MISCHIEF….

Right in the heart of the city, where the streets are narrow and the buildings seem to reach for the sky, there was a textile wholesale business on the third floor of such an older style business centre and it was run by a managing director, a foreigner, who spent most of the day in his sumptuous office. In an adjacent room were two ladies working away on large ledger sheets and making constantly telephone calls. The whole room looked definitely busy, with office files strewn everywhere, stacks of printouts placed precariously everywhere, mainly over the edge of shelves, seemingly losing balance any moment.

There is in the centre of the room an intercom, apparently the most important part of the whole display. And out of it is constantly coming the managing directors barked words: ‘Where is such-and-such?’ and ‘When is Mr. Smith coming?’ So much so, that he is being referred to by the ladies as ‘Mr. Whereis-Whenis’.

Outside the two offices are the store rooms with rolls and rolls of fabric stored in tall shelves and long cutting tables with wrapping material, strings and enormous large scissors hanging by a string from the wall, looking almost as if requiring a weapon licence!

One side of the offices and store rooms has a row of large windows, reaching from floor to ceiling, like any of the windows of the other buildings in that street. The only difference is that they can be actually opened and by swivelling on a centre pivot, their outside can be turned to face inside, facilitating better cleaning from the inside only. But that was only theoretically as nobody has ever done that. Besides, in front of the windows in the store rooms were long tables placed with displays of ties, handkerchiefs and scarves, putting the actual windows practically out of reach.

And whilst downstairs the busy traffic of the street ebbed and flowed, with pedestrians rushing about and cars tooting their horns, there is always a tranquil atmosphere at this third floor, carefully nursed by three lazy apprentices. They have been employed by the managing director, Mr. Goldberger, because they were cheaper than hiring adults and with a bit of luck and coercion, adult performances may be gained from them. However, this has been only his theory so far.

The three apprentices, Jackie, Peter and Nigel, knew that, work-performance-wise they were expected to function as adults, but were also aware that, as apprentices, they cannot be legally responsible for any mistakes they may make.

And whenever they could, between cutting fabric and wrapping up orders, they thought up many a mischief to while away their time.

Peter, for example turned out to be puberty-wise somewhat confused and tended to stand at the office door, listening to the two women’s idle chatter. And sometimes he picks up a real gem: Minnie said to Elly: ‘ My husband says I have the body of a seventeen year old…..’, giving him the instant illusion of Minnie without clothes!

It was lunchtime right now, when Jackie produced a large plastic bag, placing it with triumph on one of the long cutting tables. ‘Here’, he said in with the voice of a winner, ‘this is for all of us. I got it from my grandfather who makes a strong brandy from this!’

Nigel’s greedy hand dived into the large sack and pulled out an enormous pear. ‘Eeh,’ he sounded disgusted, ‘it is dripping wet – and sticky!’

‘They are supposed to be’ Jackie explained. ‘In fact they are so over-ripe that the fruit juice just runs off them by their own weight! It’s a special kind of pear, like I said, very watery and with a high sugar content, for brandy-making. Of course, we can eat them as well but they dribble a lot.’

Now, Peter, too, was holding something mushy in his hand ‘Look, it’s practically cascading like a water fall – the rest is just puree…’ He suddenly had a piece of cloth in the other hand, wiping the counter top off its sticky wetness.

‘It’s like a water bomb….Jackie mused. ‘I bet, if you drop it on somebody, it’d burst like one – plus it leaves that sugary mush as an added bonus!’

‘Why don’t we try one out?’ Nigel sounded like a scientist, his chin motioning to one of the large windows.

‘We can‘t’ Peter was more timid and, yet,  equally eager. ‘The window has never been opened and we’d need a special handle to stick into its frame to unlock its mechanism.’

‘I think I know where it is’, Jackie’s brain produces results. Going to the table in front of the window, he pulled open a draw and reached inside. He seems to fumble around inside the collection of scarves and handkerchiefs for quite a while, indicating his strenuous effort with his tongue firmly wedged between his teeth.

‘Here it is!’ in triumph he produced a wrought iron handle with a square, long shaft, black with age and slightly rusty. ‘That should do it’

Nobody has ever seen this instrument before and therefore a moment of staring at it was in order.

‘And where do you use it?’ Nigel said slowly.

‘’There, of course!’ two hands pointed at an unobtrusive round hole in the metal frame, with the square inlet, hardly visible.

The apparatus turned slowly and the window creaked a few times before pivoting on its axis and allowing three urchin’s heads poking out and observing the hectic traffic of pedestrians right below them.

‘Look how they rush about!’ Peter articulated ‘Some walk really funny…’ He pointed at a lady in particularly high stiletto heels, walking almost mechanically as if wound up. And that large poodle she’s leading – almost a designer dog - hey, what are you doing?’ The latter was a callout directed at Jackie.

‘Bombs awaaaay’ Jackie, seeing himself in a military position, aimed and let go of a pear.

