‘Good Morning, Pedantic Press!’ I say, smiling brightly into the receiver in an effort to sound like a cheery can-do sort of upbeat person.
‘Oh yer, can I speak to the person who's in charge of youse fax machine?’
Now, come on. Let’s be realistic. In Charge? Of the Fax Machine? Like, you mean, a traffic warden standing guard over it? Is there such a person? Well, sadly, this task seems to have been designated to me (along with 'water cooler engineer' and 'lightbulb purchaser').
Sigh. Face falls, mouth goes into an inverted saucer of gloom, another sigh: ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Yer, you awrright? This is Tracy from Overpriced Office Solutions in Liverpool and we just wondered if yer would be interested in…?’
‘We’re not.’
‘But we can give you a very competitive rate on a new…’
‘I’m sorry, but we’re perfectly happy with our current machine,’ I say, replacing the receiver as the ancient fax beside me whirrs and creaks and spews out yet another advert for Low Cost Photocopier Toner that still manages to be the same price as every other single supplier.
Ring Ring.
‘Hello is this the lovely Marion? And how are you today?’
(I’m sucked in by the ‘lovely’)
‘I’m fine, what can I do for you?’
'Great, great, so you're having a good day then, Marion?'
Damn it too late, I've been caught...
Damn it too late, I've been caught...
‘It’s Sanjay here from Paper and Parcel Pleasures, and I’ve been told that you are the lady to talk to about the Office Stationery,’
I glare at Alice who turns to stone in the middle of an apologetic shrug. Fran, meanwhile is hiding under the desk. I hold up a note that says: I hate you, and wave it at her.
“Well, no, I order the stationery (as I may have mentioned - another of my executive duties) but…’
‘Ex-cellento, Marion, you don’t mind if I call you Marion, do you, Marion, but I wonder if you would consider giving us an order and letting us undercut your current provider?’
‘Actually, we’re all set for stationery at the moment.’ I say, an hour later, when he’s finished reciting the contents of his Summer catalogue to me.
Ring Ring.
‘I’m wondering if I can speak to the person in charge of the BT Line?’
I mean, who thinks up these scripts? Who, in what company, and where, has a person who is ‘in charge’ of a BT line? What do they do, shout orders at it, give it detention?
By now I don’t care. I don’t care about the poor person sitting in a barn in Basildon or Bangalore going through a list of numbers, I don’t even care about starving orphans in war torn parts of the world. I just want people to stop ringing me trying to sell me stuff I don't want.
‘There isn’t anyone.’
Beverley from Random Telephone Provider sounds shocked. “What, like, nob’dy. There aint nob'dy dealin’ with yer phones?’
‘Nob’dy.’ I assure her. I’ve even – unwittingly - started to mimic the accent of whosoever is on the line.
I similarly assure the photocopier salesmen that we don’t have one, the recruitment agencies that we don't employ anybody, the people who wonder who is ‘in charge’ of Human Resources (and then try to sell me paper towels and hand sanitizer) that we don’t have either Humans or Resources, and that nobody, absolutely fricking no-body has any responsibility whatsoever for the franking machine. It’s fully responsible for itself, thank you.
‘Can you at least not give them my name?’ I plead with the other members of staff who so confidently assure all sales people that ‘Marion’ being ‘The Office Manager’ is the person they need to talk to.
Trust me. They don’t need to talk to me. They really, really don’t.
I’m not that much of a conversationalist.
While I’m fielding calls, the rest of the office is a-twitter with Booker nerves. We’re all crossing everything (or in my case, just plain cross) hoping that our author Aravind makes it from the short to the long list. Everyone has been to the bookies and placed bets, and now there are other odds being calculated – namely who gets to go to the dinner if he does. We’re top heavy with Chiefs and rather understaffed with Indians – so at least five of the places will go to VIPs, while lower serfs are playing eeny meeny miney mo. Finally, there is also the author who, magnanimously, is allowed to invite his friends and family. We all heartily wish we were related, and I am sure everyone has suddenly been surreptitiously firing off chummy emails to Delhi, hoping he discovers hitherto unknown depths of fondness for us. Aravind. Dear, dear, Aravind. I’ve always liked him. I always felt – well, a certain kinship.
