Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

The dreaded day was upon me. I was in Big Andy’s car, and he was driving us to the meeting point for the Perypils management team building day, which was a hotel in Nottingham. From there, we were to be transported to an activity centre for an afternoon of outdoor team building events. I could not think of anything worse. Then back to the hotel, quick change followed by pre-dinner drinks, networking and a motivating talk from the Big Cheese who was joining us for dinner. I was wrong; this was worse.

  Tomorrow there was a classroom-based course entitled “Building High-Performing Teams”, which everyone would be too hungover to give a shit about. Why was Perypils going ahead with this event, when it must be costing a fortune? We were supposed to be cutting down on costs. I couldn’t even order a box of staples for Christ’s sake, and yet they were entertaining around forty managers with dinner and an overnight stay thrown in. Madness.

  I would have done anything to get out of going, literally anything, and had spent many a sleepless night trying to think up a feasible excuse. And it would have had to have been a good one: a stomach upset or sudden family crisis wouldn’t have been believed. In the end, the stress of making up an excuse became worse than the thought of going, so I gave it up and resigned myself to my fate.

  The worse thing was the agonising over what to wear. I really had been quite pathetic. Even though I have wardrobes so stuffed full of clothes that I’m surprised the ceiling doesn’t collapse, I have still bought new things for this event. You’d think I’d never been outdoors before. The long-range forecast had been for changeable weather, so in case of rain, I’d purchased a khaki Pac A Mac and matching wellingtons from Next. The model in the picture had teamed hers with a pair of denim shorts and bare legs, which, after three large glasses of wine I’d briefly considered (oh the dangers of drinking and online shopping, why aren’t there more Government warnings) but very fortunately I’d decided to stick to jeans.

  In case it didn’t rain, but was cold, I had also purchased a padded brown gilet from Joules. As I was unable to find a single suitable garment in my wardrobes to wear under this, I ordered a checked shirt from them too. Total cost... I can’t bear to add it all up.

  The evening wear was also a challenge - the dress code stated “smart casual”. What does that actually mean? After much deliberation, I eventually played safe with black trousers and a floaty cream top. I did buy a couple of new necklaces from Top Shop, as after all, I’ve only got about fifty necklaces, so am clearly in desperate need for more. Although to be fair, all fifty are tangled up together in a big mass so actually it was quicker to buy new ones.

  I asked Andy if he’d had trouble deciding what to bring, but of course he hadn’t.

  “Jeans, jumper and a shirt,” he replied, looking surprised at the question.

  He said he thought it should be “an interesting couple of days”. I asked him why.

  “Because of all the rumours, of course.”

  “What rumours?”

  “Oh come on, Kate, you must have heard them all flying around the company.” Er, nope. “Sales are down and the cost-cutting drive doesn’t seem to be working. Looks like there’s going to be a pretty significant restructure coming up. Probably a site closure, too.”

  “Bloody hell!” I exclaimed in alarm. “Do you think it will be us that goes? We are the smallest site.”

  “I don’t know, the smart money’s on Bridgend, their figures are always the poorest.”

  “Why on earth are they forking out on this team building event, then? It must be costing a fortune.”

  “Ah well, apparently it’s all part of their cunning plan,” said Big Andy. “They’re going to use these two days as part of their assessment process - to see who stays and who goes. They’ll keep the ones who do the best and get shot of the others in the restructure.”

  No pressure then. No wonder we had been issued with a “be there or else” invitation by The Boss.

  “But how can they do away with any managers?” I was aware I sounded desperately whiney. “Many of us work twelve, fourteen hour days as it is. Are they expecting the ones who are left to take on even more duties?”

  “You betcha!” Big Andy exclaimed cheerfully. “For example, they probably wouldn’t keep both you and Cruella. They’d just stick your two departments together and just have one of you run the whole thing. Then they can get rid of the other one.”

  Me versus Cruella? Oh no. She’d shred me into little pieces and feed me to her evil black cat.

  “How do you know all this stuff, Andy? Where do you hear it from?”

  “From Brett,” he replied, “he’s always wonderfully indiscreet when he’s had a pint or two. He’ll tell you anything.” The Boys Club of course, how typical. I wondered if Cruella had heard these rumours. Probably not. She wasn’t in the Boys Club either, for obvious reasons. Big Andy wittered away about his kids and his holiday, but I was only half listening. I was worried. What would I do if I lost my job? We’d really struggle to meet all our monthly outgoings, especially the mortgage. I’d get some sort of redundancy payment presumably, unless they sacked me, but what happens when that runs out? Would I be able to get another job? What if I couldn’t? You hear about these people, usually around my age, sending off application after application without success. I calmed myself down - it was only rumours after all. Just rumours. No need to panic yet.

