Jogging Along

by James Birk

Chapter 7

  It was the height of summer and for a change I was enjoying my job. I had been making the extra effort to get up in time for work, and painful though it still was when my alarm went off at the unreasonably early hour of eight o’clock, most days I opened my curtains to be greeted by blue skies and bright sunshine, which certainly made the transition from slumber to a state that at least resembled consciousness slightly easier. I was even making sure I left my flat early enough so I could enjoy my bacon baguette while sitting at the little continental-style tables on the pavement outside Markbys before I got to work, rather than eating it surreptitiously at my desk. And I was in work at nine on the dot every single day. Well at the very worst I was in work by five past nine. I was, by my own standards at least, a model professional. Why had I become so diligent? I had decided that I needed to set a good example to my apprentices. I was now responsible for ensuring that Neil, Ian and Julian got their ‘inputting sign offs’ within the next month. Without that valuable accolade, they would not be able to carve out the illustrious processing careers at FFS that I knew they were capable of. Well Neil and Ian were certainly capable of it. I had my doubts about Julian.

  I had been a little disgruntled at the start, when it transpired that of the twelve new starters that needed to be trained, I would be taking charge of three blokes and Tim would be responsible for three female employees. I was particularly put out as two of Tim’s cohorts were very good looking indeed. Which was not to be disrespectful to Margaret, who for her age was still a very attractive woman, but as she was old enough to be my grandmother she was too mature for my tastes whereas Amy and Alicia were right up my street. I’d seen them both on their first day, a couple of months earlier, Alicia was the tall brunette that Tim had had his eye on while Amy was the cute little red-head with a smile that made me go weak at the knees. I had got over my initial disappointment however, and had become immune to Tim’s gloating when I realised that ‘Team Tim’ as he liked to call them, were going to be working in the pod next to mine, so I would still be able to interact with the girls quite easily, and without the pressure of pretending to care about how well they were able to input data.

  As it turned out the boys were nice enough. Ian in particular was a pretty good laugh, straight out of university with a lower second class degree in Cultural Studies, he reminded me of a younger version of me. At twenty-two years old, he still had that optimism of a bright future and the certainty that Freedom Financial Services was just a stop gap until he found something better. I had been that optimistic once, when I had started temping for Snowdon Electricity and Gas in my first post university job. Unfortunately the lack of any decent career opportunities in the interim had left me a much more world weary and pessimistic soul, but Ian helped me reminisce about the youthful hope that had once driven me.

  Neil was a bit older than me and had just been made redundant from a call centre that had switched most of its operations to India (‘No chance of that happening here,’ I‘d reassured him). He knew his place in the grand scheme of things, and he wasn’t here to change the world, he assured us, and so long as he could pay his rent and take his daughter for ice cream on the weekends that he had custody of her, he was happy enough.

  Julian was an enigma. I didn’t really know what his background was, or indeed how he had managed to get this job, because simple though it was, I began to realise that it did require some basic intelligence, and Julian was really not the sharpest tool in the box. But he knew that he wasn’t and he was probably the happiest person in the office, because to him, processing application forms was not a boring and repetitive job. Each form represented a new and exciting intellectual challenge.

  The other six trainees were not sitting anywhere near us, the only other available pods were at the far end of the office and they were being trained by Cheryl (the girl that taught me to pend) and Darren, an overly smug pretty boy who oozed misplaced self-confidence. We didn’t interact with them too much. Darren and Cheryl worked under a different line manager to Tim and I during our normal day jobs so we didn’t know them too well and there seemed little reason to change that state of affairs. Darren, on the other hand, seemed keen to spend half his life coming over to speak to us, partly because he was under the illusion that he out ranked us, having been with company a whole year longer and partly because he clearly fancied one or both of Amy and Alicia and was not very good at hiding the fact.