They quickly observed an explosion on the poodle, a frightened yelping, followed by a shrill voice emanating from the fashion model. She did not recognise her price dog at all. Covered in pear puree and dripping wet and trembling, that creature was simply unrecognisable!

More could not be observed as the ‘three musketeers’ quickly pulled back and slammed the window shut. There was more noise welling up from the street and after a while it seemed to die down, obviously people got accustomed to the new situation.

That’s when the window was carefully opened again and the state of traffic was reconnoitred by the three.

Among the milling crowd was a business executive, walking busily in his tailor-made suit and carrying a grey attaché case, probably hand-stitched leather which he kept protectively close to his person. And that was his fault as the next pear plummeted down and, as it did so, its mushy body expanded into a pale watery cloud, nearly missing his main body but making contact with his hand, holding the satchel!

His surprised ‘Whaaat’ was heard up and down the busy street, with the stream of pedestrians coming momentarily to a standstill. Again, the window was quickly slammed shut and the many people now looking up the high building could not make out anything.

Three rascals sat on the floor hidden from the hostile world outside aided by the fact that the windows sheer continuous curtains closed out any view into their work place. Faces were red with excitement, apprehension and, yes, pride because this caper was really something!

The noise from downstairs receded to regular street level, with everybody continuing as normal. Everybody seems to be pre-occupied with one’s own self. What does it matter if there are two strange looking creatures standing in an office doorway – actually, they were three, counting the dog.

A middle aged lady, overweight and overdone, makeup-wise, was proudly and domineeringly stepping along. Her hair was carefully coiffured into a beehive style, but much more intricate – a work of art! Her fleshy face heavily powdered and enhanced with a red lipstick, indicating kissable lips where there were none, a bosom jutting far ahead of her with an extensive cleavage pointing out her goodies, a double chin like a concertina, a blue dress with lots and lots of lace edgings, obviously hand- knotted and sturdy legs to hold everything upright.

‘Her legs are like concrete crushers!’ Peter nastily observed.

‘Like Miss Piggy’s’ Nigel remembered.

‘Don’t be so vulgar! A bit more respect, please!’ Jackie reprimanded and let go of an especially watery, dripping and sticky pear. He looked like a fighter pilot from WW I, in his bi-plane, hand-dropping the bomb at a carefully selected enemy.

The falling pear bomb was somewhat cushioned by the high hairdo but not for long. A loud ‘Eeeeeeeeeeh ‘ was heard and the startled passers-by stared disapprovingly at the bedraggled figure, wet and dripping. She stood there motionless due to her unaccustomed wetness, hair sticking closely to her head and on her upper body. With her cleavage chastely covered in pear mush, she stood there brainless and with her stiletto shoes pointing inwards – a picture of disgust for most of the passing pedestrians.

She, too, eventually joined the others in the doorway in commiserating their loss of appearance!

Youthful exuberance prevailed and the three puberty-stricken adolescents forgot time and place in relishing their fun-filled moments. Forgotten were their normally hard work of handling heavy bails and their sometimes swollen wrists for which they wore leather straps like wrestlers.

More people joined the ranks of victims in the main entrance of the building without seeing the funny side of their respective situation.

Another big pear was trundling downwards when Peter noticed something:’Hey look! Following his pointed finger, they all noticed the bank on the opposite side of the street with their office staff crowding at the windows and faces distorted with hilarity. They, too, were enjoying the action of the three ‘stooges’ and their caper. With the added bonus that they could observe the crowd in the main entrance swelling in ranks – a clear sign of success.

They observed these desperate people looking around for clues whilst scraping this unknown substance from their bodies and belongings, sniffing their finger tips and looking around themselves with eyes that showed a wild light.

Now, they noticed the bank across the road, in fact they discovered each other at the same time. The faces of the bank employees resumed their usual sternness, however, strenuously achieved and now they are pointing upwards in a helpful way, obviously having changed side.

‘Hell’, Nigel exclaimed, ‘You cannot trust them!’ and dived away from the window.

‘Banks can never be trusted!’ added Jackie as he, too, hit the floor.

Peter slammed the window shut, locked it frenetically, hid the handle back where it was found, deep in a draw, far behind lots and lots of scarves and handkerchiefs.

Then all three pushed the long and heavy table with the counter display stands for ties, handkerchiefs and more fashion paraphernalia right back to the window. The bag with the remaining projectiles, er..pears, was stuffed into the cleaning lady’s vacuum cleaner and her little storeroom was firmly shut and two bails of heavy tweed,  herring-boned and winter-weight, were placed before it like boulders.

The three half-grown prankster sat on the parquetry floor with bated breath and listened to any signs of activity from outside. Sure enough a low background noise quickly swelled to clearly recognisable tramping sound of many feet coming upstairs and closer.

