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  ‘Are you going to behave yourself today?’

  The words startled Alan from his reverie. Sue, all smiles, fell in to step beside him.

  ‘Don’t I always?’ he managed to reply.

  ‘No, you really don’t. And I know for a fact that Graham is really annoyed with you. You’d better watch yourself today. Just try not to say anything.’

  ‘What, nothing? That suits me fine.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Just try not to wind anyone up,’ Sue implored.

  ‘What about these two fucking idiots?’ Alan nodding at two twentysomethings loitering just outside the conference hall room.

  ‘Alan. Be nice.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, Sue.’ Alan replied as they approached the couple. ‘Catherine. Josh,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Alan, Sue, hi,’ Catherine said, much too eagerly in Alan’s opinion. He had no time for Catherine, or her friend Josh. They were Fast Trackers, a Government wide scheme that took the nation’s best and brightest University Graduates and, well, fast tracked them towards senior positions. Alan had no particular axe to grind with individuals, but found the concept a little grating. Particularly as, in his experience, Fast Trackers tended to have little or no personality beyond tales of their gap year.

  ‘Isn’t this exciting?’ said Catherine. ‘I hear we have a team building exercise where we have to build something out of spaghetti and spam. I thought spam was a dodgy email. We can’t make anything out of emails, can we?’ she added, looking from Alan to Sue.

  ‘Alan, don’t’ Sue warned, but Alan couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Catherine,’ he began, ‘Spam was a cheap meat. Probably why they chose it for today. It was very popular during the Second World War. It came in tins. A bit like Mental Mickey.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ Josh asked, confused.

  ‘Mental Mickey. He used to wank in old biscuit tins. They had to medically retire him.’

  ‘Because he wanked in tins?’ Josh asked.

  ‘No, he got run over by the tea lady when she was doing her rounds.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘Yeah, she ran at him when she caught him with her tin of digestives.’

  ‘Alan, you’re making that up,’ Sue grinned.

  ‘Probably,’ Alan admitted.

  ‘Is that from one of your routines,’ Catherine asked.

  ‘No, why, do you think it should be?’

  ‘No. It’s not funny.’

  ‘I might just put it in then,’ Alan said, adding, ‘A bit like Mickey and the biscuit tin.’

  *

  Alan doodled on a writing pad, provided by the conference suite to help people take notes. On stage, another grey suit was speaking to the assembled crowd. Alan had no idea who the suit was, or what he was blathering on about. Instead he wrote the words “Mental Mickey” and “biscuit tin” followed by a question mark on the pad.

  To his right, Graham leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, ‘you look busy, Alan,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you’re interested for once.’

  ‘Sorry Graham,’ Alan whispered back. ‘How do you spell Garibaldi?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘No reason. I’m just listing out what I want to eat at the tea break.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Graham whispered, nonplussed, while Sue shook her head disapprovingly.

  Alan gave her a shrug, but was prevented from saying anything as a ripple of polite applause reverberated around the room signalling the grey suit had finished his presentation. The compere, a Fast Tracker who Alan knew by sight but not by name, thanked the departing suit then appealed for a warm hand for the next speaker.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ Graham said to the table as he stood to make his way up the stairs to the podium.

  ‘Good luck, Graham,’ Alan said, noting the beads of sweat beginning to appear on Graham’s brow.

  Alan’s uncharacteristic support threw an already nervous Graham further off balance. ‘He’s sweating like a builder in a bobble hat. This should be fun.’

  Catherine shushed him. ‘I want to listen to this,’ she added.

  ‘You know what he’s going to say. He circulated the presentation yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, but I want to hear him talk. It’s a very important issue,’ she frowned.

  ‘It’s about a trade deal with Djibouti. No one even knows where Djibouti is. For six months I thought he was Newcastle’s new centre-half.’

  ‘Alan!’ Sue hissed.

  ‘Sorry Sue, but these things are about as painful as having someone run a cheese grater over your gonads.’