I'm not even in the race, of course since my sole contribution to the success of White Tiger has been sending it out to reviewers in a jiffy bag, and raising a glass when the author came into the office while he was promoting it, but nevertheless, I am a very, very significant glass raiser.
And, really, I’m much too important to be spared. Who then would be ‘In Charge’ of the fax machine? It’s actually a very responsible job. And in these stressful times, some of us just have to step up to the plate and press 'Send'.
So, do we have a fax number for Aravind?
I glare at Alice who turns to stone in the middle of an apologetic shrug. Fran, meanwhile is hiding under the desk. I hold up a note that says: I hate you, and wave it at her.
“Well, no, I order the stationery (as I may have mentioned - another of my executive duties) but…’
‘Ex-cellento, Marion, you don’t mind if I call you Marion, do you, Marion, but I wonder if you would consider giving us an order and letting us undercut your current provider?’
‘Actually, we’re all set for stationery at the moment.’ I say, an hour later, when he’s finished reciting the contents of his Summer catalogue to me.
Ring Ring.
‘I’m wondering if I can speak to the person in charge of the BT Line?’
I mean, who thinks up these scripts? Who, in what company, and where, has a person who is ‘in charge’ of a BT line? What do they do, shout orders at it, give it detention?
By now I don’t care. I don’t care about the poor person sitting in a barn in Basildon or Bangalore going through a list of numbers, I don’t even care about starving orphans in war torn parts of the world. I just want people to stop ringing me trying to sell me stuff I don't want.
‘There isn’t anyone.’
Beverley from Random Telephone Provider sounds shocked. “What, like, nob’dy. There aint nob'dy dealin’ with yer phones?’
‘Nob’dy.’ I assure her. I’ve even – unwittingly - started to mimic the accent of whosoever is on the line.
I similarly assure the photocopier salesmen that we don’t have one, the recruitment agencies that we don't employ anybody, the people who wonder who is ‘in charge’ of Human Resources (and then try to sell me paper towels and hand sanitizer) that we don’t have either Humans or Resources, and that nobody, absolutely fricking no-body has any responsibility whatsoever for the franking machine. It’s fully responsible for itself, thank you.
‘Can you at least not give them my name?’ I plead with the other members of staff who so confidently assure all sales people that ‘Marion’ being ‘The Office Manager’ is the person they need to talk to.
Trust me. They don’t need to talk to me. They really, really don’t.
I’m not that much of a conversationalist.
While I’m fielding calls, the rest of the office is a-twitter with Booker nerves. We’re all crossing everything (or in my case, just plain cross) hoping that our author Aravind makes it from the short to the long list. Everyone has been to the bookies and placed bets, and now there are other odds being calculated – namely who gets to go to the dinner if he does. We’re top heavy with Chiefs and rather understaffed with Indians – so at least five of the places will go to VIPs, while lower serfs are playing eeny meeny miney mo. Finally, there is also the author who, magnanimously, is allowed to invite his friends and family. We all heartily wish we were related, and I am sure everyone has suddenly been surreptitiously firing off chummy emails to Delhi, hoping he discovers hitherto unknown depths of fondness for us. Aravind. Dear, dear, Aravind. I’ve always liked him. I always felt – well, a certain kinship.
I'm not even in the race, of course since my sole contribution to the success of White Tiger has been sending it out to reviewers in a jiffy bag, and raising a glass when the author came into the office while he was promoting it, but nevertheless, I am a very, very significant glass raiser.
And, really, I’m much too important to be spared. Who then would be ‘In Charge’ of the fax machine? It’s actually a very responsible job. And in these stressful times, some of us just have to step up to the plate and press 'Send'.
So, do we have a fax number for Aravind?