The doorbell rang storm and just to stop its unpleasantness, Peter unwillingly rushed to the door and opened it. He was pushed aside by a large group of strange looking people with hate-contorted faces of crimson colour. Rushing past him they stormed to the window side of the warehouse and were stopped by the long tables before them. As if driven by some automatic force, they bent over the long tables with their counter display stands and their outstretched arms tried to reach towards the windows and for a handle to open them. Of course, there was none. One fellow, a doctor-type with a pureed wig and pads of pear mousse on his shoulders, like epaulets, span around and hissed at Peter:‘How do you open this window?’

As if in a dream, Peter slowly replied: ’They can’t be opened, they have never been opened.’ He was not believed but since there was no handle or anything like that visible, it seemed to be the truth.

The whole group of fuming characters looked at each other, and that included the four-legged ones. ‘Now what?’ Their revenge-contorted faces seem to say.

Since they cannot let themselves be seen in public, they decided to stay in the building a bit longer and find the culprit.

‘What’s upstairs?’ The ex-matron-like lady barked but with a pitch in her voice that betrayed desperation.

‘What is this about?’ Nigel had himself under firm control and like a tourist guide he proudly announced: ‘Here are the offices…’ and his outstretched arm encompassed the relevant doors. ‘..and this is a textile warehouse!’ he added with a helpless shrug.

Peter, ever helpful, pushed a rag across the wide counter to a mousse-creature but carefully avoided showing his hand which was still covered in pear puree’.

A growling emanated from the group and it sounded menacing and murderous.

‘What’s upstairs, one floor up?’ That hissing emanated from a broken-nose character, almost as broad as tall and in a tight suit, currently very soaked with liquid vitamin, repeating the question.

‘There is a dentist upstairs with lots of people in his waiting room. But you will have to make an appointment…..’

As if by command, the whole group turned towards the door and, growling threats, they stomped out the door and the trampling of their furious steps could be heard for a while.

As Peter firmly closed the door, he exhaled deeply and with relief. The other boys, too, had suddenly a darker colour as they became aware of the danger they have just escaped.

As Peter locked the front door firmly and switched-off the door bell for good measure, an office door opened and the managing director, Mr. Miklos Goldberger, poked his head out, enquiring with amazement: ‘What is happening here?’

EMBARRASSMENT….

For most of my life I have been a sales representative for floor covering companies and as such I have travelled the Australian countryside far and wide, calling mainly on retail shops, architects and government departments.

When faxes came into use, they were welcomed by me and my hard-working colleagues as a real boon as they obviate rushing to post offices with urgent communications.

Whilst I still got my fair share of phone calls from architects, builders, and government offices, I could now back-up my verbal information by offering them a fax, confirming our conversations, for legal reason.

This kind of instant service started to endear me to my business contacts and assisted me establishing an instant trust and therefore a good working relationship.

Today, I have been in the company office most of the morning, trying to get out and onto the road, where I was – theoretically – free to call on important clients. However, the phone calls came in thick and fast and I just couldn’t get away.

‘Are you not going out today, calling on customers?’ my boss Mervin called impatiently from his office.

I snatched my fat satchel and extra folders and was just about to leave the office when the telephone on my desk emitted again its annoying sound.

‘Shall I get that call?’ I called to Mervin

‘Of course!’ he yelled back and with great relieve I rushed to the phone.

It was an architect’s firm, located in the city, near the top of a high-rise office building, and their boss, Mr. John Albert, has this unforgettable, craggy, face, so very lived-in, that never showed any emotion and one could never tell whether he was in a good mood or not. Plus, he spoke with matching voice: terse, halting and in a -what musicians would describe as ‘staccato’.

Now, he wanted something from me, which was impossible!

‘I am sorry, John, but there will never be such thing as a maintenance-free flooring, no matter how much your client is insisting on one.’

‘Hmm, that’s disappointing,’ came his rasping reply. Not quite sure whether he meant me or the flooring, I felt having to come up with something positive!

‘There is a new type of flooring coming onto the market next month, that requires only sweeping or mopping. And scuff marks on the floor are being walked-off during the day. Your client’s maintenance costs will be an absolute minimum….

A slightly drawn-out ‘yes’ revealed his interest and I kept on with my sales conversation: ‘The new product is Easifloor and, so far, I only have a glossy leaflet which I received from overseas, showing basically two pictures of a large room, the first one shows a standard PVC flooring, with a small light reflection and below is this new flooring, Easifloor, looking much cleaner and with a larger light reflection. On the reverse side, are the technical details and minimum maintenance instructions……’

‘I need that for my client…’ In his eagerness, he started to breath heavier.

‘I’ve only got one for myself…..but I shall try to fax it to you. The photos will not come out very well but the technical data on the reverse side will tell your client what a great low-maintenance flooring this is.’

In those early days of faxing, fine grey shades were almost non-existent and I expected no enthusiasm from looking at them, however, technical details on the other side may be enough to convey its low maintenance features.

