I was slightly late getting into work because I had popped to the Dentist to enquire about getting my teeth whitened. I had accidentally asked the receptionist about “tooth” whitening and she had asked me, the sarcastic cow, if it was just the one tooth I wanted whitening.
The price shocked me - £273! There was the first appointment to make a mould and then the next to make sure it fitted, then you were given the whitening gel and away you go. So all they did was make a gum shield and you do the rest of the work! It’s money for old rope. Or old floss. I’d have to think about it. I’d go to Boots first and look at their £9.99 kits.
Lurking in my inbox, where it had been for over a week, was a huge document relating to the new quotation system, Perypils Online Quotation System, POQS (which all the staff, of course, referred to as the pox, as in “When are we getting the pox?”). It was scheduled to be implemented next month. The document, which was 73 pages long, plus various attachments, had been produced by a Project Manager who clearly had time on their hands and the whole thing required sign off by ‘the business’. That meant me. By asking the poor, exhausted departmental managers to provide sign off, the project team relinquished themselves from any kind of responsibility should something go tits up. Although, of course, it’s absolutely a no-blame culture at Perypils Insurance.
Deadline for sign off was approaching, so I’d printed the whole thing (killing an entire rain forest in the process) and taken it home to read. I couldn’t use the study, as The Husband was in there on his lap top, sharing “Facetime” with some virtual friends.
I sat in the lounge in front of Midsomer Murders (the original with Bergerac) with a glass of red wine and the dreaded POQS implementation documents. It took me an hour and a half to read the documents, and then another hour to read them again. They were very complex, full of buggery-bollocks project speak and a vast amount of IT terminology - most of it totally meaningless to me. How on earth was I expected to understand all this? I didn’t know which systems interfaced with each other or what bandwidth availability should be - I’m not Bill Gates for Christ’s sake. I hadn’t realised that as well as the 73 pages plus attachments, there were several documents embedded in the original document. Jesus.
John Nettles had solved the murders some time ago after randomly accusing everyone in the village, and the News at Ten was over too. There had been an item about the dangers of do-it-yourself teeth whitening kits. I’m glad I hadn’t bought one now. I fired up the lap top, which seemed to groan as if to say “what the f-, do you know what time it is?” and sent an email to the POQS Project Manager, Lisa Hewitt. I’d met her a couple of times and I didn’t like her very much - too young, too orange and with huge boobs, which didn’t look at all real. At least she’d never need Sat Nav, I bet her nipples just followed the sun. My email asked for a detailed explanation on several areas of the document that I didn’t understand. Take that Big Boobs, you may have written this shite but I bet you haven’t got a clue what it means either.
I popped into the study to say goodnight to the Husband. He was sat talking to a “head” on the screen on his laptop - I wasn’t introduced to The Head but it bid me a cheery goodnight.
10.00 am. I was waiting impatiently to start the team manager meeting. The Climber’s iPhone made a noise like a duck. She read a message and threw back her head to laugh her annoying laugh. We could see right down her throat and all her fillings. I noticed her teeth were very white.
“It’s from Brett,” she trilled, “He is just so funny!” Why is Brett The Boss, my boss, texting her? Why? What about? He never texts me. Except, occasionally, late at night when he’s clearly meant to have messaged someone else. The Rock caught my eye and raised her eyebrows. I felt quite rattled but covered it by launching cheerfully into the meeting.
I was still dwelling over the texting business at lunchtime. Why didn’t I have that kind of relationship with The Boss where he felt he could text me jokey messages? We didn’t have much contact at all. Maybe I should phone him more, but then equally he could phone me - but he hardly ever does. Why should I have to make the effort all the time? Especially when I’m working flat out around the clock and he’s got time to send stupid messages to my team.
The Climber’s annoying laugh was in my head. I phoned the dentist and made myself an appointment.
11.30 am. Received an email from Big Boobed Lisa, the POQS Project Manager, chasing me for my sign off for the 73 page-plus-attachments-plus-embedded-documents document. I sent one back saying I was unable to provide sign off until she’d responded to the questions I’d raised. I attached a copy of my email containing the questions, just by way of revenge.