  We arrived at the hotel in good time and were greeted by the event co-ordinator Jenny, a tall, stunning, bronzed-limbed lady who also happened to be Kevin the Big Cheese’s PA. She directed us to a large meeting room where the others were gathering. Cruella and The Shark were already there and we greeted each other like long lost buddies to show the other sites what a great bunch we were in Cheltenham and how well we all got on. The sites were always in competition with each other, although our main rivals were Bridgend. Their staff referred to us as The Farmers and our guys, both predictably and depressingly, referred to them as The Sheep Shaggers. Originality not a strong point amongst the colleagues of Perypils.

  I recognised most of the managers from Birmingham and Manchester, who nodded a welcome, apart from Julie the namby-pamby-I-won’t-dismiss-you-because-you’ve-given-me-a-really-good-sob story manager from Birmingham who deliberately looked away. The guys from Bridgend hadn’t made it yet and there was no sign of Brett the Boss. Everyone was stood in tight groups, awkwardly clutching their cups and saucers or checking their BlackBerries, trying to look important. There were also some hangers-on from the sales and marketing teams. I bet they’d actually chosen to come. They’d show up anywhere where there was free food and drink and the potential to be around intoxicated women.

  There were some real brown-nosers in the room, mainly the male managers, who latched onto Jenny The PA each time she appeared, with questions such as “How is Kevin today?”and “What time is Kevin coming tonight?” and “Can I do anything to help, Jenny?” and “Would you like me to rub Kevin down with a warm flannel when he gets here? Do you think Kevin would like to sleep with my wife later? No? What about my mother then?” What a bunch of creeps.

  The guys from Bridgend had arrived, and I could see through the window that The Boss was here too. He was walking around the car park talking into his mobile. I was half way through my second cup of coffee when Jenny announced to the room that we would be leaving in 10 minutes and that toilet facilities were very limited at the activity centre. I put my cup down. What sort of place were they taking us to? I went to find the loos, dropping the swing door in Julie’s face as she followed me out. Small victories.

  They piled us onto two mini buses and we set off. After about twenty minutes we turned off the main road, and drove for what seemed like an eternity up a bumpy dirt track. I was sat next to Rich from Birmingham, who was lovely and chatty, but I found it difficult to understand what he was saying and I was too embarrassed to keep saying “Pardon?” all the time. I think I established that he enjoyed his job - “oi quoit loik it” - and that he was an avid supporter o
f “Berminggum Citay”.

  We eventually arrived at a tatty sign that said “Burrkitts Wood Outdoor Adventures” with an arrow pointing into a field. Waiting for us was a group of instructors, four men and two women, who all looked like they’d just stepped out of Sandhurst: straight-backed, clean cut, über confident. God knows what they made of us as we clambered out of the buses, unsuitably clothed, groaning, heavily made up (me), but they were probably just thinking “ker-ching!”.

  Rich declared he was “fookin fray-zing”. It was chilly, but at least it wasn’t raining. The instructors asked us to get into groups of six. Of course, everyone huddled together with their own guys. To even up the numbers as Cheltenham is a small site, the four of us were joined by Rick from Sales (loud, brash, competitive) and by The Boss, who was still attached to his mobile. We were marched up a hill to a large field for the first activity. The guys from Bridgend were doing the same activity in another field further up. Our instructor, Amy, explained what we had to do.

  “This is called the farmer and his sheep. It’s to start to get you thinking and working together as a team to achieve one goal. A chance for you today to put aside the pressures of your usual daily duties. And your mobiles,” pointed look at the Boss, who ignored her. “One of you will be the farmer. You will stand in the middle of the field and direct the rest of your team, your sheep, around the markers and into the pen at the far end. You need to do this in the quickest possible time. The sheep will be blindfolded. The farmer will be given a whistle. You have five minutes to plan your strategy. Any questions?”

  “Yes I have.” The Shark was straight in. “The ground looks extremely uneven to me. Are the blindfolds strictly necessary, I mean it would be very easy to turn an ankle, or sprain a foot-” Amy cut him short.

  “The blindfolds are an essential part of the activity, sorry what’s your name? Ian. And we’ve never had any injuries so far. Any other questions? Good. Five minutes, off you go.”

