Foskett's Day (Oct 2003)
Monday, 7.55pm''Right. That's it. I'm never going on holiday again. Since first thing this morning, I've done nothing but pull other people's chestnuts out of the fire; clangers, cock-ups and catastrophes are all I've heard about ALL BLOODY DAY!"
Nobody answers my cry of misery. Hardly surprising since there's nobody but me in the office at this late hour. I am, very literally, a sole practitioner! My secretary/receptionist, Gracie, displaying a shameful lack of moral fibre, went home at least an hour ago, and Marcus, the so-called 'holiday relief manager', had the gall to stomp off at about 4pm. That was when I was just getting nicely into my stride, telling him what a pig's ear he'd made of running the show in my absence. 'I really don't think there's any call for that kind of language' were the last words I heard from him!
Marcus, I should explain, is a former public school housemaster who had briefly been a tenant of mine while waiting to buy his retirement home in one of our outlying villages. That was when he'd told me he knew 'all the ins and outs of property management old boy' having owned a cottage in Suffolk which he'd let for years, while he was living in a tied house at the school. He'd boasted of only using an agent for the first half-year; thereafter he'd done the job himself, 'and made a damned sight better fist of it, I can tell you!'
As always by mid-September, I had been desperate to escape the Battle of the Bulge that I have to fight at the beginning of each academic year, due in large measure to the presence of what used to be called a teacher training college in our town (I can't remember what they call it now, it's changed status so many times). Along with the usual family movers keen to settle before schools re-open, and mature students being helped into, or out of, rented accommodation. I was shattered. So a fortnight in dear old Brittany at the end of the month really didn't seem too great an indulgence. In past years I'd been able to call on the services of a lady of what might most tactfully be called 'advancing years' who worked for my predecessor and who gelled nicely with Gracie. That's not the easiest thing in the world unless one's attuned to Gracie's bluff, northern sense of humour; it's easily mistaken down here, even by me, for out and out rudeness. But the party of the first part having popped her clogs during the past winter, I had to cast around for a replacement replacement, if you catch my meaning.
A bare week before I was due to take off, I still hadn't found anyone. Which is when, as ill luck would have it, I bumped into old Marcus, buying himself a bottle of dry sherry in Threshers, and let slip my little difficulty. 'My dear fella' he gushed, 'your troubles are over. I hereby offer myself for the exalted position of your locum tenens.' Of course I should have grabbed my special offer box of Côte du Rhône and made a run for it straightaway, but I didn't. Instead, I shook his hand in deepest gratitude, invested a couple of days in giving him a crash course on my properties, and in-depth training on how to avoid saddling me with any claims for negligence on my return... and went off on my hols, full of the joys...
And as I boarded the homeward ferry yesterday I felt most satisfactorily refreshed, and looked attractively bronzed too, even if I say so myself. I was almost looking forward to getting back in the saddle. Fool, fool! I have just spent an absolutely ghastly day first day back; and it's not over yet. After looking for ways to escape from three potentially disastrous tenancies 'good old Marcus' has cheerfully set up, I still haven't finished soothing a clutch of irate clients; one of my most reliable contractors needed both my bottles of duty free scotch before he'd even consider doing business with me again; Gracie told me in no uncertain fashion that if I ever allow that 'insufferable, self-opinionated old windbag' across the threshold again she'll be off before I could say "assured shorthold tenancy"; and the cherry on the top was finding that my least favourite tenant, old Mrs Battersby, who'd brought joy to my heart by giving notice just before I went away, had been persuaded by Marcus's silver tongue to sign up for another year. No doubt there's a Latin term for how I'm feeling just now; sick transit glorious Monday almost captures it!
Monday, 9.05pm
I decided to pop into the Flute and Flyswat, to see if a jug or two of ale would lift my spirits enough to finish sorting matters out. Surprisingly, they did. Or perhaps it was the conversation I've just had with Jefferey Makepiece,
who runs the local lettings office
for a national chain, which shall remain nameless. After buying me my
second pint, in his usual endearingly modest way Jefferey confided that
within the last hour he'd pulled off a major personnel coup that would
make me sick with envy and would certainly give his firm the
competitive edge over mine. 'Do tell' I replied wearily, 'I'm
agog.' I had to buy him a vodka and tonic before he'd cough up,
but it was well worth it. He's only hired Marcus as his office
manager, 'to help drive the business forward.' Over the cliff,
more like, I thought happily! It's silver lining time after all and I
reckon I'll clear up this little mess on my desk in no time - tomorrow!