I stop, feeling a little queasy as an unwanted image enters my thoughts. I tell myself Danni’s too traditional to go to beauty salon, but I can’t help wondering. Then the image returns and I can feel the colour draining from my cheeks. How am I going to cope during our One to One meetings when she starts waxing about trimming waste and smoothing performance wrinkles?

  “Are you all right, Kent?” she asks, studying me. “You’ve gone very pale.”

  “That’s because he’s going head to head with his opposite number for one management job,” Lucy says. “And as she’s the sister of Eastbourne’s Chief Executive, he’s got no chance.”

  “Pimentos,” Nigel mutters, pointing to the door.

  We turn to see Gemma, who’s arrived late and is standing in the doorway. No one knows how long she’s been there, listening to the discussion. “Are you talking about me?” she asks.

  “No, the food team manager at Eastbourne,” Lucy replies. “We’ve just found out her brother’s the Chief Executive. So her job’s safe.”

  “I was explaining how less is more,” Danni says quickly. “When we share with Eastbourne we’ll make substantial savings to meet the government spending cuts. But even with less managers we will achieve so much more.”

  Gemma sits next to me on the table and whispers in my ear. “Apparently, the Chief Executive of Eastbourne can’t stand Danni. Says she waffles all the time.”

  So more is not less.

  “Hang on,” Kelly says, raising a hand. “If we join together there will be more of us not less. So we can do less work more of the time.”

  Danni sighs. “Kelly, we’ll have a much bigger district to cover with fewer people.”

  “Less managers, you said.”

  “And Kent only spends 20 per cent of his time on district these days,” Lucy says. “So, you won’t save much if he goes, will you?”

  “You’ll save less not more,” Kelly says with an emphatic nod of her head.

  And that’s how I ended up doing more district work, but in less time – more or less.

  Yogumbilates

  In the gym it’s relatively easy to separate the genuine from the fake. But there are few spray tan booths in local government. Councillors and managers use false promises to mask real budget cuts. Fact and fiction blur into rumours and scaremongering as people wonder what might, or might not, happen.

  Councillor Colonel Witherington, the Leader of the Council, stood up in Cabinet last week to claim that service delivery would be unaffected by the drastic cuts proposed by the coalition government. When challenged about how a workforce reduced by 25% could maintain the same level of service, he said, “We’ll do things the same, but differently.”

  It’s no wonder the people at the top are struggling to keep a grip on reality. In the past couple of months, the merger of Eastbourne and Downland’s environmental health services has proved anything but simple for senior management, tasked with reducing costs. While both departments work to similar standards, usually set nationally, they do things in very different ways.

  “We’ll soon harmonise them to our way of operating,” Danni announces, responding to rumours that the deal is off.

  Eastbourne intends to make its officers more generic to increase flexibility and resilience. Downland prefers specialists with a greater depth of knowledge. Faced with an impasse, Danni commissions a consultant who specialises in mergers and acquisitions. Eastbourne take umbrage at the word ‘acquisitions’ and pull out, quashing rumours that a deal is imminent.

  “I can’t believe they’ve turned their backs on the shared service,” Danni says, reading the headline in the Eastbourne Herald on Friday. “More jobs, less specialists? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “More is less?”

  She scowls at me and then shuts the paper. “The Chief Executive will go nuts. He wanted us to inspect his favourite kebab shop in Eastbourne and increase its food hygiene rating.”

  “He’ll have to settle for humble pie,” I remark, wondering why leaders felt obliged to make predictions that would eventually bite them on the bum. “Or second rate kebabs.”

  The team greet the news with relief. “Didn’t I say you can’t mix chalk and cheese,” Lucy says, as if she knew it would fail all along.

  “Why not?” Kelly demands. “You could have cheddar chalk.”

  “What?”

  “If you were a teacher, like, and you felt hungry during a lesson, you could write on the blackboard and then have a quick nibble of cheddar chalk to like keep you going.”

  Lucy sneers. “Are you from another planet?”

  “It can’t work,” Nigel says, shaking his head. “Schools use whiteboards and marker pens these days, Kelly. But snooker players could use cheddar chalk.”

