Conference call
Okay.
Right.
The corridor still looks normal.
Too brightly lit with all those halogen spots, but normal. And the reception area. Normal, too. Same views from the 17th floor over Tower Bridge. Same chrome and glass everywhere. Same shiny plaque embossed with the corporate logo. Same colourful, spiky plants on the glass coffee table. Same plush leather seats for the visitors.
All normal.
Hell. How do I broach this?
Behind the vast granite reception desk, the new girl. Prim, proper, tailored pencil suit. Hair scraped back into a tight bun. Sharp make-up. Normal.
What was her name again? Katrin? Kayleigh? Kerry. It’s Kerry. Damn. Why does she have to wear her name badge just there?
This isn’t going well.
Fumbling, without doubt blushing, I decide to get to the point. “Ah ... I just popped into Conference Three. I’ve got it booked out, for a video link. In about five minutes. Um ...”
Bored, but professional, she replies. “Is there a problem? Should I call IT?”
“Well ... they might not be ... the right people. You see, um ... There’s a camel. Uh. A camel, in Conference Three.”
A big smile now. “Oh. You mean Bill?”
“Sorry? It’s called Bill?”
“Yes! Bill the Bactrian Camel. He’s a cutie isn’t he?”
“And ... he’s a permanent fixture, now?”
“Well, not quite. He’s on loan from Richmond zoo. Is he being a pest?”
“Technically, no. However ... ”
She gets up and totters around the long, long reception desk. I’m towed along as she babbles. “He’s really good, you know. It’s all about the new sustainability policy. And the corporate responsibility plan. You see, the Board decided to replace our local artists programme with support for local zoos. Instead of having paintings on loan, we have animals. You’ll have noticed we removed the DeWitter triptych.”
“That’s a small mercy I suppose. But ... a camel? In a boardroom? I have a video link. With a big client. In Des Moines.”
Oblivious to my pleas, she pushes the door open. And there it is.
Bill.
A camel.
In Conference Three.
Huge damn thing, shaggy as hell. Stood there, without a care in the world, chewing on my hastily abandoned briefcase.
Kerry sidles up and gives the beast an affectionate pat before rescuing my slobbered-on property and sliding that onto the long, oval table. “He does need a little more space than the others, being so big. But he’s no trouble, really. He likes cabbages and turnips. That keeps him busy.”
“Oh, good. If he doesn’t spit me to death, I’ll die asphyxiated.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s gorgeous. If you need coffee or anything else, just dial six-oh-oh-seven.”
And she’s gone. Leaving me with the camel.
“All right, Bill. Looks like you and me might have to be friends.”
I look around. And notice that Conference Three is separated from Conference Four only by one of those silly foldable partitions. I quickly rummage in the drawers of the little fridge and stationery cabinet and find the thingy-jig tool for winding the partition open. And some cauliflower in the next drawer down.
Right, I have a plan.
Quick as I can, I wind the partition open just far enough, I think, I hope, for Bill to wander through in pursuit of a nice juicy cauliflower. Yes. He’s interested. Excellent.
“Come on now, through you go Bill. Go and find your cauliflower and ... keep that Shetland pony company, why don’t you? Play nice now, you two.”
Oh, God.
The partition winds back in a moment and the click of the latch is a blessed relief.
Quick now. I snap open the briefcase, sit myself down opposite the television and camera array and spread out my papers. Back to normal.
Management accounts for Quarters One and Two, projections, cash flow, market reports, independent valuations ... where the hell are they? Oh. Yes. Here we are.
And now this device. What button is it to switch it all on? Less than one minute to go. All normal, once more. Normal and professional. Normal. Is it the green button or the blue one, now? Let’s try this.
And the dulcet tones of J. Hunter Tannenbaum echo around the room. “Hi there, Bainbridge! Damn good to see you again.”
I snap my head up from the buttons on the central microphone and remote control thing. And give a nice, normal smile to my big, important client, ready to start my nice, normal presentation.
My big, important client is stroking a penguin on his lap.
One of those with the funny tufted ears.
In his boardroom.
“And where’s my big buddy Bill then, Bainbridge?”
Oh.
“Um. I think ... He’s just finishing a previous call next door, Mister Tannenbaum. I’m sure he’ll be with us in ... uh ... in a moment.”
Keep calm. And carry on.
Right.
The corridor still looks normal.