Having faxed John Albert this leaflet, I managed to run out of the office before the next phone call and drove to the first of my many business contacts.

Leaving a building with great satisfaction, after having called on a happy client who fortified me with a strong cup of coffee, my mobile phone started to vibrate.

‘Peter, do you know what you sent me?’ It was the voice of John Albert the architect from the office.

‘Yes, John, I’ve sent you a fax with the illustrations and other details about our new flooring…’ But he interrupted me:

‘Do you really know what you’ve sent me?’

‘What’s the problem, John? My boss was standing next to me and saw me doing it….I’ve sent you the leaflet of our ‘Easiflor’

‘I want you to come here and have a look at your fax. You can’t send me things like that!’ He sounded disgusted but was there a trace of mockery somewhere? This is hard to say when coming from such a stony-faced person.

‘I am in the city right now and shall drop everything and see you right away, if you wish!’ It would be nice if he had said ‘no hurry, come whenever you can fit it into your busy schedule’ but no such consideration can be expected from this architect.

‘I see you in my office!’ That kind of terseness could be a joke….but was it?

Arriving at his airy offices – thank God for the invention of lifts - the staff seems to be expecting me too. Jenny, the receptionist was a stunning blonde who could easily be taken for a film star.

‘Hello, Mr. Frederick, she welcomed me. Was her face flushed or did she apply too much make-up in the morning? Hard to say, but her eyes were shiny and brimming with joie de vivre. Or was she laughing on the inside?

And now, Mrs. Leadbetter, came out of the inner sanctum. She was an elderly woman, tall and willowy. Her rimless glasses glistened at me in a kind of reprimand but she seemed to have more colour in her expressionless face and there were less wrinkles than usual and the ones I could see, were less deep.

My professional antennae were telling me something is not right here and that I need to be on guard. Mrs. Leadbetter walked ahead of me, past rows of rooms with architects who seem to glance at me only to bury their heads down deep into their files and blue prints in front of them.

‘You can’t send me faxes like that!’ We had arrived at John Albert’s office and he stood up from his desk handing me the two copies of my fax.

His face was in a state of mourning like always, only his eyes were glistening.

‘Hello John, I greeted him routinely, ‘nice to see you! Taking from his outstretched hand the two copies. He and Mrs. Leadbetter stood there studying my face intensely.

‘Sorry, John, the photos did not come out very well, why, they are only two black rectangular prints with a white streak in each one, which should be the reflection of the light in the flooring. But I have my original leaflet here and can lend it to you for a few days.

Snatching the glossy leaflet from my attaché case and holding it up in triumph, I felt assured of victory. ‘Here, I’ll put it in a plastic pocket for you!’

Placing it demonstratively on his desk, I stepped back with great satisfaction.

‘Another happy client,’ were my thoughts.

But John and his scrawny assistant were not interested. Unmoved, they stared at me with piercing eyes out of wrinkly faces.

‘Have another look at what you sent me!’ He commanded.

Pretending to be un-effected, I had a look at the first page of the fax.

‘Why, it shows two pictures, both black and with a white streak each.’

‘Look at it, have a good look!’ He bored into my soul.

Thinking this to be a new type of nonsense to annoy a hard-working representatives, I perused the page again, this time with inquiring intensity.

The headline spelled in large letters the word EASI, the name of that particular flooring. Then I concentrated on the two black rectangles showing each a white streak, indicating a light reflection.

There must be something unusual about the light reflection – but what?

‘Look at it!’ John bellowed.

Suddenly, the white area seemed to be in the shape of a specific part of the male body but I had training in suppressing such thought and kept surging.

‘Look at it!’ The architect repeated his command.

Staring at the white area, my indecent thoughts returned. It really looked like a male – you know what! But, my brain signalled that it cannot be so, that it is only my filthy mind.

‘Keep your mind on the job!’ I keep telling myself, glancing at the overall impression of this leaflet.

There is nowhere indicated that we are dealing with a PVC floor cover, only the word Easy is being spelled out at the top.

Beneath the top picture is the bold-lettered punch line: ‘Why put up with this?’

Whereas the below the lower picture proudly spells it out: ‘When you can have that?’

Holding that leaflet was suddenly difficult for me and to save myself from unsteadiness, I placed it on the desk.

John must have sensed that the message got through this strictly business-like salesman.

‘You can’t send me a fax like that!’ His voice commanded, but was there a mocking undertone? An intelligent person like he surely understands that I’ve been the victim of imperfect technology and was only trying to give instant service!

This was hard to say because his face and that of his assistant betrayed nothing. Stony-faced, with red, watery eyes and their lips firmly pressed together, John and Mrs. Leadbetter stared at me unnervingly.

‘Anyway, I’ve brought you the original leaflet and leave it with you. Plus, as soon as I receive some sample swatches or larger pieces of the real thing, I bring them to you – for your client. The price will be the same……..’ I prattled on to hide my embarrassment and bid my farewell, in elegant politeness.