  Although I was no longer skiving that much, my days were pretty easy as they predominantly consisted of checking the boys’ work, which would have been very boring had I any worries that they would get it wrong, but as I trusted Neil and Ian to do it correctly having found next to no errors on the few occasions I did deign to check their work, and as I basically redid all of Julian’s work for him (which took me all of ten minutes at the end of each day, as he was not prolific) I was largely free to do what I wanted. Occasionally Julian would bug me with a question that was pretty pointless (and how I regretted my ‘no question is too stupid’ speech at the start of the training) but as Ian and Neil were more than competent after only a few days, I would usually defer the question to them. What I really wanted to be doing was spending time chatting to the girls (in particular Amy, I couldn’t get that smile out of my head) but Tim kept a watchful eye on his team and was always on hand to embarrass me with some anecdote or other about something stupid I had done, and as Tim and I had spent many a pay day Friday getting incomprehensibly drunk together, he had more than enough stories about me to keep me blushing and ruin any chance I might have had of looking cool.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ began Julian one morning, ‘is why we need to enter the address for both clients on the screen? I mean they are always going to have the same address aren’t they?’

  Julian was referring to the application for Mortgage Life Assurance, which was often bought as a joint policy between couples buying a house together.

  ‘Well, yes Julian,’ I sighed, looking up from the game of Minesweeper I was playing (I was close to setting the fastest time for that computer. The fact that I was the only person to have ever played Minesweeper on that particular computer was neither here nor there.) ‘Often the address is likely to be the same, but it isn’t always so you need to enter the address for each applicant separately.’

  ‘But surely they will always have the same address because they are buying the same address,’ argued Julian.

  ‘Well, no, because this policy is for the mortgage on a house they are buying together, but that doesn’t mean they live together already does it?’ I pointed out.

  Julian looked confused so I continued, ‘I mean they might be planning to live together once the purchase goes through, but they might currently be living at different addresses to each other. Or they might just be business partners buying a house together to rent out and they might never be planning to live with each other. Do you understand Julian?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Julian.

  ‘Well to be honest Julian, it doesn’t really matter, because the system always asks you for an address for each client, so you don’t really need to understand do you?’ said Ian from behind his screen.

  Julian looked unconvinced, but returned to his work. I looked back at my game but it was irretrievable so I sought other amusement. I noticed that Tim was away from his desk so I thought it would be a good idea to check how the girls were getting on.

  I stood up and wandered over to them.

  ‘Everything ok ladies?’ I asked.

  There was a chorus of positive responses, which was unsurprising as this really was not a difficult job.

  ‘Well don’t hesitate to ask if you have any problems.’ I continued.

  Again there were murmurs of acknowledgment and I made to leave but Tim arrived back with a tray of drinks.

  ‘Harassing my team are you Parker?’ he asked with mock suspicion, ‘trying to sabotage my results?’

  ‘Now what would I gain from doing that?
’ I replied slipping into a semi-impersonation of our induction trainer Roberto, ‘we’re all one big family here at FFS. One team, one goal!’

  We continued the banter for a bit longer, we had refined our double act of the past few weeks, and we were a well-honed unit of management parody. I’m not sure how funny our teams thought we were, but they were new enough to pretend that we were hilarious out of good manners.

  ‘Are you two skiving off again?’

  Tim and I turned to see Darren, standing at the edge of the pod, with a form clutched in his hand. He was obviously trying to join in the banter, but as the only person who liked him less than me was Tim, he didn’t get very far.

  ‘No we were just comparing stats,’ said Tim in a serious voice that sounded so convincing that I was almost under the impression that we had been doing just that.

  ‘Can we help you with anything,’ I adopted Tim’s authoritative tone, with slightly less success.

  ‘Well I’m actually after your money,’ Darren said, ‘I want you all to sponsor me.’

  ‘What? Are people sponsoring you to get a decent haircut?’ asked Tim.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with Darren’s hair style but he ran his fingers through it, self-consciously.