Too brightly lit with all those halogen spots, but normal. And the reception area. Normal, too. Same views from the 17th floor over Tower Bridge. Same chrome and glass everywhere. Same shiny plaque embossed with the corporate logo. Same colourful, spiky plants on the glass coffee table. Same plush leather seats for the visitors.
All normal.
Hell. How do I broach this?
Behind the vast granite reception desk, the new girl. Prim, proper, tailored pencil suit. Hair scraped back into a tight bun. Sharp make-up. Normal.
What was her name again? Katrin? Kayleigh? Kerry. It’s Kerry. Damn. Why does she have to wear her name badge just there?
This isn’t going well.
Fumbling, without doubt blushing, I decide to get to the point. “Ah ... I just popped into Conference Three. I’ve got it booked out, for a video link. In about five minutes. Um ...”
Bored, but professional, she replies. “Is there a problem? Should I call IT?”
“Well ... they might not be ... the right people. You see, um ... There’s a camel. Uh. A camel, in Conference Three.”
A big smile now. “Oh. You mean Bill?”
“Sorry? It’s called Bill?”
“Yes! Bill the Bactrian Camel. He’s a cutie isn’t he?”
“And ... he’s a permanent fixture, now?”
“Well, not quite. He’s on loan from Richmond zoo. Is he being a pest?”
“Technically, no. However ... ”
She gets up and totters around the long, long reception desk. I’m towed along as she babbles. “He’s really good, you know. It’s all about the new sustainability policy. And the corporate responsibility plan. You see, the Board decided to replace our local artists programme with support for local zoos. Instead of having paintings on loan, we have animals. You’ll have noticed we removed the DeWitter triptych.”
“That’s a small mercy I suppose. But ... a camel? In a boardroom? I have a video link. With a big client. In Des Moines.”
Oblivious to my pleas, she pushes the door open. And there it is.
Bill.
A camel.
In Conference Three.
Huge damn thing, shaggy as hell. Stood there, without a care in the world, chewing on my hastily abandoned briefcase.
Kerry sidles up and gives the beast an affectionate pat before rescuing my slobbered-on property and sliding that onto the long, oval table. “He does need a little more space than the others, being so big. But he’s no trouble, really. He likes cabbages and turnips. That keeps him busy.”
“Oh, good. If he doesn’t spit me to death, I’ll die asphyxiated.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s gorgeous. If you need coffee or anything else, just dial six-oh-oh-seven.”
And she’s gone. Leaving me with the camel.
“All right, Bill. Looks like you and me might have to be friends.”
I look around. And notice that Conference Three is separated from Conference Four only by one of those silly foldable partitions. I quickly rummage in the drawers of the little fridge and stationery cabinet and find the thingy-jig tool for winding the partition open. And some cauliflower in the next drawer down.
Right, I have a plan.
Quick as I can, I wind the partition open just far enough, I think, I hope, for Bill to wander through in pursuit of a nice juicy cauliflower. Yes. He’s interested. Excellent.
“Come on now, through you go Bill. Go and find your cauliflower and ... keep that Shetland pony company, why don’t you? Play nice now, you two.”
Oh, God.
The partition winds back in a moment and the click of the latch is a blessed relief.
Quick now. I snap open the briefcase, sit myself down opposite the television and camera array and spread out my papers. Back to normal.
Management accounts for Quarters One and Two, projections, cash flow, market reports, independent valuations ... where the hell are they? Oh. Yes. Here we are.
And now this device. What button is it to switch it all on? Less than one minute to go. All normal, once more. Normal and professional. Normal. Is it the green button or the blue one, now? Let’s try this.
And the dulcet tones of J. Hunter Tannenbaum echo around the room. “Hi there, Bainbridge! Damn good to see you again.”
I snap my head up from the buttons on the central microphone and remote control thing. And give a nice, normal smile to my big, important client, ready to start my nice, normal presentation.
My big, important client is stroking a penguin on his lap.
One of those with the funny tufted ears.
In his boardroom.
“And where’s my big buddy Bill then, Bainbridge?”
Oh.
“Um. I think ... He’s just finishing a previous call next door, Mister Tannenbaum. I’m sure he’ll be with us in ... uh ... in a moment.”
Keep calm. And carry on.
Originally published here: http://www.authonomy.com/forums/threads/84497/fff-september-23-2011/