1.30 pm. Received an email from Big Boobs informing me that if I did not provide sign off immediately I would be responsible for a delay in the roll out of the new system, thus meaning I would be personally responsible for causing millions of pounds of additional cost and lost revenue. There were no answers to any of my questions.
Emailed back to ask what was the value of my sign off if I didn’t fully understand what I was signing off?
1.50 pm. Received email from Big Boobs saying it was entirely the responsibility of “the Business” to agree the implementation plan within the required timescales.
I noticed she was using a BlackBerry. How come she had one and I didn’t? Replied saying I would provide sign off when she had responded to my questions. I signed the email from “the Business”.
2.40 pm. Received a rare phone call from Brett The Boss. I answered it assuming he’d dialled the wrong number.
“Ah, Kate, the lovely Kate, how the devil are you today?” He sounded a little slurry, so I guessed he’d had a liquid lunch again. Either that or he’d had a stroke. “Now, I understand from the project team that you are being a bit awkward about signing off the impelmen, the implemen, the er... you know, that fuck-off huge project document.” Big Boobs had gone to the Boss behind my back! What a weasley little shit-head...
“No, I’m not being awkward at all Brett, I’ve simply asked some questions around areas that I need clarification on-”
“Oh Kate, just sign the bloody thing off, will you? I can’t be doing with the project team on my back giving me grief as well as everyone else. I just don’t need the hassle. I’ll tell them you’re sending it over now. Everything else ok there?”
“Er, well yes-”
“Good, good, speak later.” He was gone.
Oh great, I’ve been undermined by an empty-headed, talentless, useless, big breasted bimboid. I viciously jabbed at the keys on my laptop and emailed confirmation of my sign off, entitling it: To Weasel-Features Supergrass. (I took this out before sending it, but only at the very last minute). I sighed. I knew I had another sleepless night coming up now, as I worried about exactly what I had just signed off and agreed to.
Later on I saw Big Andy at the coffee machine and I told him about Lisa The Weasel going to The Boss behind my back. He laughed and told me that The Boss and The Weasel are “shagging each other”. He said everyone knows it, the two of them go for a drink together at the Hat and Feather every lunch time and most evenings. He was amazed I didn’t know. Oh good grief.
I was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room getting very cold feet. Like anyone who’s seen the film Marathon Man, I had a morbid fear of going to the dentist. Jaws had also affected me in the same way. Not from going to the dentist, but from swimming in the sea. It hadn’t helped that the dentist I usually saw, the nice, motherly Mrs Brown with the hairy nostrils, had retired and I’d been told that I’d been transferred to her son, Scott. I almost bottled it and got up to go, but too late, I was called in by the dental nurse, who was obviously doing this job in between her modelling shoots. Scott turned round from his computer screen to say “Hi!” as I went in. Hubba bubba - he was gorgeous! Not a bit like the evil Dr Szell. He had quite a muscular build, a very handsome, open smiley face and lovely even, white teeth. Which you’d expect really, being in t
he trade. How inconvenient - I always turned into a moron when faced with very attractive people. I’d much rather deal with munters.
Scott examined my teeth very thoroughly. My tongue kept caressing his fingers which was highly embarrassing and at one point he nearly lost one of them when I snapped my jaw shut abruptly. He declared that I had “really good teeth” and it was obvious that I did an excellent job in looking after them. I found myself welling up with emotion. I couldn’t remember the last time my appearance had been praised by anyone. But that was the good bit over with. Making the mould was disgusting. He literally took what appeared to be a piece of play-dough and wedged it into my mouth over my teeth. It had to be done twice, and both times he sat there for ages pressing this hideous-tasting gunk into my jaws. Both times I gagged when he removed it. I’m amazed all my fillings didn’t come away as well. Why am I doing this to myself? And paying for the pleasure! I must be totally bonkers. Left there saying “Thank you very much” which didn’t exactly feel appropriate. Paid the first instalment. Utter madness.
I received an email from Lisa-Big-Boobs-Weasley-Pox-Project-Manager requesting the names of the two colleagues I was sending to Birmingham on Monday to receive their system training. Eh?