  Rick from Sales seized control. “Righto then, who wants to be the farmer? Get off your phone Bretto, we need you in on this.” Nice work Rick! The Boss did end his call and joined the group, but he started to read a text message instead.

  As everyone wanted to be the farmer, Rick gave the role to Cruella, who clearly scared him. She agreed that she would give one short blast on the whistle for a “left turn”, two short blasts for a “right turn” and then a continuous blast meant “stop”.

  Big Andy was to be the first sheep, and had to kneel down so we were able to get the blindfold on him. The Shark was still very unhappy about the health and safety elements of the task, but Rick told him he was being “a bloody old woman” and he sulkily shut up. Our five minutes were up, and Cruella took up her position in the middle of the field. We were off! Big Andy strode forward with big exaggerated steps like a robot, jerkily changing directions as Cruella whistled him left and right through the markers. He did really well, the only tricky bit was getting him into the pen at the end as the opening was very small, but he managed the run in 4.54 minutes. We all gave him a big cheer from the other end of the field.

  The Shark went next. Gingerly stepping into the field, he shuffled his way towards the first marker, slowly turning in response to Cruella’s whistle, and shuffling on a bit further. It was painstaking progress. Big Andy was shouting encouragement from his pen.

  Rick, bursting with frustration, eventually shouted:

  “For fuck’s sake Grandma, get a fucking move on! The fucking moon will be up in a minute!” Amy the Instructor had a go at him for not being “very team spirited”. The Shark finished his run in 11.32 minutes. We all cheered again, but it was a muted one this time. I was getting cold.

  Brett the Boss was next. Blindfold on, he marched up the field towards the first marker. Cruella whistled two blasts for a right turn. He turned left. Cruella frantically whistled twice again. He kept going to the left. He looked like he was heading for a ditch at the bottom of the field. Cruella gave a long, continuous blast on the whistle. He swivelled to the right at last and retraced his steps virtually back to the starting point. For some reason, and without any whistled instruction, he then decided to turn left and head back towards the ditch. Cruella was running out of puff, and her whistle was being drowned out by the sound of Big Andy’s laughter which was booming out across the field. Even Rick was convulsed with laughter. Amy the Instructor was shaking her head, saying “he didn’t listen, did he?” Amy eventually ran down to the ditch to head him off and repeat the instructions. He completed his run in 17.32 minutes. I could see across the fields that the team from Bridgend had finished and were heading off to the next activity.

  I went next. I could see out of the bottom of my blindfold so it was really quite easy. I bombed round the field, although tried to make entering the pen look difficult so it at least appeared genuine. My time was 4.05 minutes. Relieved cheers.

  Rick was last, and he too went round like the clappers, so I guessed he could see out too. He just beat my time, doing 4.01 minutes, winking at me after he’d removed his blindfold. Cruella joined us at the pen, looking shattered. Her lemon lips were turning blue.

  Amy the Instructor tried to be upbeat. “Very well done guys! What sort of things did you learn from that exercise?”

  “Ian needs a fucking zimmer frame,” Rick growled. Amy chose to ignore him and looked at the rest of us.

  “I think it’s important to make sure instructions are clear and understood by everyone,” ventured Cruella. Creep. What everyone really wanted to say was that you needed to listen to instructions rather than twat about on your mobile, but no one quite had the balls to say it.

  Amy led us to the next activity. Heads down, we trudged to another field where the team from Bridgend were waiting for us. By the way they were flapping their arms about and hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm, I’d say they’d been there quite a while. Lots of grins and cracks of “Lost your sheep did you?” “We thought you farmers would have been right at home with that task!” Ha bloody ha. We returned forced smiles. Ahead of us sat two quad bikes. Amy the Instructor explained that we were to take part in a quad bike relay race against Bridgend. Brett The Boss and Rick from Sales became extremely animated and excited. The Boss, apparently, had quad biked “loads of times” and Rick, not to be outdone, said he’d once quad biked through the Arizona desert. Really? Was that before or after you’d raised the Titanic?

  The Shark, however, pronounced them a “death-trap” and refused to take part in the activity. Amy the Instructor, tried to coax him round, assuring him they were safe and showing him a safety helmet, but he was adamant. Bridgend were getting very impatient. Rick shouted over an apology to them:

  “Sorry about this guys but Granny’s got her knickers in a twist again.” This kicked off a furious argument between Rick and The Shark, with Big Andy having to step in to calm things down. Cruella and I, not knowing where to look, examined our feet and kicked at the turf.

