FAILURE
TO PERFORM
J
esus, Groff, what did you do to
your hair?”It’s my barber. His
hands shake when he works.“It
looks like you cut it yourself.”
“I d id .”
My hair is actually the least of my
worries on this hungover morning.
I caught a glimpse of myself on the
door glass on the way into the office
and it wasn’t pretty. My clothes, rags
really, were the best of what I could
find on the bedroom floor. I was two
hours late for work but, keeping life in
perspective, things could have been
worse. Unlike the late, great Peter Smith
who occasionally lost the will to live, I
just slide through periods where I lose
the ability to frock up.
It permeates all areas of my life,
though, and coincides with the loss of
motivation to do anything properly.
I genuinely try to keep my office
area clean but this morning even I’m
shocked. The only clear space is the
seat of my chair where, when something
really important is about to happen, I
leave my open diary to remind me. The
diary is on the chair. In it is familiar
handwriting (mine) informing me that
at precisely 11.10am, I’m due at the
publishing manager’s office on Level
Eight for my annual performance
review. Merciful Jesus – not today.
I have five minutes. I sweep all the
stuff on my desk onto the floor to make
some ironing space and attempt to take
some of the wrinkles out of my shirt
by running over it with the Concise
Oxford Dictionary. It’s not working.
I need a coat. There’s the red smoking
jacket I wore to MT’s last awardsdinner on the floor in the corner. The
original plan was to have it drycleaned
to get the food and crap off the chest
and sleeve area but, fortunately, the
crud is so hard now I can scrape most
of it off with my letter opener.
Only seconds left. I gargle some
handcleaner in the toilets on the way to
freshen my breath and arrive just as he’s
about to ring and find out why I’m late.
“Geoff! Nice to see you. Have a seat.”
“It’s Grant, actually.”
I’ve never met him before but alreadyI
don’t like him. He’s younger than me fo
starters. What happened to that system
where you were promoted through
seniority? Don’t they realise that a
meritocracy discriminates against the
lazy and incompetent?
He has to leave the office to get my
file which gives me a chance to look
around. It’s big. It has carpet. Maybe
my office has carpet, too – I must look
under the paperwork sometime and
check. Everything is so neat. According
to the diploma on the wall, he has a
Masters in Business Administration.
There’s a box of cigars on the desk. I
look inside and it’s full, suggesting
it’s decorative rather than functional.
I scoop most of them up and attempt
to put them in the inside pocket of the
jacket but discover it’s already full of
what looks like a TV remote control.
They fit in the side pockets but ruin the
otherwise-svelte cut.
“According to this, Graham, you write
a monthly column and occasionally
wash the test bikes.”
“I’m pleased you brought that up. Do
you think someone with my seniorityHis annual employee review leaves Groff smoking
Joe Groff
Classic
Groff118 MOTORCYCLE TRADER