Replied asking when I agreed to this.
Get an email straight back from The Weasel saying “It was in the document that you signed off.” I noticed that she had copied in The Boss, the entire project team, and every other manager she could think of just to make me look a tit.
I scoured the document in a desperate attempt to prove The Weasel wrong, but eventually found it in an embedded part of an embedded document in one of the attachments. Can’t think how I missed it.
I’d “agreed” to send two colleagues for training in Birmingham on Monday and Tuesday, (staying overnight) with the aim of them coming back to the site and training the others. I called an emergency meeting with my team managers. Thank God they are so good in a crisis. Cries of “But it’s too short notice” and “But Monday’s our busiest day” and “But no one will want to do it” and “But I thought we would get proper trainers” which is actually a fair point, if touchingly naive.
I supported them through this initial stage of denial:
“I’m sorry guys, but we’ve just got to bloody well do it.” They came up with names of individuals who they thought had the required skills and expertise to undertake the training and The Rock went off to ask them if they’d be prepared to go.
She returned sometime later looking rather cagey. It appeared that everyone she’d asked suddenly had “other commitments” on Monday evening. Like what?
“Well, Linda has to pick up her younger brother,” Isn’t he seventeen at least? “Dave has an evening class at college,” In the middle of the school holidays? “And Jackie just said she had personal things she had to do.”
“Like what?”
“Er, she said she’s got to shave her horse.” You what? Oh well, I couldn’t really blame them, I think I’d have made my excuses too if I’d been offered a night away in Birmingham.
The Rock was twiddling with the zip on her cardigan. “I did get a couple of volunteers, although they weren’t on our list.” I noticed she wasn’t looking me in the eye.
“Go on - who?” She muttered something I couldn’t quite catch.
“I’m sorry Jan, but I thought for one horrible moment you’d said Danny and Ben?”
“Yes well, they were very keen and I know they can be a bit, er, you know...” disruptive, bone idle, pains in the arse? “high maintenance, but their system knowledge is excellent, and, well,” The Rock looked at me squarely now, “I don’t think we have any other choice.”
“Oh God Jan, no,” I groaned, head in my hands. “Please don’t tell me the entire success of this project rests on the heads of Ben and Danny, because if so we’re going to come completely unstuck. Not to mention the reputation of the site when Dumb and Dumber rock up on Monday for their training. Everyone will think if that’s the best we’ve got to offer then what the bloody hell does the worst look like... the Weasel will have a field day... Please go back and ask the others again, beg if you must, grovel on your hands and knees, promise them sex, whatever it takes.”
It was no good. On Friday morning, I found myself booking hotel rooms at the Holiday Inn and train tickets for Danny and Ben (I didn’t want them to drive as they had enough trouble finding their way back from the canteen let alone negotiating a route round the Bullring). I gave the excited pair a pep talk on how they were ambassadors for the site and the importance of maintaining our excellent reputation. Ben, to his credit, asked if I wanted him to wear a long-sleeved, high-necked top to cover his tattoos. I was actually more concerned about the large bolt piercing his ear, but he said he couldn’t remove that in case it sealed up. Feeling slightly queasy, I thanked them for volunteering, and wished them good luck. I really, really didn’t want Monday to ever come round.
Monday
The Rock came to tell me (rather triumphantly I thought) that Danny and Ben had made it to Birmingham on time and had started the training. That’s something I suppose.
Tuesday 5.50 pm
The Rock forwarded an email she’d received from the trainer in Birmingham. It read: “To the line manager of Danny Jones and Ben Goodman”. I’m not sure I want to read this. “I just wanted to say how great your guys have been over the last two days. They have picked up all aspects of the new system extremely quickly and have been able to demonstrate a thorough understanding of all the training material that was used. I have no doubt they will provide you with a very successful system roll-out in the Cheltenham site”.
I drove home feeling rather ashamed of myself. Had I become one of those people that once they had made their minds up about someone, they never changed their opinion? Or if someone made a bad first impression you never gave them another chance? I’d always hated people like that. Was I unable to recognise genuine talent just because it was hidden under ghastly tattoos and ear bolts? Was I holding my team back? I needed to take a serious a look at myself.
