I realised that I hadn’t posted any original fiction yet to this new blog.
Time to address that, I think. So here’s a little tale I wrote this Tuesday afternoon. It is Tuesday, after all.
I bloody hate working on Tuesdays.
Tuesday is my usual day off, you see; a day when I can enjoy the fruits of my labours. On Tuesdays, every Tuesday, I relax and surround myself in the results of my endeavours.
Monday is my busiest day, usually. But not this week. Oh, I know, were I to look in my diary for yesterday, I’d see the notation indicating a meeting.
10:45am Mrs Johnston. Outside 13 Albermarle Street.
It’s there, still, written in clear black ink upon Monday’s page. On Mondays’s page, you understand, despite it having to be postponed until today.
It annoys me when people don’t turn up for meetings. After the effort I undertake in order to ensure the meeting goes to plan, and the satisfaction I take in planning a presentation, it annoys me. I plan it for days in advance, trying this opening and that upon myself in the mirror at home seeking to answer one simple question: which approach will garner me most sympathy?
For if I have their sympathy and trigger that need so many have merely to make life easier for someone else, then I’ve got them. Then I’ve captured their interest.
And the rest is usually easy.
But such planning requires precision and consistency from, you’ll understand, both parties. I research those with whom I’m meeting with carefully. Any changes in behaviour or attitude will perforce require changes in my presentation style and content.
Take Mrs Johnston, as I’m about to. She drops her children at three different schools, meets friends for coffee every day for about an hour (never less than 50 minutes,never more than 67) and then returns home. She then leaves to do the rounds of school pickups at 3:00.
So, if I want to get her attention, the best time is after leaving her friends, on the way home.
But yesterday, she apparently had a minor traffic accident, so she drove a different way home.
Which meant that I was forced to abandon the meeting, waste the rest of the day when I would have been skinning her, and today, when I should have been wearing her, relaxing and surrounding myself in her, I’m waiting outside 13 Albermarle Street, the bonnet on my car raised, rehearsing my approach for when her car appears.
I’ve wasted a whole 24 hours when I could have been enjoying my work.
Ah, her car is rounding the corner. Excuse me. I have to go to work.
Even though it’s a Tuesday.
(c) Lee Barnett, 2011