Trying to walk past the reception and out the door unnoticed, proved to be impossible. As a final slap of shame, Jenny the film star, called out with a carefully controlled voice: ‘See you next time, Peter!’ Hoping that she had no idea of anything, I slunk out the door and heard her parting words: ‘And don’t send us any faxes!’

FICKLE TRAVELLERS

The large assembly of travellers gathered outside the London railway station seemed to be stunned: they had just heard the announcement of a strike at British railways and that they will be taken to Dover coast by bus, to be ferried across the channel and there, at Oostend, their connecting train will be waiting for them.

The whole replacement schedule seemed a bit ad hoc to them and while they are still shocked about the news of the strike, everybody doubted that it will be possible to reach the connecting train on the continent on schedule. The dreary thought sunk into their brain: What if we miss this connecting train on the continent? How will we get across Europe to our distant point of destination?

The mass of desperate people got bigger all the time as new fellow travellers kept arriving.

Despair started to sink-in and spread. People from all parts of the world started to find each other by their mother tongue or the nearest common language they could speak. Together they chatted in highly alarmed voices and exchanged their thoughts about British Railways, England in general and the cheek of having a strike at the travellers’ most inconvenient time.

What if the busses had a strike as well? There is no such transport in sight and it’s already time to depart for the coast. Rumours had it that one such bus was already on the way, that it had left very early with the first batch of tourists. Do they have only one bus working? That would be nowhere enough to solve the travellers’ needs.

The international crowd is still growing with new arriving tourists being informed of the strike whilst their faces dropped.

It was a misery day, there was fog in the morning and it had barely lifted when it started to drizzle. The crowd huddled together under a shelter of a large bus station, muttering to each other and some to themselves. The few railway workers that still had the nerve to show themselves, seem to sense the people’s desperation and tried to cheer them up.

Somebody with a heavy Welsh accent called out: ’Come out in the rain – I will sing for you!’

This attempt at humour failed miserably and something like a dog-like growl emanated from the mass of desperados and words like ‘bloody jokes’ in various accents could be heard.

Now, a new sound emerged: that of travellers who were freezing by now and with their feet scraping the concrete floor of the large bus depot where they huddled together.

Suddenly their mood changed: A bus was arriving and pulling up into the depot. It was very dirty and really looked like having done a long trip in inclement weather. Grime and dirt was thickly around the wheels and the tyres were covered thickly with mud.

Whilst everybody grabbed their luggage in order to storm into this bus – nothing happened. That behemoth of a vehicle stood silent for a seemingly long while. Then it slowly opened and the driver stepped out with some paperwork and disappeared into an office.

All this went on far too slowly for the masses and loud protest could be heard from the irate masses. Especially a women with a heavy German accent – very Prussian, actually – became increasingly vociferous. Probably being unaccustomed to train strikes in her native Berlin, people could only agree with her loud exclamation about the prevailing situation: ‘Zis iss impossiple!’

After a perceived eternity, the office door opened and the bus driver came out, carefully carrying a cup of tea in this hands. Leasurely, he went to his bus and luxuriously eased himself into his drivers seat.

Now, the passengers had their tickets checked – with unnerving calmness - by a mate of the driver – same uniform and detached attitude - and there was a quick storming of the bus. Some lucky ones seated themselves and held expectantly their breath, however, nothing happened as the driver appeared to be oblivious to the necessity of speeding off to the coast.

Slowly, he took his sips of tea, luxuriously enjoying it’s flavour before swallowing.

Enraged cries could now be heard: first the strike and now the bus is not moving! Especially the German woman could not control herself any longer. Rushing through the bus to the driver, she bent towards him and hissed menacingly at him: ’Vat iss dis? First zer iss a strike and ve vere told zat ze busses vill take us to ze coast but zer vas no bus anyvere. Finally you come mit ze bus, but now, you are not moving but go zip zip zip…….’

It was suddenly very quiet in the bus and the prevalent atmosphere was that of complete solidarity with the German woman. They nodded to each other in agreement and their expression seem to say: ’Trust the Germans to put things succinctly. Bless her for speaking up for all of us!’

The bus driver pulled in his neck slightly at hearing his mother tongue spoken in such a fashion. However, he took another ‘zip’ from his cup after which he slowly and placidly addressed her: ’Madam! I have just been to the coast and back, a two-hour-trip each way. Which means that I have been four hours on the road. Now, I have another four hour trip in front of me – I am surely entitled to a cup of tea!’

Whilst this was spoken with a calm conviction, with a Cockney accent and reaffirmed with a nod, it had a devastating effect on the passengers. Suddenly, as the woman made her way back to her seat everybody backed away from her, seemingly not wanting to have anything to do with her. Again, they nodded to each other and their expression seem to betray their thoughts:  ‘Bloddy Germans! Nothing but trouble makers. Let the poor man have his well earned cuppa – he is hard working!

