CODA
Crisis Management
Did I want this return to The City? I could retire or, perhaps find a local job. But what would I find in a sleepy seaside town?
When I wrote this in my 2021 diary it seemed that we were beating Covid19 and “back to normal” was the catchphrase. Soon after I wrote that piece I was called to Head Office. My Senior Associate told me that Doctor Birkett, the Human Resources Director, had invited me to lunch in the directors’ restaurant.
Interesting, I thought.
She greeted me, all smiles at 1.30. We exchanged pleasantries like sparring partners. Eventually, over coffee she got down to business.
“I hear that you’re fed up with commuting and prefer to work from home,” she said. “That doesn’t fit in with the Bank’s plans for you. The Board wants a general return to office working. I’m afraid that if you decide to exercise your right to continue home-working it could have an effect on your career. Let’s see, you’re 57, due to retire in three years.”
She was all steel now. “I suggest you look at your options. You might like to take this summary and let me have your comments on Friday.”
She walked over to the window to admire the view of Canary Wharf. I decided that The Bank wanted me out.
I went home and phoned my legal adviser. He said that I could obey orders and commute daily. Or lose money by insisting on “my rights”. Or I could retire early after negotiating a pension enhancement. As a last resort I could appeal against the threat of constructive dismissal and push for damages.
Three months later I had a deal. I won a pension boost, a redundancy lump sum and compensation for loss of office. To celebrate, Anna and I took our new car to France and beyond.
It was a couple of months later when Ken Dale called me. Seeing his name on my phone I had the usual feeling of concern. Ken, you see, owned the nursing home where my mother had lived for several years.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said “Your mum’s fine. She’ll outlive us all. My problem is – Our DJ, Sam Polley, lost his voice somewhere. Could you step into the breach for a couple of sessions? You mum nominated you.”
I said I knew nothing about popular music “Remember your audience,” he said. “They’re into Anne Shelton, Vera Lynne, even Presley, Beatles, Sinatra, Caterina Valente.”
“I’ve heard of her singing Malaguena,” I said.
“There you are, You’re an expert already.”
I did the show and enjoyed it when they gave me a big hand at the end. When I heard that Sam would take another month to recover I happily carried on. I realised that I enjoyed being silly in public.
That was a year ago. Sam’s voice is still unreliable. I’ve joined the local AmDram. We’re doing No Sex Please, We’re British. I play Brian Runnicles, without the athletics.
I’m not paid but I do get the last laugh.
Pink Moon
This is where it all begins
except it doesn’t; there has
been a long gestation; but this
is where you see it begin.
There are two kinds of black
hole; the creative kind and the
destructive kind except
there isn’t; as it’s all the same.
The creeping ground phlox;
the pink points of happiness
appear like stars in the lush green
& the shad come to spawn.
Crimson Ripple & Cupani flower,
two couples amble & chatter,
their laughter ripples the canal
as the silent swan nests.
The mother duck leads her ten
ducklings away from the large bowl
of water, their first swimming lesson
done for the day, one duckling lies
dead by the side of the porcelain.
This is the time to remember
songs of the sacred & how
everything begins in the dark.
March 25th is the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Archangel Gabriel appears to the Virgin Mary. This episode is only mentioned in St. Luke's gospel, and no date is given, but if the Christ-child was born at the winter solstice, he must have been conceived at the spring equinox.
Scribbling seems so impotent, but...
we wish we hadn’t had to learn.
Even the station seems to wait.
Some crisp bags shift listlessly on the rails.
We are drained of words.
A last few hang tenuously
“Surely….” “Perhaps if we’d….”
A scraping, rattling sound
and a youth is banging his bike
down the iron footbridge.
Gawky, acned, fifteen perhaps.
“You going to Hull?” he asks.
“Been to the market. It’s good the Beverley market.
See these…” Gently he unwraps some fishing floats.
They flash yellow and red in the sunlight.
“You got a bike? How many gears?
They’re fussy about bikes on trains now.”
Roy’s answers are short, not curt though.
The lad straddles his bike
“You going on after Hull?” I nod.
“Not you though,” he says to Roy.
He bends over the handlebars
“Do I do your head in?
I do me Dad’s head in.”
All three of us silent now, waiting.