When I got home, I had a flick through a book entitled How To Get The Best Out Of People Who Are Crap, or something like that. I found a great quote, which said: “Challenge your own assumptions. Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.” Love it. I typed it out and printed it so I could take it to work the next day. I would pin it up in front of me. I must look at this each time I have a negative thought about a colleague. I must change.
Wednesday
9.30 Said a big “Well done!” to Danny and Ben in front of their teams, and read out the email from the trainer. They were very chuffed, and received a big round of applause from everyone.
10.30 Received a phone call from the manager of the Holiday Inn in Birmingham. Rather awkwardly, he told me he was calling out of courtesy to make me aware that there were certain “additions” to the room bills that I might not be expecting.
“Such as?” I asked, as a sinking feeling hit my stomach. He listed the additions as:
£268 phone calls to premium rate numbers.
£143.98 entire mini bar contents - how the hell did they get a mini bar?
£58 additional cleaning.
£25 maintenance fee to put the trouser press back together.
For God’s sake. I started to ask what the additional cleaning was required for, but stopped myself. I really didn’t want to know.
I waited until lunchtime to see if Danny or Ben had the courage or decency to fess up, but they didn’t. I took them both into a meeting room, relayed the conversation with the manager of the Holiday Inn and asked them for their comments. They looked at each other. Ben said “Oh.” Danny tried “But I thought we got expenses...” I asked them for £247.50 each and told them I wanted it this afternoon, otherwise I’d be starting disciplinary action against them. Ashen-faced, they slunk out and returned after lunch to present me with
piles of scruffy notes and coins. God knows who they’d robbed to get it, but at least they’d paid up - I didn’t have the time for any more disciplinaries.
Thursday
My moulds had come back from the manufacturers, and Scott The Dishy Dentist fitted them both over my teeth, declaring them a perfect fit. Hooray! I could start the whitening process. First though, he wanted to take a picture of my teeth so I could see what they looked like before and after. Whilst his supermodel-nurse fetched a camera, he wedged what looked like bottle-openers into the sides of my mouth to pull my lips wide apart, exposing all my teeth. I lay there, looking like Shergar, whilst they fiddled around trying to get the camera to work. I felt my last shred of dignity leave the building.
In the evening, before bed, I squeezed the gel carefully into the teeth-moulds and placed them gingerly over my teeth. It tasted ok. I smiled at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked like Janet Street Porter. I went downstairs and smiled at the Husband. I hadn’t seen him laugh so much in ages.
Weekend
Very bored with the whole whitening process. My teeth were extremely sensitive, so much so that I had to drink coffee through a straw. No noticeable difference yet.
By the following Friday, the gel had run out completely and I still couldn’t see much of a difference in the colour. I dropped into the dentist’s and purchased more gel. Another thirty quid! The receptionist tried to get me to make an appointment with Scott first, but I told her I didn’t have the time.
Weekend
The new POQS system was being implemented over the weekend. I’d had to attend no less than 8 “go-no-go” teleconferences throughout the weekend. My attendance was completely pointless - the only contribution I had made was to say the word “Yes” in the very last one on Sunday night, when we’d agreed to go for it. I’d no idea if this was the right word, but everyone else had said it so I did too. All the other meetings were taken up with IT and project managers squabbling with each other in a language that I believe is universally recognised as bollocks. The Husband made it even more difficult by tutting loudly every time he saw me on the phone and making sarcastic comments, such as “They do know it’s actually the weekend do they?” and “Are the bastards paying you for this?” which I hoped no one heard.
We had managed to go out on Saturday night with Karen and James to celebrate Karen’s birthday. We went to an Italian restaurant and had lots of lovely pasta and wine. I asked the waiter to take some pictures of us on my camera. I looked through them the next morning. My God! My eyes were immediately drawn to my image - smiling drunkenly. My teeth! They stood out a mile. They were quite freakishly white. Why had I not noticed? Why hadn’t anyone said anything? I must stop using the gel; I looked like a child-frightener.
Chapter Eighteen