Finally, the bus moved out of the depot and started its long journey through London city and towards the coast. The German woman faced a very isolated trip as nobody wanted to speak with her……..

WHERE IS MY TIE?

‘Hello Peter, your car has been serviced and it is ready for your country trip.’ The friendly voice on the telephone belonged to Stan, the man in charge of Selby’s Motors. Since a lot of people treat their car almost like a loved one, as a member of the family, his role was like that of a family doctor. His diagnosis of a car is always eagerly awaited by customers and his recommendations are followed religiously.

‘That’s great, Stan, thanks for your good work.’ I am sure I sounded relieved and grateful.

‘That’s alright, Peter. We know that you are due for your country trip and therefore have made servicing your car a top priority!’

Good service! I thought. Whilst I hated putting the car in for service as I always felt stranded without it, I realised that it had to be maintained properly. If not, it could let me down in the country side, in the middle of nowhere, between two towns, with tons of mozzies swarming around. I knew from bitter experience that you could do nothing about it then because when the motor doesn’t run, the air conditioning doesn’t either. It then gets stifling hot inside the car and you are forced to open a window. And that’s when the gnats get you! Out of nowhere they converge on one as if trained that way.

So, I went to my loyal service station and picked up my car. Relieved, I sank into the comfortable seat, turned on the air conditioning and sighed with sheer pleasure as the crisp, clean, refrigerated air hit me. Automatically, I undid my tie, took it off and dropped it on the seat next to me. I undid the top button of my shirt and . . . ah, that was luxury! For a moment I envied all those people who did not have to wear a business suit, shirt and tie.

Upon driving back to the office, the traffic was at its peak and I got nearer to my office only by the stop-start method, which I always found unnerving. I much preferred to do my business calls in the country because at least you could drive without the frustration of traffic and stop where you wanted to stop. It was wonderful to be able to park right outside an architect’s office and just go inside!

Suddenly, I had the feeling that something was not right. Was it the air conditioning? I fingered the control buttons - it was turned on alright, but why was the air suddenly so stiflingly warm? Feeling the air vents, I panicked. The fan which normally blew out the refrigerated air was not working. What an inconvenience! I was supposed to go on a country trip but could not possibly do so with the car in such condition!

‘Stan,’ I explained on my car phone to the service manager of the workshop, ‘the air conditioning does not work. It started alright, blowing cold air but suddenly the fan is not working. What happened?’

‘There can’t be much wrong, Peter,’ Stan’s voice was very reassuring. ‘We checked everything before handing you the car. Can you bring it back and we’ll have a look at it?’

Despite the heavy traffic I managed a u-turn and raced back to the workshop. Once there, Stan sounded less optimistic ‘To check the air conditioning’s fan and motor, we have to open up the dashboard and have a look at everything - it will take a while as it is a big job. Leave it here and we will phone you tomorrow with the result of our inspection.’

This did not sound reassuring at all. I’d have to face another full day without my car! Feeling like a broken man, I hailed a taxi cab and returned to the office. Whilst I had enough business to attend to at my desk, it was not a happy situation. I was in the middle of a large batch of phone calls when Stan reached me on the line. His call got to me between my outgoing calls.

‘This is Stan again, Peter. Your car is ready to be picked up. I’ve fixed everything. Now you can go on your country trip. Can you come right away as our workshop closes early?’

Slightly breathless I had entered the service station and Stan was waiting for me. All the other office staff and all the mechanics seemed to be looking at me, for some reason. ‘Peter, where is your necktie?’ Stan enquired with a very formal attitude. This was an unexpected question and I said the most stupid reply I could think of:

‘I haven’t got a necktie,’ I replied, totally confused about what that had to do with my car? ‘And what’s a necktie?’

‘Your tie, Peter!’ and he tucked at his own accessory to jog my memory.

‘Oh my tie? It’s in the car, on the seat.’

Suddenly, the whole office staff and the mechanics started to laugh and Stan explained: ‘Peter, we found your tie entangled in the fan. Here it is,’ and like a magician, he produced my tie which was in a terrible state.

‘It somehow got sucked up into the air intake opening at the floor and prevented the fan from blowing. There is nothing else wrong with your car!’

With a red face, I had accepted my car keys back and the tattered tie and got into my station wagon. What happened? Well, with all that starting and stopping in heavy traffic, the tie had fallen from my seat onto the floor, must have slid forward and been sucked into the air opening. What a reason to give a car back to a mechanic! I did not live this down for a while. Whenever I put my car in for service, Stan or whoever was serving customers, always remarked: ‘Ah, I see you’re wearing your tie!’ Naturally, I can laugh about this now but I still wish it had never happened to me!

ALL IS WELL.....

The voice on the telephone was the project manager of the Royal Heatherdale Hospital, at that time the largest refurbishing project in Melbourne.