  “It might make the cue tip a bit sticky,” I say, giving it some thought. “Would you want cheddar on your balls? What do you think, Gemma?”

  She looks up from Hello magazine. “It’s not as sticky as deep fried brie.”

  “Good point,” Nigel says. “Parmesan might work best.”

  Kelly wafts her hand in front of her nose. “Your cue would smell of old socks.”

  “Aren’t you missing the point here?” Lucy sighs and gets to her feet. “We’re talking about the shared service not snooker, you lame brain. Get real, will you?”

  “Actually, we’re talking about cheddar chalk,” Kelly says, raising her voice. “You might think shared services are more important, but without new ideas we’d still be like living in caves.”

  “And without a shared service you could lose your jobs and your houses and be forced to live in caves,” Danni announces, appearing without warning as usual. “We need to cut costs and fast if we’re to survive. We need to look efficient. Sitting around gossiping about cheesy chalk doesn’t cut the mustard, does it?”

  I glance at Kelly, daring her to spice up the cheesy chalk debate.

  “Exactly,” Lucy says, agreeing with Danni for possibly the first and only time in her life. “But words are cheap.”

  “Exactly,” Danni agrees. “We need actions.”

  “Actions are not the same as achievements.” I stop, realising I’ve just quoted from Danni’s motivational pin board. Not only is my credibility shot, I’ve just committed mantracide, trumping my boss with her own philosophy.

  Unable to come up with a response she strides back to her office. Her plan to merge services, get rid of several of Eastbourne’s managers, and take over as the new Chief Environmental Health Officer, has joined all the other fanciful notions that don’t work. Like the latest idea – desk sharing. The council went cold on hot desking, which failed when people kept using the same desk every day. Desk sharing, on the other hand, works on a rota basis. Officers work in groups of three and allocate time at desks between themselves. This is expanded into a four week rolling programme that forms part of a larger scheme, administered on a floor by floor basis by Desk Stewards.

  “Who appoints these Desk Stewards?” Lucy asks after reading the article on our Intranet, also known as Downnet, which says more about the state of the network than internal communications.

  “I think the role rotates,” I reply, “so everyone gets a turn. The problems start when the Desk Steward is not at the desk to administer the allocation of desk time.”

  Nigel frowns. “So the Desk Stewards need a rota too?”

  I shrug. “It could be an elaborate management ploy for all I know.”

  “It’s hard to know what’s fact and what’s fiction,” Nigel remarks glumly. “Everything is so blurred.”

  “You should go see an optician,” Kelly suggests, dropping off the post. “Mind you, if you need glasses you won’t be able to see the optician, will you?”

  “You need to come to the gym,” I say, “to appreciate the difference between real and false.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sedentary – a telescope pointed at the stars kind of person. Or binoculars.”

  “You definitely need to go to the optician if you can’t see without binoculars,” Kelly says. “No wonder you squint at the computer.”

  “So what do you mean about the gym?” Gemma asks. “Most people genuinely want to lose weight or get fitter. You see them pounding away on the treadmill, drenched in sweat.”

  Kelly gasps. “Haven’t they heard of breathable tops?”

  Nigel seems unconvinced. “You’re going to tell me all the blokes who do weights are false because they strut around and pose to make the rest of us look feeble.”

  “I was talking about the young women,” I explain.

  “I might have guessed,” Gemma says.

  Lucy shoots her a threatening look. “Some women have real problems with weight and image, thanks to those glossy magazines you like to read, Gemma. It’s all right for you, being a stick insect, but some of us have stretch marks.”

  I raise my hands to calm things. “Lucy, I’m talking about young women who come to the gym in their push up bras. They sit around with their fake tans and dyed black hair, fluttering their false eyelashes at some muscle-bound idiot. There isn’t much of them that’s natural or real. You soon realise half of them have had breast implants when they start running on the treadmill.”

  Nigel loosens his tie. “In push up bras?”

  The next day he arrives with a kit bag and trainers, eager to start a new fitness regime. He looks a state in his Def Leppard t-shirt and tight white shorts that must be ten years old, but he’s straight on the treadmill. He runs for about thirty seconds and then slows to a walk, his breathing laboured. Then he collapses to his knees and falls off the end of the treadmill like a man praying.

