2pm, Adriatic room: Meeting moved to 2pm to punish Old Tom. Teach him to roll back from The Guinea mid-afternoon last Friday. (Mayfair boozer. Pricey pints, even pricier £64 set menu. Place often crammed with Strutt & Parker guys, drinking to forget they now work for BNP Paribas.)
I digress. OBAMA (Our Bloody American Masters in Atlanta) have barred ‘office’ from job titles as being too quill-pen. ‘Workspace’ is now in vogue. Them Upstairs are taking flak. “Head of City workspace?” snorted GBH’s most precious agent, in both senses. “Sounds like I sweep the bloody floor.”
Something tells me Team P members have squeezed in a few snorts by 2pm. “Industrial agent!” giggles Posh Girl. “Who flogs sheds these days? Even clients say warehouses. Say shed and you’re dead.”
I imagine our rambunctious shed meister being told his new title is head of warehouses. “One syllable away from making me sound like a brothel keeper!” Sporty Girl chips in: “Retail and leisure. What does that mean these days? More like shopping and sh*****g?”
This is getting out of hand so I call for order. But not before Young Thruster makes the career-curtailing suggestion that I should be named Agent Presumptuous. Posh Boy’s sneer is also duly noted. I stick them all with my look of death. Cowed silence. Then the carrot: “It’s 4.30pm. Shall I, as chief beverage dissemination officer, trot you rabble south across Oxford Street and into The Guinea?” (I’m only paying for one round. Price of beer in that place!)
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