‘Peter, this is Jeff Sweeney, here, from the Royal Heatherdale Hospital.’

‘Hello, Jeff, it’s nice to hear from you. I hope I can assist you with something’.

Jeff is one of those hard-working managers who have no time for small talk and, with him, one needs to get straight to the subject.

‘Peter, I have your samples here and since they are a bit small to make an important decision, I was wondering if you could bring me a larger piece of your vinyl flooring, perhaps one square metre - is that possible?’

‘Of course, Jeff. May I bring it to your office tomorrow morning?’

‘That would be great if you could do that. We need to make an urgent decision about the brand of flooring we want and your product is well in the race to be selected. If I am not in the office, please leave it with my assistant! Thanks, Peter, for helping me and I’ll be in touch with you real soon.’ ‘Click’ went the phone and this busy man was gone, probably attending other, equally urgent, matter!

Well, that sounded great, I thought. The Hospital was to make a decision very soon and my company was ‘well in the race’ for having its flooring selected for the new section. With a bit of extra service I might have been able to obtain a large business contract and thus establish my company as one of the major flooring suppliers in this city!

Looking through my call sheets, I had no firm appointments for the rest of the day so I had rushed to my office and searched among the vinyl cuttings I kept there for a nice, large piece. Luckily, I had discovered a two metre by one metre piece of exactly the colour and pattern Jeff required, which I labelled, rolled up and added my business card and a ‘With Compliments’ slip, all ready for the next morning!

The following day was in my car very early, at about 7 am! I really felt feverish to be so close to this very large business deal and it was with a sense of expectation that I arrived at the hospital. Walking from the car park to the maintenance engineer’s building, I noticed a great number of employees busily going about their duties and there was a certain hum in the air caused by a lot of dedicated people working together in healing the sick and infirm. And in that elated mood I had arrived at the project manager’s office, as I promised, first thing in the morning!

But Jeff Sweeney, the project manager, was already attending an early meeting somewhere else in the large building and could not be contacted. This had deflated me somewhat because a personal contact in such a situation was very important.

Angie, his attractive assistant, tried to be helpful: ‘Yes, Peter, just leave your vinyl sample right there at the doorway to his office and I’ll tell him about it when he comes in.’

It’s nice to deal with a helpful person, I thought, glancing into Jeff’s office, but what a shock I got! The whole room was full of all sorts of samples from a vast range of companies, from different types of bricks to curtain material, to water taps, cleaning machines and sterilising equipment. There were other bits and pieces of metal and plastics which I could not identify, however, the room was overflowing. They were not stored in any orderly fashion or in sections but were stacked along the walls, strewn all over the desk, the office floor - in fact, one could only carefully squeeze oneself into the room. Even Jeff’s chair and the wall shelves were overflowing. His telephone was buried somewhere. Soap dispensers were lying in the doorway. The whole place was a nightmare; it looked as if a bomb had hit the place. It was a horror picture straight out of a painting by Hieronimus Bosch. And the terrible thought came to me that this man would never notice whether I had delivered something or not!

But lovely Angie smiled at me encouragingly. ‘If you leave it in the doorway it will be the first thing he sees. And I’ll point it out to him and tell him it’s from you!’  ‘Thank you, Angie,’ I heard myself say, but I was not really convinced. All my chances of winning this contract may depend on his noticing my sample. I was in agony!

Angie must have sensed this: ‘It’ll be alright, Peter!’ She nodded and flashed a smile that lit up all that mess.

Thanking her, I carefully placed that roll of vinyl flooring right in the doorway and left in a very apprehensive state.

I had kept looking at the telephone all that day, hoping that the next phone call would be from Jeff Sweeney, of the Royal Heatherdale Hospital, but nothing like that happened! The following morning, I had not been able to hold myself in check any longer and in my tortured state I phoned Jeff. Again, he was not in but Angie, once more, tried to reassure me.

‘Oh, hello Peter! Yes, he has noticed your sample - I pointed it out to him.’

‘Are you sure, Angie? Does he really know that it came from my company? I mean there are so many other samples in his office . . .’ I stammered and sweated.

Angie, a very experienced trooper, realised that she had to tell me something to reassure me for good:

‘As a matter of fact, Peter, when he walked into his office he tripped over your vinyl sample and nearly fell flat on his face. And he said: “Whoops, what the bloody hell is that?” And that’s when I told him all about your sample of vinyl flooring.’

I was reassured! My breathing eased and my sweating stopped suddenly. He had noticed my product alright and all was well!

 Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

CONFETTI......

Once, upon answering the telephone, I encountered a voice on the other end that had sounded very agitated. It belonged to Frank Cunningham who ran a very large architects’ office in the town of Mayfair, Tasmania.

‘I have received several complaints from my client, the Crown Reception Centre. Your vinyl flooring is no good. There are black spots appearing everywhere!’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Frank. What kind of spots are they actually? I do not understand what you mean by “spots”.’