  As we were one man down for the relay, we decided one of us would have to go round twice. However, Bridgend were not happy with this, in case we picked our best person. There followed a ridiculous debate between the two teams about who should go round twice, with someone actually suggesting that our team did a trial run, we recorded the times, work out the average and picked the person whose time was closest to the average. The instructors were exchanging despairing glances. Eventually, exasperated, a lady from the Bridgend team said she’d drop out.

  At last we were ready to go. A twisty-turny course was laid out in front of us. Bridgend’s course was next to ours, laid out exactly the same. Ten seconds were added to your team’s time if you missed a marker. A quick explanation on how to work the quad bikes, helmets were on and the quads were revved up. Rick from Sales was first up for us, of course. They were off. Rick was pretty good, a bit erratic and wobbly for someone who had quad biked through the Arizona, but still not bad, and he finished the course neck and neck with Bridgend�
��s rider. He handed the bike over to The Boss, who was up against Boss-Eyed Brenda from Bridgend. For someone who couldn’t see straight, she did remarkably well, almost keeping pace with the Boss whilst her team yelled the directions to her. My heart was racing, I was next up. The Boss finished ahead of Brenda and handed the bike over to me.

  I swung my leg over the bike and tried to set off. Jesus, it was heavy. I couldn’t quite get the acceleration right, and started to kangaroo along the course. Over the noise of the bike I could hear The Boss and Rick shouting but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I hiccupped to the first marker and tried to turn but the bike was too heavy. I flattened the marker and started to veer off course. Next door, the Bridgend rider overtook me. I tried to steer back on to the course, but missed the next marker. The bloody thing was like a shopping trolley - it had a mind of its own. I couldn’t steer it at all and ended up veering so far to the right that I found myself on Bridgend’s course. Their rider looked startled to see me, but he managed to swerve round me and avoided a collision. He was haring back to complete his lap. I managed to turn the bike around by riding in a huge circle. I gave up trying to negotiate the course, and just rode in a straight line back to the start.

  I was supposed to hand over to Big Andy, but he was laughing so hard that he’d had to sit down on the grass and was incapable of taking over. Scarlet with humiliation, I removed my helmet, and had to watch Cruella perform a perfect run - fast, neat and completely within the markers. It was no use though; thanks to me, Bridgend were miles ahead and they had finished by the time Big Andy got to start his lap. I felt a total fool. It reminded me of a time when I was ten years old and on a school trip to the Isle of Wight. Our class had gone to Robin Hill, and I was in Pet Corner being chased round and round by a sheep who was trying to eat my crisps. All my class mates and children from other schools sat round and laughed at me as I gradually lost all my crisps and started crying. It felt the same. No, it was worse; I’d lost the task for the whole team. And Cruella had been perfect. I felt sick with shame.

  Rick from Sales gave me a hug and said loudly so the Shark would hear “Never mind Kato, at least you were man enough to give it a go.” The Shark took exception to this and another row ensued. Next to us, the guys from Bridgend were cock-a-hoop, indulging in a group hug and singing ‘Delilah’.

  Amy the Instructor looked done in.

  “Right, let’s get you to the last activity of the afternoon,” she said, unable to disguise the relief in her voice. This last task was clearly supposed to be the finale of the day. All four sites were up against each other. We were taken back to the first field we’d been in where some equipment had been laid out for us. Each team had four bamboo sticks, some string, strips of rubber and mysteriously, a carton of six eggs. What the bloody hell was this?

  Amy explained the rules to us.

  “Each team has thirty minutes to make a catapult using just the equipment in front of you. At the end of thirty minutes, each team will have two attempts to fire an egg as far as possible. The egg must be caught by a team member without it breaking. The team that fires their egg the furthest and catches it intact wins.” We all looked at each other. Amy continued “You have six eggs, so you can have four practise runs if you want to. I suggest you appoint a team leader. Any questions? No? Ian? No? Really? Ok, off you go then.”

  We stood around and surveyed the equipment. Brett The Boss volunteered to be team leader as he said he used to be in the scouts. No one really understood why that was relevant, but nobody argued with him. I was appointed as time-keeper. After my showing on the quad bikes, that was the only task I could be trusted with. The Boss directed us to start tying the bamboo sticks together with the string, but it was extremely difficult to get them to hold firmly enough. It was obvious we needed the rubber strips in between the sticks to make the catapult, but it just seemed impossible to do. It didn’t help that two members of the team were not on speaking terms with one another. The Boss soon lost interest and took a call on his mobile. The team from Birmingham were next to us. In what seemed like no time at all, they had put together a very sturdy-looking catapult and were firing off some practise eggs. I tried to see how they had done it, but they very deliberately blocked it from my view. Bastards.