  Alan turned towards the stage where a clearly nervous Graham tightly clutched a wad of notes whilst simultaneously trying to work a presentation clicker, with little success. Finally, and with the help of the compere, the first slide appeared on the wall at the back of the stage.

  ‘H…Hello everyone,’ Graham stammered. ‘For those that don’t know me, my name is Gladys Evans…’

  A stony silence filled the room. Alan smirked at Sue. ‘He should leave the jokes to you,’ she told him.

  ‘Or he could just leave,’ Alan added.

  Catherine shushed them again.

  ‘Djibouti,’ Graham began, ‘offers the UK an excellent trade opportunity with regard to its expanding coffee plantations. I’m sure you’re all enjoying the lovely roast provided by our hosts this morning. Yes, Djibouti is more than just whale shark watching and military coups. In fact, the entire area has been stable for about twenty years. So that’s good…’

  Alan turned to Sue, ‘Bloody hell, his speech is so bad it sounds like he ate a tin of alphabetti spaghetti and shat the words out.’

  Sue stifled a giggle whilst Catherine shushed them again. Sighing heavily, Alan returned his attention to his notepad.

  *

  The morning had dragged. An endless procession of grey suits had taken the stage and delivered monotone speeches to half listening ears. Alan had survived the experience by drafting several new jokes that he was keen to try out on stage. Lunch had been no better. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to escape the clutches of a group of earnest young Fast Trackers eager to discuss what they had learned. Before he had a chance to go and look for Frankie, they were called back to their tables, Alan noting with a certain level of cynicism that few people had had more than one sandwich, fuelling his belief that the Department had scrimped on the lunch budget. Grumbling to himself he made his way back to his seat.

  On stage, the compere thanked everyone for their morning efforts, and the Museum staff for helping with the catering. He then described the first task of the afternoon. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You will see the museum staff are placing items on your tables. What we would like each table to do is work as a team and, using only the items in the box, construct a building. The tallest structure will win a prize.’

  Alan sighed as a box was placed in front of him. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. Josh quickly snatched the box, placed it in the centre of the table and opened the lid. He reached inside and took out three large bags of marshmallows and two packets of dried spaghetti.

  Alan picked up the spaghetti and announced, ‘This looks like Graham’s speech.’

  ‘Alan!’ Sue warned, glancing at Graham, who didn’t seem to notice.

  Alan sighed and sat back in his chair, letting the excitable Fast Trackers take control.

  ‘There’s no Spam,’ said a disappointed Catherine.

  ‘You probably received a fake email,’ Alan smirked as he popped a marshmallow into his mouth.

  ‘Alan!’ Sue said, ‘Can you not eat our props?’

  ‘Sorry Sue, but lunch was rubbish. I had one sandwich which tasted like it was waved in the general direction of a filling, but never got close enough to be anything other than bread and butter. I’m sorry Sue, but this is so bloody tedious. Look around. I haven’t seen this many uncomfortable civil servants since they disbanded the tea trolley service.’

  ‘Catherine looks to be enj
oying herself,’ Sue said, nodding to where Catherine, Josh and some people Alan didn’t know were busy making marshmallow foundations.

  ‘Aren’t you going to help, Alan?’ asked one of the nameless individuals.

  ‘I’m helping by keeping out of the way,’ Alan said, popping another soft treat into his mouth. He watched, mildly entertained as various structures were built, wobbled, then fell. Catherine sneaked glances at a nearby table to see how they were getting on.

  ‘You know you’re doing it all wrong,’ Alan said, his mouth full of marshmallow.

  ‘OK, smart arse, how is it done?’ Josh frowned. Alan was quite impressed that he’d managed to get a fast Tracker to lose his cool. Grinning to himself, he stood and began placing one marshmallow on top of another, eventually needing to stand on his chair to place the last sweet on top. ‘Easy,’ he said, sitting back down.

  ‘You’re supposed to use the spaghetti as well,’ Catherine said.