‘Well, little round black spots. I want you to come here right away and sort things out!’

That was tricky! I was asked to fly to Tasmania immediately - just to have a look at ‘spots’! Of course, spots do not just develop on PVC floorings. It must have been something to do with the floor maintenance or other external influences. Never had I received a complaint like that and I had kept thinking about it .A hectic day went by and I was still mulling things over when I received another call from Frank.

‘Peter, I want you to come over as quickly as possible! More and more spots are appearing.’

‘You mean there are male and female spots?’

‘This is no time for levity, Peter. I’ve seen the spots myself They are round and black and they are increasing as time goes by!’

‘Frank, I’ll phone my boss for permission to fly to you right away. You’ll hear from me in a few minutes.’

‘Okay, Peter. But remember this is urgent. I have a client who is very unhappy and probably thinks I’ve specified the wrong flooring. Remember, I’ve seen the spots myself. I will get no more assignments from him and of course I cannot specify your products any more in future projects. So, I am waiting to hear from you shortly.’ ‘Click’ and the line went dead.

Yes, it was the old blackmail again, I had thought bitterly. The real reason for getting me to fly to Tassie was because it costs the architect nothing! Since my company paid the costs for this service, it was easier to request my coming than to try a bit harder and find out the cause of the complaint themselves.

Still, it was my policy to attend to complaints immediately, no matter what, because if problems were allowed to drag on, they became magnified and in a legal dispute the motto seemed to apply: ‘blame the manufacturer unless he can convince us otherwise’.

Having informed my boss, I had booked a ticket and the next morning I was on my way to Tassie. Arriving in Launceston, I rented a car, phoned the architect to meet me at the site, the reception centre, and had driven off.

Upon, arriving at the Crown Reception Centre, I had encountered a whole group waiting for me - my ‘welcoming committee’, was the thought that raced through my mind. There was the owner of the Reception Centre, his manager, the cleaner, the architect and somebody from the Health Department.

I had to laugh ‘inside’ just looking at them. They all had grim faces and looked like a mob ready to lynch a ‘mainlander’! Regional patriotism was ripe everywhere, and I had found it particularly strong in the island state. Nothing good can come from the mainland, seemed to be their thought. Their polite greeting was extra stiff, as if they were welcoming a mass murderer. But then again, I may have been exaggerating, as usual.

We all went through the decorative wrought iron main gate and headed for the largest building. It was a very pleasant looking reception centre, a white complex in Spanish-style imitation; the owner walked ahead, followed by his manager and then the remainder of us, in a kind of pecking order.

The owner had then aired his unhappiness with the floor using particularly descriptive words, for my benefit, of course! There were indeed lots of small black spots on the floor which nobody seemed to want to touch. And as they walked along, they all kept nodding gravely to each other and every now and then, shot damning glances at me, especially the cleaner and the Health Department official!

I was hanging back as I had wanted to have a close look at everything, take photos, check the whole installation and basically take everything in as not only would I have to write a report to my company but also I would have to come up with an answer!

Like I said, I was hanging back from the group and had noticed immediately that the so-called black spots were in fact confetti from a wedding party. They were lying loosely on the vinyl flooring. The cleaner obviously did not sweep the floor with a broom before mopping and when he did mop the floor, he did not pick up the slurry but merely swished everything about and let it dry. Of course, the confetti on the floor went darker with every mopping! Another reason for my trailing behind the group was that I was busily picking up some of the dark confetti. And the heap in my hand grew bigger all the time.

The others were waiting for me at the end of their ‘excursion’, back outside their building. They looked at me with dark expressions that said it all: ‘Now what do you have to say for yourself? Isn’t your floor terrible!’ I went to the architect, my main contact.

‘Frank, hold out your hand, please.’ He did so with a puzzled expression. ‘Here are your spots’ I poured enough to fill his hands while he screwed up his face.

‘That’s confetti!’ he exclaimed, totally bewildered. The remainder of the group just stared at his cupped hands which were overflowing with the ‘black spots’ and every now and then one slowly drifted to the floor.

I had swallowed deeply and taken control of myself - no good making enemies! I tried to make light of it. ‘Now that this is settled, could I invite everybody for a cup of coffee? I am a coffee addict myself and am having withdrawal symptoms right now. Where is the nearest café?’

The manager of the reception knew his cue: ‘Good idea, I will take care of this. Please come with me.’ He took us all back inside another building. A table was quickly covered with a fresh cloth and, with amazing speed, it was populated with coffee and plenty of hot scones, butter and jam.

We started to relax and talked about all sort of things except what we just had been through and soon we laughed together as if we were celebrating a reunion!

To be honest, I had always liked to go to Tasmania because the people there were genuinely friendly and their hospitality was always great. They seemed to look at you and see a person with feelings and not a title or position. In fact, I almost wished I had more complaints in the wonderful island state!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com