  Thirty minutes was up thank God. All the teams had to get ready for their first “live” shot. We were reminded that to count, we had to catch the egg intact. At the far end of the field, the team from Manchester went first. One person placed the egg in the catapult and the team stood in front of it, ready to catch. The egg fired, but didn’t go far enough to reach a team member, and the egg smashed on the ground in front of them. Lots of groans, and I heard one of them declare “that were cack”.

  Bridgend were next. They all got into position, but although it fired to a good height, their egg veered off to the right and missed all their outstretched hands. More disappointed groans.

  Birmingham were next. Their firer pulled the catapult back and the egg soared miles into the air. It went straight over the top of all its team members.

  Us next. We looked at our catapult. It had fallen over. Amidst some unsporting sniggers, we stood it back up and Rick got ready to fire. We hadn’t done any practise runs so we didn’t know how far our egg would go. We spread out, Big Andy at the rear, some twenty yards back, which I thought was a bit optimistic. Rick gingerly pulled back on the catapult. We got ready to catch. Rick released the egg - it flew backwards. Howls of laughter rang out around the field. Even Amy, who is supposed to be supportive at all times, hid her face in the collar of her jacket.

  The teams were given ten minutes to make adjustments before their final shot. Would this day never end? We stood around and surveyed our catapult, which looked in danger of collapsing again. There wasn’t much we could do in ten minutes; it was a lost cause. Rick half-heartedly fiddled with the strings and then we had to get ready for the final go.

  Manchester went first again. The team spread out, ready to take a catch. The egg was fired. It was a great shot. It reached a good height, and started to fall in the middle of the team. They all rushed forwards, but the two closest ran into each other, stopping them reaching the egg in time. It fell into a gap and smashed. The two who’d collided looked like they were about to fight each other, until their instructor quickly stepped in.

  Bridgend were next. They fired their egg. It sailed high up into the air, and Boss-Eyed Brenda was directly under it. The team yelled “Catch it Brenda!” Everyone else held their breath. The egg fell straight through her outstretched arms and hit the ground. She was still looking up in the air for it.

  Birmingham next. Looking cocky and confident, they stood well back, knowing their egg would travel some distance. The egg firer pulled right back on the catapult and released the egg. It shot through the air, travelling at least thirty yards before it started to descend. Julie was there. The team screeched “Go on Julie!” She was right under it. She held out her hands. She missed. The egg landed on her chest, and smashed all over her. She stood there in shock, her navy fleece covered in bits of shell and drippy, smelly egg. It had splattered her face too. Everyone else collapsed with laughter. I had to cross my legs to not wet myself.

  Still giggling, we got ready for our go. Given our last attempt, we did not have high hopes. We all stood extremely close to the catapult and just hoped the egg would go forwards this time. Rick pulled carefully back on the catapult. We crouched, ready. Rick fired and the egg pinged up, going about four inches high and about four inches forwards. I was stood right in front of the catapult. I made a lunge for the egg. I managed to get my hand underneath it just before it hit the ground. It didn’t break! I lay prostrate on the ground, holding the egg up yelling my lungs out. The team went crazy. They pulled me up and we all jumped around in a big group hug, shouting “We won, we won!” Even Cruella said “well done”, and almost looked like she meant it. I felt like an absolute hero.

  The other teams looked as sick
as parrots. Downcast, they slowly made their way back to the mini buses, whilst we bounded along, happily chatting away, even Rick and The Shark were sharing a laugh together. Amazing what a taste of victory can do for team spirit; for that moment we were united as one - a great, unstoppable force, champions of the world.

  Back at the hotel we had an hour to check into our rooms and get down to the bar for “pre-dinner drinks and networking”. I hate networking - I’m rubbish at it, and I always get trapped in a corner with some boring nerd because I’ve made the mistake of showing an interest in them, and then I can’t get away. Of course, I also feared that some people would feel the same way about me. I thought I’d go down a bit later, just before dinner. I was still feeling exuberant, and sang a Madonna medley loudly in the shower. After I’d dressed, I phoned The Husband. He answered his mobile with a breathless “Hello?”