  Sighing, Alan stood up, took a single piece of dried spaghetti and stuck it on top of the structure. He sat back down triumphantly, whilst Catherine glared at him. ‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ she said.

  Alan was prevented from replying by the sound of a microphone being tapped. ‘That’s time, folks,’ said the compere. ‘The judges will now come to each table to measure the structure.

  Eventually Alan’s table was approached by a pair of judges brandishing a tape measure. The judges took one look at the thin marshmallow tower and said ‘This really isn’t in the spirit of the rules.’

  ‘Can I see the rulebook?’ Alan replied. ‘I mean, I would have thought sub section two paragraph three clearly states the highest tower wins. It doesn’t mention anything about how the structure is built.’

  ‘Alan!’ Sue warned.

  ‘What?’ he replied, ‘This is clearly nonsense and we shouldn’t be penalised because we used common sense. I know logic and common sense have been eroded from the civil service in recent years, but I am making a stand. Well, I’m making a tower. But you get my point.’

  The two judges, who had remained silent, looked at each other, measured the structure and moved on. Alan over heard one say to the other ‘Who is that idiot?’ He grinned to himself. The more people he irritated, the more he considered the day a success.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the compere announced. ‘There will be a fifteen minute tea break while the judges compare the scores.’

  ‘We’ve only just had lunch,’ Catherine whined.

  Alan didn’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. He was up and out of his seat and heading to the door before anyone could stop him. He had half a mind to carry on walking and go home, but realised he had left his phone on the table. Cursing his bad fortune, Alan decided to try the Djibouti coffee on offer. The bitter taste was supplemented by one of the smallest biscuits Alan had ever seen. He was about to ask the waitress if there were any normal sized biscuits when the conference doors opened and several civil servants wandered out, forming an orderly and respectful queue.

  ‘Alan,’ he heard his name, but pretended not to hear. ‘Alan,’ the voice said again. Alan had had enough. He placed his cup on a table and strode purposefully out of the reception area. ‘Alan’ the voice seemed to be following him. Panicking, he pushed open a door to his left.

  The door opened into a reception room almost identical to the one he had just left. A row of empty coffee cups were placed on a long table. Beside the cups, he noticed large plates piled high with large cookies. He took a small plate and several of the cookies and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  Alan was half way through a rather tasty cookie when a large door opened up and several people filed out in silence. Intrigued, Alan glanced at a sign on the door which said “Annual Conference of the Benevolent Order of the Chronically Anxious.” Frankie really hadn’t been kidding.

  ‘Hello, I’m Alan,’ Alan said to a tall man who had taken a position to Alan’s right. The man looked down at his feet. ‘Hello, I’m…I’m, Geoffrey.’

  ‘First time at the conference?’ Alan asked. It’s my first time. I have to say, I’m loving the surroundings. I mean, being around all these weapons and planes and tanks. It gives you a few ideas, doesn’t it?’

  The man continued to stare at his feet, but was now profusely sweating.

  ‘Tough crowd,’ Alan said. ‘So, Geoffrey. What do you do?’

  Geoffrey gulped, took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘I’m a teacher. I teach English.’

  Alan grinned. ‘Wow, it can’t be easy for you, having to stand in front of people all day, teaching them about words you can barely say yourself.’

  ‘It’s not. I hate it. But I’m too scared to look for another job.’

  ‘I hear you. I’m a civil servant. It’s like being the one eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. So what made you take up teaching?’

  Geoffrey gulped again, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’d always wanted to teach. I thought it would be good, you know, to mould young minds. But it’s not like that at all. It’s awful.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’

  ‘Oh, this school isn’t so bad, but my first job was at a comprehensive school in Wandsworth. Frightful place. Full of hooligans.’

  ‘You’re not talking about Buggerly Mount by any chance?’

  Geoffrey chanced a glance up. ‘Yes, do you know it?’

  ‘Yep. I went there. I agree it was bloody awful. But funny too.’

