8:00am, Teutonic Room: My best PR idea ever was yesterday squashed by Them Upstairs. Am I hacked off? Damn right I am
“I’m never talking to our press people again,” I declare. “Wusses.” Sporty Girl suppresses a yawn. “They’ve had their chance. GBH could have got masses of coverage for telling the office occupier market how it really is. Instead, we’ve been ordered to keep on trumpeting the same buoyant tosh as all the other agency firms.”
Old Tom looks at the ceiling, Posh Girl at her nails. “What we all put out is fake news; only half the story. Just the new lettings. Nobody ever accounts for the amount of space being vacated by those taking new space.”
Are Young Thruster’s eyes double-glazed? Geek Lad has his earphones on. Jesus! I bang the table. “Posh Boy! You went to Harrow. Teach you to add up? Did they?“ “Ye-yes” he stutters. “Take away, can you?” He nods, hair flopping over his eyes.
“These guys could be taking half the amount of space they’re leaving. But you’d never know it! Yes?” Hesitant nods from all as I glare round the table. “But no, we can’t say that. Our craven head of media told Them Upstairs it would break the unspoken industry pact to steer clear of bad news. Brilliant idea of mine down the drain?”
“Not really,” drawls Posh Boy. “It’s called the ‘net absorption’ rate. Been used in the States forever.” Why does nobody EVER tell me these things?!
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