  “Oh sorry love” I said, “are you at the gym? I’ll call back later.”

  “No, no I’m not at the gym, I’m at home. Where are you?” He sounded a little flustered.

  “I’m in Nottingham, aren’t I?” I replied. Odd - had he forgotten I was away tonight? “I’m at the hotel, just getting ready for dinner. Is everything ok?”

  “Oh yes, fine, yes fine, I was, er, just getting ready to go to the gym. You ok?”

  “Yes, you could say it’s been a pretty interesting day. They took us to this Godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere where we had to do these mad activities-”

  He cut in. “Well, that’s great, really great. I’d better be off then, so have a good night and see you tomorrow? Cheers then, take care.” He rang off.

  I sat on the bed. He’d sounded very strange. Cheers then, take care. That was the sort of thing you said to a mate, or someone you’d just bought a copy of Big Issue from on the street. Not your wife. He hadn’t been very keen to talk - probably just in a rush to get to the gym before it got too busy. Oh well. I felt a little deflated and in sudden need of a drink. Nothing for it - I headed off to the bar.

  The bar area was already quite crowded when I got down there. I heard The Big Cheese before I saw him - booming great voice like a fog horn. He was at the far end of the bar, surrounded by a sycophantic group of cling-ons, all fully paid up members of the Boys Club, vying with each other to get as close to him as possible and laughing unnaturally loudly at his jokes.

  Big Andy waved at me from the bar, and I went over to collect a large vodka and tonic from him. He was grinning at me. “What’s so funny?” I asked, looking down at myself in case I’d put my top on inside out, or my knickers on over my trousers.

  “Look who’s over there,” he said, nodding his head towards the left hand side of the room. I looked round, and did a double take. It was The Climber! She was stood talking to The Boss, holding a large glass of white wine in one hand and flicking her hair about with the other.

  “What is she doing here?!”

  Andy laughed. “Well, I dare say she was just passing through!” A round trip of 168 miles? Her annoying, silly laugh rang out around the room.

  “Christ, who’s the long-haired hyena?” asked Rick, who’d appeared at our sides. I warmed to him.

  “She’s one of Kate’s,” Big Andy told him. “Very devoted, follows her everywhere.”

  “Bloody hell, bad luck,” Rick sympathised and got me another large vodka and tonic, although I hadn’t started the first one yet. I had to know why The Climber was here, and what she was talking to The Boss about, so I pushed my way over to them.

  “Hi Amanda,” I said, as warmly as I could manage, “what a surprise to see you here.” At a team building event for department managers, which you’re not and that you weren’t invited to.

  “Oh, hi Kate,” she replied with a toss of her hair, “How was the quad biking?” You bitch. “Brett tells me you were a natural!” She laughed her stupid laugh. I wanted to grab her by her flicky hair, swing her round a few times and chuck her through the window.

  “Brett invited me along for a drink as he thought it would be a good opportunity for me to do some networking. You know, with all the important people being here.” I looked at The Boss. He appeared to be engrossed in a text message. Why had he been talking to her? He never spoke to me.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a long way to come, so I hope it’s worth the journey. So you must have left the office early to get here; I don’t recall you asking me if that was ok. How did your teams do today by the way, what were their results like?” She looked like she was about to say “I haven’t a clue” which wouldn’t have surprised me, but at that moment The Big Cheese’s PA, Jenny, tapped on a glass to get everyone’s attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, “I give you our Chief Executive, Kevin Goddard!” Thunderous applause. Unfortunately, I was holding two drinks so couldn’t join in.

  The Big Cheese swaggered to the front of the room, clutching a pint. He opened with a few jokes: “I’m a bit late getting here today as my mother-in-law came by to see me. She said she’d decided she wanted to be cremated. I said ok then, get yer coat.” Screeches of laughter. “This is a woman so mean she blinded herself just to get a free dog.” More hysterical laughter. “I took her to Madame Tussaud’s the other day. We were in the Chamber of Horrors. One of the attendants said to me ‘Keep her moving sir, we’re stock-taking’.” God give me strength.

  He started off relatively calmly, speaking about our wonderful colleagues. “The foundations of our great company are built from great people, talented people, thought-leaders in our industry.” What the hell is a thought-leader? “It begins in this room, each and every one of you is responsible - you have the power to create an environment where our people feel inspired, motivated, fulfilled...” Are you listening to this Brett? “You are not just managers anymore, you need to be innovative leaders, entrepreneurs, creative accountants, skilled auditors...” Yep that’s us, Jacks of all trades, masters of fuck all. “Don’t be scared of conflict. I’m not.” You don’t say. “Conflict in a team is healthy...”