  ‘I don’t think it was funny at all. I was a normal man before I took that job. I had a girlfriend, a house, everything. Then it all went to shit. Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.’

  ‘No, not at all, let it all out. So what happened?’

  ‘I…I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘No, I understand. If it helps, my experiences were less than pleasant. The teachers never seemed to have any control. No offence.’

  ‘None taken. The place was full of animals. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

  Alan stared at the man, who was starting to look a little familiar.

  Taking Alan’s silence as encouragement, Geoffrey finally said. ‘It was those little hooligans in my class.’

  Alan’s face began to redden.

  ‘I used to have this white board, you see. I used it to explain complex issues in simple language. Anyway, the board was pivoted so I could move it from an upright position to a horizontal one. Only this one day. This one day…well the little bastards unscrewed the hinges. I leant on it to draw a picture of the female genitals and the whole thing collapsed with me on top of it. The little sods just laughed at me. I screamed at them for the rest of the lesson. Shortly afterwards I was relieved of my duties and spent some time at a hospital to recover. I’ve never been the same since.’

  ‘That’s sounds awful,’ Alan said, his cheek now burning. ‘Anyway, I have to pop to the loo. I’ll see you back inside,’ he said making his way through the doors to the museum. He walked swiftly back to the relative safety of the civil service room, thinking about the two white board screws he kept in an old shoe box for sentimental reasons.

  *

  The afternoon session seemed to go on for an eternity. Alan doodled the words “Buggerly Mount” on the sketch pad in front of him, wondering if he could eke a few jokes out of his school days. He popped a marshmallow into his mouth and eyed the box of chocolates on the table. The chocolates were presented to them for winning the structure competition. Alan had looked smug when the results were announced, whilst Catherine had humphed in disgust, which Alan also took as a good result.

  ‘So, to finish up,’ the compere said, ‘I would like to thank everyone who made the effort to attend, the wonderful staff at the Imperial War Museum and to our guest speakers for their fascinating insights into Government trade deals…’

  Alan stood, hissed a quick ‘bye’ at no one in particular and was out of the door before the compere had finished. He made his way through the museum, past sever
al glass exhibits which, at any other time would have been interesting. However, he could not wait to leave. He didn’t want to bump in to anyone from the away day in case he had to endure an awkward silence riddled journey home.

  ‘Alan,’ said a voice. Oh God, not again, he thought. ‘Alan,’ the voice repeated, louder this time. ‘Alan, wait,’ the voice said for a third time, this time sounding much closer. Against his better judgement, Alan turned to see Frankie walking towards him.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were a civil servant.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Frankie grinned. ‘I’ve never been so insulted in all my days.’

  ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Alan replied, grinning.

  ‘Alan, I’ve got to tell you something.’

  ‘Not now, I want to get home.’

  ‘No problem, we can talk on the way.’

  Alan sighed. ‘Go on then, what’s so urgent?’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to believe this,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I’m sure I won’t.’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Frankie repeated, ignoring Alan, ‘but, well, I’ve found it. After all these years I’ve finally found it.’

  ‘Found what?’ Alan asked.

  ‘It’s kind of a funny story.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Well,’ Frankie continued, ‘during the war…’

  ‘Alright Uncle Albert,’

  ‘What? Uncle who?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Carry on,’ Alan said as Frankie ushered him down a flight of stairs towards a tank that had clearly been on the receiving end of some heavy shelling.

  ‘Here we are,’ Frankie said. ‘Look. So, I was in a tank during the war. Smelt like no-ones business, cramped conditions, we got shot at all the time. I loved it. Happiest years of my life.’

  Alan arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Seriously, the tales I could tell. Anyway, this one time we were in France, and we were lost. Again. We got lost all the time. Our driver, Benny…’

  ‘Can you get to the point?’

  ‘Patience, Alan, patience. As I was saying, we were lost. Benny seemed to be driving round in circles. Mainly because my map was upside down. They should have reprinted it the right way up,’ he grinned at Alan who frowned.