It was Donald Herrington OBE - my predecessor at Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins Albertson & Collins – who, upon his retirement, bequeathed to me his slender copy of the McPherson file.
I remember his words as I took receipt
of the curious gift:
“Carry this around the office with
you at all times. If anyone ever invites you to attend a strategy
meeting, or asks you to assist them in something that clearly lies
beyond the terms of your job description, tell them that you are up
to your eyes in the McPherson account. They will leave you alone and
you can get on with your actual work.”
“What's in it?” I enquired, doing
my best to sound grateful, while I stared disconsolately at the
flimsy brown cardboard folder in my hands.
“It's mostly foil wrappers from
Tunnock's teacakes that I carefully removed and then flattened. I
like the pattern. It's what I imagine the Japanese flag would look
like if it had been designed in Glasgow.”
I later came to realise that Donald
have granted me a rare and precious object – one that would drive
sane and rational men to commit all manner of vile atrocities in
their bid to wrest it from my grasp and make it their own.
My copy of the McPherson file was one
of only seven still in existence. The original had been lost in
270AD, during the Aurelian
sacking of the Library at Alexandria. The reproductions that had come
after were imperfect facsimiles and shared only tenuous links to the
source material, but were still highly-prized.
A week after the McPherson file was
gifted to me I deployed it in an unsuccessful bid to deflect
attentions of Guy Colin, Head of the Marketing Team. At the time I
was unaware that managerial staff above a certain level were trained
to resist the persuasive powers of the file with their own scripted
responses. These were practised in weekly, early-morning
team-building sessions until they became second nature.
“Talk to the hand that gives a fuck!”
was the curt response, that cut my excuse dead before the words could
exit my mouth.
He thrust his right palm towards me
like a traffic policeman laying down the law to an advancing column
of cars.
(This incident occurred during the
mid-1990s, when people were happy to delegate the resolution of
interpersonal conflicts to their hands. Frequently a stand-off would
ensue with two opposing palms, separated by a distance of no more
than a few feet, mutely facing each other. In such cases the argument
was usually won by the person who could bear to keep their arm in
that raised, straightened position the longest, although there was
also an equally strong case for there being no winners in this
particular situation).
“Just to clarify, my left hand is one
that gives a fuck,” said Guy. “It wants to sensually massage your
genitals. My right hand wants to tear off your fucking penis before
you bring children into the world.”
I watched in horror as Guy Colin's
prurient left hand began a steady advance towards my groin.
Behind him one of the automatons from
human resources issued a prolonged cough that sounded like a dog
attempting to bark the words “sexual harassment suit.”
Guy whirled around to face the source
of the interruption.
“It's at the dry cleaners!” he
snapped.
I took advantage of the distraction to
dart away. In my haste I abandoned the McPherson file on a nearby
desk. I returned ten minutes later to retrieve it, but it was gone.
I have heard rumours that Graham has it
now.
Graham!
~
The rows of cubicles on the floor of
the building where I worked had all been given street names. My
cubicle was situated on Merryfield Avenue. I was told by my line
manager, during my induction, that this was an up-and-coming quarter
of the office with “a funky bohemian vibe.”
“I want you to think of this as your
home address,” were her parting words to me.
My neighbour, Andrew, had been given a
potted psychotropic cactus by his son as a Fathers' Day present. One
afternoon, while using the inch-long spines as toothpicks, we slipped
into an hallucinogenic trance. Together we shifted from the earthly
plane and entered a parallel dimension where we communed with
Bamvarada - a floating, blue turtle with the face of the Buddha, who
delivered silver-tongued sermons on efficiency in the modern
workplace. Andrew, David from IT, and myself spent an average of
three hours a day in the company of the spirit guide, absorbing his
teachings. During this time our productivity increased by 15% and
then plateaued, only decreasing to its former level after the cactus
toppled from Andrew's desk and was crushed under the wheels of the
mail trolley.
It was during one of the Q&A
sessions that typically absorbed the last quarter of an hour of
Bamvarada's seminars that I asked him:
“Are you in the cactus, or are
you of the cactus?”
“I am the cactus.”
“Bollocks!” said Andrew, his
exclamation of incredulity, muffled by a mouthful of white bread and
cheddar cheese. He rapidly swallowed the partly-chewed bite of his
sandwich.
“I'm sorry but that is just total
bollocks. If a cactus and a turtle were the same thing then they
wouldn't have such divergent physical traits and there wouldn't be
individual words to describe them. You show me one thesaurus where
'Turtle' and 'Cactus' are synonyms for each other.”
“Maybe you see the cactus and the
turtle as separate entities because you have not yet been awakened to
the true nature of things,” replied Bamvarada serenely, if somewhat
smugly.
“Bollocks!”
“All this and more will become clear
to you upon the commencement of the new financial year, my child.”
The following day, during our lunch
break, the three of us drove to a local garden centre that also sold
exotic pets. Andrew approached the help desk and asked to directed to
the part of the store where turtles could be purchased.
The assistant smiled knowingly and then
sent us to the house plant department.
On the otherwise silent drive back to
the office, David gave voice to what we were all thinking:
“Do you ever get the impression that
Bamvarada might be fucking with us?”