  I caught Big Andy’s eye and sipped my drink to hide a smile. “Use it positively, drive your teams forwards to greatness, we are on a never-ending journey....” Are we on the X Factor? “But I’ll promise you this,” The Big Cheese thumped his now empty pint glass down on a table, making everyone jump, “and this is a message I want you to take back to your people. And make it crystal clear to them. Anyone who is not on board with us can bloody well get off at the next station. I’ve no time for bloody passengers. And if they won’t get off, we’ll bloody well throw them off!” Queue some butch cheering. He was working himself up, getting redder and redder. Is there a doctor in the house?

  “Time wasters. Disaffected followers.” Who? “They’ve no place in this company.” He jabbed his sausagy finger around the room. “You’ll not last five minutes at Perypils if you don’t perform to standard, not five bloody minutes, I’ll personally assure you of that.” Nervous applause from the room, everyone secretly thinking to themselves “Does he mean me?”

  “Not last five minutes” - what a load of macho shit. I so badly wanted to ask if he knew how long it takes to get rid of an underperformer; do you know how many hours we spend on managing them, on supporting them, training them then re-training them, only for them to be signed off sick for weeks with a stubbed toe and we have to start all over again? Do you know that whatever action we try and take some little weener from HR tells us that we can’t take it because we missed a full-stop out of the notes? I had personnel files so large you could ski down them. And then just when you think you’ve reached the end, and can get shot of them, some lily-livered manager called Julie Wet-Pants from Birmingham decides not to dismiss and gives them another chance! I could see Julie cowering in the corner of the room. She caught me looking at her and quickly looked away. Probably had egg on her face - ha ha!

  Eventually, The Big Cheese ran out of steam, and the tirade was over. Ears ringing, we went through to dinner.
The tables had name-plates, and of course, they had mixed us all up. I was delighted to be seated next to Rich from Birmingham again, although it was going to take all my concentration to understand him and my head was already spinning from two large vodka and tonics on an empty stomach. I must pace myself, or I would feel terrible tomorrow. I looked around the room but I could not see The Climber. She obviously hadn’t managed to wangle herself an invitation to dinner. Was she going to wait in the bar, or was she going to drive home? That was a huge glass of wine she’d been holding, was she really going to drive after drinking that?

  The wine was flowing, and by the time my fish course was placed in front of me it looked like the fish was still swimming. Rich hadn’t stopped talking, I’d no idea what about, but I seemed to be nodding and smiling in all the right places. After the desserts had been cleared away, Brett the Boss stood up to drunken cheers as he said he had a presentation to make. He said he’d had a great day, and he’d learnt a lot about himself and working as part of a team. He didn’t mention the fact that we’d had to surgically remove him from his mobile. He said he’d asked the instructors who had made the biggest impact during the activities and he’d like to present that person with a bottle of champagne.

  My heart started to beat a lot faster. It must be me! That amazing swan dive I did at the end to win the day, it must be me. I wondered if I would be able to get up and walk in a straight line to receive the champagne. With a bit of luck, he’d bring it over to me.

  “And the winner is...” Brett looked around the room. I held my breath. “Clare from Team Cheltenham!” Cruella? No way. It’s not possible. What had she done? The familiar skinny figure in black got up to accept her prize amidst scattered applause. Brett said it was awarded for “showing amazing resilience when rounding up her sheep” A guilt-award! “And for posting the fastest lap on the quad bike - showing the boys how it’s done!” From the faces in the room, I could see it was the most unpopular award in the history of meaningless trophies. So if the rumours were to be believed, it was first blood to her. Brett had already clearly pledged his allegiance to her. I asked Rich if he could reach the wine and if so, to start pouring.

  Morning

  Eyes opened. Unfamiliar room. Where was I? Took a moment to remember. Hotel room in Nottingham. Looked down. Oh no, I was fully clothed. Just lying on top of the bed on my back. Had taken off my boots and my trousers were undone, but the effort must have been too much for me and I’d crashed out. Sat up slowly to look at the digital alarm clock. Oh my head. It was a quarter to seven. I might as well get up. Staggered to the bathroom. As suspected, I still had a face full of make-up. Yuk. Red-rimmed eyes peered back at me. Filled a glass full of water and gulped it down. Then another. Rummaged around in wash bag for Nurofen. My ankle hurt, there was a big bruise on my knee. What time had I gone to bed? Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember going to bed.