  ‘No actually, I’m doing the Cardiff half marathon in a couple of months,’ he said, slightly deflated.

  There were general exclamations of encouragement from the trainees.

  ‘I’ll sponsor you love,’ said Margaret, who had a rather maternal air about her.

  ‘Yeah stick me down for a quid,’ said Neil.

  Everyone agreed to sponsor Darren, including Tim (who only did it to annoy me), so I too felt obliged to part with my cash, and I equalled Tim’s pledge of two pounds.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Tim, as if suddenly remembering something (but the ‘something’ in question had actually been at the forefront of his mind since Darren had made his little announcement) ‘aren’t you running the London marathon this year too Chris?’

  There were more exclamations, although seemingly more of astonishment than encouragement this time.

  ‘As you well know Tim,’ I replied coldly, ‘I was going to run the London marathon this year, but circumstances have forced me to consider other options.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Tim with an evil grin on his face, ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Probably just as well mate,’ said Darren sympathetically, ‘I mean you’re not really built for running marathons are you.’

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean,’ I asked.

  ‘Well, you’re a bit, what’s the word?’ Darren paused perhaps showing a rare moment of tact because I never found out how he had been planning to finish that sentence.

  ‘Fat,’ said Alicia, with no diplomacy whatsoever.

  Tim creased up. I stood there stunned.

  ‘I’m not fat!’ I exclaimed, genuinely hurt, then I looked around for support, ‘I’m not am I?’

  ‘Well I think fat’s a bit harsh,’ said Ian, ‘but you aren’t really built like a long distance runner are you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ I conceded, ‘I mean I might be a bit overweight, but fat?’

  ‘Fat was perhaps a bit harsh,’ conceded Alicia, ‘perhaps plump is a better word.’

  ‘Plump is not a better word!’ I was outraged, ‘Plump is just a different word for fat!’

  ‘Well, chubby then,’ said Alicia

  ‘Please stop,’ I begged, ‘I don’t I can take any more of this.’

  ‘So why aren’t you going to run the London Marathon,’ asked Tim mischievously.

  ‘As you well know Timothy,’ I said wearily, ‘I am not running the London marathon because I could not get into the London marathon.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Darren, ‘My friend entered the ballot for the London marathon this year and he’s not due to find out until October if he’s been successful.’

  ‘Yeah, well I mean I didn’t even get my name into the ballot did I?’ I mumbled sheepishly.

  ‘I don’t know mate, it doesn’t sound like you were ever planning on actually doing it,’ laughed Tim, ‘otherwise you’d have done some of the research into what it takes to get in wouldn’t you? I think you were just bragging to try and take the wind out of Darren’s sails.’

  ‘But you brought it up!’ I seethed as everyone looked at me accusingly, ‘I didn’t want to talk about it at all!’

  ‘Why don’t you just enter a different marathon,’ asked Ian, ‘I mean London can’t be the only one. Enter a different one and that’ll shut everyone else up.’

  ‘I don’t know, I had my heart set on London,’ I said doubtfully, ‘I mean it’s a lot of work, it’s got to be a memorable event hasn’t it? The London marathon is iconic, that’s why I wanted to do it.’

  ‘You’re just making excuses now,’ Tim was still trying to wind me up, ‘there are lots of other events you could do. Why don’t you join Darren in the Cardiff half, that’d be something wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It’s in two months,’ I cried, ‘and apparently I’m a chubby, plump and fat, so there’s no way I could be fit in time!’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been training for a couple of months now,’ acknowledged Darren, ‘but come on, you’ve got to do something. You’re, what, mid-thirties now? That metabolism is slowing down.’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine,’ I shouted, ‘I’m bloody twenty-nine. And I don’t need to do anything. I mean yeah, I’d love to do something iconic like the London marathon, but that’s mainly because it’s around the time of my thirtieth birthday in April. I thought it’d be better than just getting drunk again, but I can’t do it. It’s not the end of the world. You brought this up you bastard!’ I looked accusingly at Tim.

