“Do you think that letter will have more impact, Sarah, if I address it to Glasgow’s Lord Provost instead of the rates department?”
She says, “I think it will all come to the same thing Harry.” “In that case leave it. Fifth letter. You will have to consult the internet to find the address of this firm which is either in Austria or Germany.”
The Business Manager
Rotring Pen Company
“Dear Sir,
Since my days as an art student I have used, and come to depend upon the use, of your once excellent pens, which for I was delighted to see never changed their style of manufacture for over half a century. Twenty five years ago you made pre-filled ink cartridges available, but I ignored these, finding it both cheaper and more convenient to fill the interior reservoir by hand. Whenever a pen was lost or a nib damaged I had no trouble replacing these from one of Glasgow’s two main artist supply shops — until recently, when the shopkeepers started spending more and more time searching through drawers for what I needed. I attributed this to modern shop servants knowing almost nothing about what they sell.
“Recently I bought an 0.5 nib which stopped working after my first session of using it. Neither weak solvent (hot soapy water) or stronger (refined spirits of turpentine) unclogged it so I bought another, which seems to be the last in Glasgow. It too stopped working. I feel bereft of an old and useful friend. Can you advise me on this matter? Yours truly etcetera. Please find the maker’s address. I think it is in Germany.”
After some Googling his secretary pointed to the screen and asked, “Is that the pen you like using?”
He peered at an image and said “Yes indeed.”
“They’re still making it. Perhaps the last two you bought had been lying a long time at the back of a drawer. I can order some more online.”
“But where would I pick them up?”
“They would be delivered by post.
After a long pause Gumbler said gloomily, “Abort that letter. Please order three Rotring Isographs with 0.3, 0.5 and 0.8 nibs. Last letter.
“The Sales Manager
Serious Reading Lamps
Dear Madam,
I was pleased by your reaction to my phone call last week when I explained that the standard lamp I had been using for a great many years had failed for no explicable reason, since the bulb lit up when transferred to other lamps. You told me your firm would replace it with a new one, if I returned it to the courier in the box wherein the new was delivered. On receiving the new lamp yesterday I was delighted, had the old lamp removed, as agreed, so was flabbergasted last night to discover the plug would fit no standard socket in my house! The prongs are far too large, and instead of being metallic, seem composed of a thick white plastic. I find it almost impossible to believe that your firm expects every user of your most recent lamps to have the electric sockets of their homes renewed to fit. Such a requirement is commercialism gone mad and cutting its own throat…”
“Excuse me Harry, but could you show me that plug?” said his secretary.
“Why not?” says Gumbler grumpily. Leaving his chair he brings the lamp over from a corner and hands her the plug. She removes the white plastic sheath that covering the metallic prongs, drops the sheath in a wastepaper basket and hands the plug back. Gumbler sighed deeply three or four times then said, “I see. I see. Thank you. My problem is being too old. There is no point in sending the other letters either.”
LATE DINNER
SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT only two tables are still occupied in this small expensive restaurant. At one table a couple sip coffee and liqueurs and the man says, “It will be a stormy meeting tomorrow. All kinds of people will be trying to wriggle off hooks.”
“That won’t be our problem,” says the woman, and he agrees with her.
At a nearby table set for two, a woman with a glass of wine beside her is reading a magazine. A waitress tells her, “I’m sorry, but the chef will be closing the kitchen in ten minutes if not told to start the meal you ordered. Surely you’ve waited long enough?”
“I certainly have,” says the woman, closing the magazine. “My friend has never been as late as this before so tell the chef to — no — wait a bit, Mr Big is finally arriving.”
A quiet, penetrating voice reaches them before the speaker saying, “And Starky was hanging about your office today. Why? Sorry I’m late Proody. That last remark was not for you, Mrs Russell. You want to get to bed as it is near midnight. I am about to order a late dinner, first tell me why you let Starky natter to MacLeod for nearly twenty minutes.”
Mr Big is over six feet high, handsome, middle-aged, with a convincingly young manner. He sits opposite the woman he calls Proody, listens to his phone then says, “I see. You did not like to interrupt Starky and MacLeod because they are old friends. That’s bad, Mrs Russell. MacLeod is useful, Starky a waste of time which is why I fired him. When you don’t interrupt a chat like that you too are wasting my time. From now on I’ll be watching you. This is a friendly warning. Go to bed and sleep on it. Goodnight.”
He pockets the phone and murmurs across the table, “Sorry Proody. Tough days don’t bother me but this one has been very tough. I must shut my eyes for a bit.”
He leans back in the chair and does so. The waitress, interested by his performance, looks questioningly at Proody who begins to say that the kitchen is soon closing, but he interrupts her without opening his eyes: “Tell them I want the main course you’re having, with absolutely no starters.”
“Certainly sir,” says the waitress. “Another risotto of summer greens, Grana Padano, truffle oil. Anything to drink?”
“Tell her,” he murmurs to Proody. “Give her the recipe.” She tells the waitress, “A black velvet please — half pint of Guinness with an equal measure of champagne in a tankard or tall glass.”
“But that means opening a bottle of champagne!”
“He’ll pay for it and may drink the rest later,” says Proody, exchanging an O these men look with the waitress, who leaves. Proody reads her magazine again.
Voices at the other table become audible. The man says, “There is no real backlash against audit. The backlash is against terms that audit employs.”
“Yes,” says his companion, “but there must be such a thing as real information about issues that need to be addressed. Am I wrong?”
“Not wrong, but how can you get the right people to address issues on a local level when they are fed nothing but fashionable trends from the upper level?”
“Who are the right people?”
“Those who have most impact on the public services.”
They are startled by a groan from Mr Big, but resume their conversation more quietly after staring at him, for his laid-back figure gives no sign of having heard them. A distant cork pops. Soon after the waitress arrives with a tray and places the contents on the table saying, “Your black velvet, sir. The amuse bouche tonight are smoked salmon with crème fraiche and lemon puree.”