  Bits of last night started to come back to me. I could recall getting the table to play Fuzzy Duck. I could recall playing Truth or Dare. With a groan, I remembered being dared to sing “Happy Birthday” in the style of Marilyn Monroe to Market Mike, the senior manager of marketing. I’d used a tonic bottle as a microphone. Had it actually been his birthday? Who knows. I vaguely recalled leading a sing-along in the bar, but it was a bit hazy. Oh what a stupid idiot, why did I drink so much? Why? I was going to look and feel awful for the rest of the day. I’d never do this again.

  I couldn’t face breakfast, I felt too sick. I showered and dressed, took off yesterday’s make up and put more back on. No amount of trusted bronzing powder could cover my pallid complexion. Why, in this day and age, had someone not invented a cure for hangovers - something you could take that would immediately take away the nausea, the grittiness, the headache. I made my way to the conference centre where the course was being held and slunk into the room. Tables were laid out with note pads, pens and bottles of water. There were a few people already there, most of them looked as bad as I felt.

  I chose a table nearest to the door (just in case I had to make a sudden exit) and poured myself a glass of water. A guy I didn’t know came in and sat down at the same table. “I’m glad to see you’re ok,” he said, as he poured some water too.

  “Er, well yes I’m fine thanks,” I said suspiciously, “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Well you took quite a heavy fall,” he said with surprise. “Don’t you remember? I fell on top of you. You know, during the three-legged race.” Oh my God. That would explain the bruise.

  The room slowly filled up. Everyone was very quiet. The trainer bounced in with a cheery “Morning folks!”. When he didn’t get a response he exclaimed loudly “Good grief, has someone died?” I know everyone was thinking “You’re about to mate if you don’t turn it down a bit.”

  The course limped along. I did feel dreadfully sorry for the trainer who did his absolute best to drag out some participation, but no one wanted to know. It’s not easy to concentrate whilst fighting off waves of nausea. It wasn’t exactly new material either. Team Working in Action: comparisons to geese, shared visions, common goals and endless bloody acronyms that no one ever remembers or uses.

  I think he knew it was hopeless when he started to talk about the Tuckman Model of team development which is: forming, storming, norming, performing and someone had said that the only model that worked for our teams was the FIFO compliance model. He said he hadn’t heard of this model and asked, with great interest, what it was. He was told: Fit In or Fuck Off.

  Mercifully, he had the sense to wrap it up early and let us get on the road. Big Andy drove me back to Cheltenham. Cruella overtook us on her broomstick. I wondered what had happened to The Climber. “Did you see Amanda again last night?” I asked Big Andy, “I wondered if she hung around waiting for the meal to finish or went home.”

  “She hung around I think. I definitely saw her in the bar after dinner.”

  “Blimey, she must have driven home awfully late.” Andy shot me a pitying look.

  “If she went home.”

  Had she stayed overnight then? The rooms there weren’t particularly cheap, it must have cost her a fortune when you factored in the petrol as well. I was about to question him some more when a song came on the radio and he turned it up excitedly. “Remember this from last night, Kate?” It was Bon Jovi, Living on a Prayer.

  “Er, no, should I?” I asked, confused.

  “Of course you remember! You were absolutely rocking the bar to this one!” Oh no, don’t tell me anymore. I closed my eyes and slumped down low in my seat. Just get me home.

  Home at last. Thank God, it was all over and I could curl up on the sofa and stuff my face with carbs. To my surprise, The Husband’s car was in the drive. He was home very early. He opened the front door before I could get my key out and pulled me inside, giving me a big hug and said “Hi Love, you’re home! I thought I’d get back early so I’d be here when you got in and I could make you your favourite – Shepherd’s Pie.”

  That’s actually your favourite isn’t it, not mine. Still, I won’t be churlish.

  “This is a nice welcome,” I said, quite pleasantly taken aback. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  “Oh, you know, I’d had such a bad day yesterday, I realised I hadn’t been very chatty when you called last night.” No, that’s an understatement. “I felt really bad about it, so I thought I’d make you a nice meal to make up for it!” Fair enough - lucky me! “Go and sit down. And I’ve got a lovely bottle of wine for us, shall I pour you a glass? What’s the matter – why have you gone green?”

  Chapter Fourteen