  ‘You could do the Paris marathon, that’s in April,’ said Amy, who had been quiet up till that point.

  ‘What!’ there was a little too much aggression still in my voice and I was dismayed to see her shrink back a little when I turned to look at her.

  ‘I was just saying, the Paris marathon is in April,’ she repeated, ‘My friend Olivier ran it a couple of years ago when I was doing my year abroad. He’s meant to be doing it this year as well. I was thinking of going to visit him if he does.’

  ‘What about that then,’ Tim was enjoying himself, ‘Paris sounds pretty prestigious, and it’s at the right time. Go on, put your money where your mouth is and run the Paris marathon.’

  ‘Well, I mean, Paris does sound pretty exciting,’ I acknowledged, ‘but surely I’ll have the same problem as I did with London? Surely the ballot will be closed by now?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Amy, ‘I don’t think it works that way. There isn’t a ballot, you just enter and if you do it in time then you’re in.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll be full by now won’t it?’ I asked, feeling slightly under pressure; now my marathon dream might be about to become a reality, I wasn’t sure it was a dream at all.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said Tim sitting down at his computer and doing a web search for the event.

  He clicked on the appropriate link and the Paris Marathon website opened up.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said and vacated his seat for me to have a look.

  I felt a rush of excitement as I sat down, but it wasn’t long before I encountered my first problem.

  ‘It’s all in French,’ I said, ‘I can’t speak French.’

  ‘I can,’ said Amy, ‘I can help if you like.’

  The prospect of being a bit closer to the adorable Amy, gave me a different but equally potent rush of excitement. But it took all of two seconds for Tim to ruin it.

  ‘You could just click on the Union Jack symbol at the top of the page,’ he suggested.

  And of course it worked. With the site now in perfectly readable English, I didn’t really need Amy’s help, so she sat back down.

  Apparently it still was possible to enter the Paris marathon, and as a bonus it was cheaper th
an the London race. I duly went through the process of completing the online application form with my assembled colleagues looking over my shoulder. I was stumped by one question quite early on in the process.

  ‘How fast am I going to run this?’ I asked out loud.

  ‘Well, no offence mate, but you’re not going to be fast are you?’ said Tim with the gleeful intent of causing offence.

  ‘Well I’m not going to break the world record am I?’ I replied irritably, ‘‘but I have to predict a time, so I can start in the right place.’

  ‘What are your options?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Three hours or faster, three hours fifteen, three hours thirty and so on in fifteen minute increments up to four hours thirty or more.’ I replied, ‘I genuinely don’t know what I’d be.’

  ‘Go for three hours forty-five,’ said Ian, ‘That’s about in the middle, it’ll give you a chance of going a bit quicker if you’re fit on the day, but equally you won’t embarrass yourself if you go a bit slower.’

  ‘If it’s any help, Olivier ran it in about three hours thirty,’ said Amy, ‘but he’s really fit, so...’ she trailed off, not wanting to say what everyone else was thinking.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not fit at all,’ said Tim, who delighted in saying what everyone else was thinking.

  ‘Ok, but I’m going to train aren’t I, so I mean, perhaps it lacks ambition, to go for four hours thirty.’ I pondered.

  ‘Well I think it’ll be impressive if you finish at all,’ said Amy, before adding, after everyone except me had burst out laughing, ‘I mean I think it’s impressive that anyone finishes a marathon, I didn’t mean specifically you.’

  In the end I settled on four hours as my predicted time, but in my head I was secretly thinking I’d actually be disappointed with only finishing in four hours and on the day I would be aiming to go a bit faster.

  I filled in the rest of the online form, completed my payment details and clicked the submit button. A few minutes later I had my confirmation email. I had done it; I was in the Paris marathon.

  ‘Well done mate,’ said Ian patting me on the back.

  I was only able to respond with a grunt. I felt too nauseous to speak.