. Anyway, they get to their final night in Prague and they stroll past, and their favourite front of house practically flags them down. ‘Come in, come in! Very hot girls tonight.’ And so they say ‘Do you have any midgets?’ for the very last time.”

“And?”

“And the man looks beside himself. ‘Yes! Yes! For you specially, we have found a topless midget.’”

“You are fucking joking.”

“I’m not! And so James and his friends look at each other, and they think, Well, it’s rude not to, so they went in and watched the topless midget on their last night in Prague.”

“That is quality.”

“I know.”

There is a slight pause, and I know Paul can’t hear my cogs turning. Because the thing I’ve always wondered about that story is whether a topless midget’s breasts are in proportion to the rest of her body or not. I can’t remember whether it’s midgets or dwarves whose extremities are built to scale. But, because I’m at least partly still in work mode, I decide not to share that eternal mystery with Paul. The car pulls up in the lay-by, and I check my watch; just enough time to make the hourly train.

“Good meeting today.”

“Yes, it was - and a pleasure as always. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Have a safe trip home.”

As the car speeds off, taking the second exit at the roundabout as smoothly as Scalextric, and becomes a navy dot in the distance I find myself thinking again what a funny man he is, and how surprised I am that I like him. But it only crosses my mind for a second - that and the realisation that the best of the sun has gone for the day, and maybe the week too. And then I have to make a move myself and catch my train so I scuttle in the direction of the terminal building past the yellow-jacketed workmen, houmous-powered, drilling through the tarmac.