  “You’d be better off doing a class,” a female fitness instructor tells him. “Something measured and less energetic, like yoga or Pilates. If you don’t mind being with a lot of women, of course.”

  “There’s lots of stretching,” I tell Nigel, hoping his colour will return to normal soon. “And gyrating, especially when you do zumba.”

  A week later, Nigel picks up a flyer from his In Tray and brings it over. “How timely is this, Kent? Yogumbilates – a fusion of yoga, zumba and Pilates. How cool is that?”

  I look at the flyer and shake my head. “It’s just another fad. Can you imagine all those gullible young women, bursting out of their push-up bras as they rush to sign up because it’s the latest craze?”

  “Yea, people are so gullible,” he says, pushing the flyer into his jacket pocket.

  At 12.30 he heads over to the leisure centre, no doubt hoping to join all those women with push up bras and false boobs. Instead, he’ll bump into Danni, who was spotted smuggling her gym bag out of the car a short while ago.

  “I can’t believe they think yoga and zumba go together,” Kelly remarks, looking at the flyer. “They’ll kill you when they find out you set them up.”

  “I doubt it,” I say, wishing I could go and watch. “My friend, Karen, who runs the zumba classes, promised to give them both a strenuous workout.”

  Now that’s what I call partnership.

  All Things Bright and Beautiful

  With all the change and uncertainty sweeping local government in these austere times, it’s not easy to predict what’s going to happen. But with Christmas certain things always seem to happen.

  The leader of the council will tour the offices and depots to meet staff and thank them for their hard work over the year. With vacant posts remaining unfilled, cuts in budgets, no pay rises, and increased workloads all round, I’m sure everyone will wish him well as he heads off to the Grand Hotel for his Christmas lunch with other local dignitaries and business people.

  Last year, the Health Protection Agency rang at five to five on Christmas Eve, looking for help with a possible food poisoning outbreak at a care home. When I protested about the timing, they admitted they had the notification two days before but didn’t ring us sooner because of staffing shortages. This euphemism for Christmas parties is well worn. So is our standard response of ‘when you have hard evidence of food poisoning we’ll investigate’. This is one of my favourites as loose stools are a common feature of food poisoning, making hard evidence difficult to come by.

  And hard pressed retailers always manage to come up with new ideas to boost sales at this time of year. This used to involve people dressing in red costumes and white beards until parents became wary of their children sitting on the knees of strangers. Some mothers became even warier when they were asked to sit on Santa’s lap.

  In an effort to anticipate this year’s trends I raise my concerns at November’s team meeting. “Reindeer,” I say with authority. “They could be a problem this Christmas.”

  Nigel frowns. “What? Like foot and mouth?”

  “Or illegal slaughter,” Lucy says, her eyes widening. “It’s a cheap alternative to venison.”

  Danni smirks. “What nonsense! No one’s going to eat reindeer.”

  “How about people in Lapland?” Lucy asks.

  “They’re selling reindeer meat at Lap Land?” Kelly gasps. “Most of the punters are like too busy watching the dancers to eat.”

  “Dancers?” Danni’s wearing her usual worried expression as she waits for Kelly to reply.

  “Have you never been to Lap Land?”

  Danni shakes her head. “I don’t like the cold.”

  “It’s not cold,” Kelly says. “They have well good heating there. You need it when you’re gyrating in a bikini.”

  Danni’s looking totally bemused. I lean across and whisper in her ear. “I might have guessed you’d know about lap dancing clubs,” she says. “But Kelly?”

  “Let’s get back to petting,” I say.

  “There’s plenty of that too,” Kelly says. “And groping. I saw one punter –“

  “I don’t think we need to know about that,” Danni says, looking flustered. “And please don’t record all that in the minutes. I’m assuming that Kent’s referring to the petting of animals by children.”

  “Indeed,” I say. “Last Christmas –”

  “I gave you my heart,” Lucy sings. “It’s the first answer on the Downland Christmas Lyrics Quiz. First prize is a Holly bush from Gregory’s Garden Centre.”

  “Second prize is two holly bushes,” Nigel says. “You need a male and a female to make berries,” he adds, his voice trailing off.

  “Isn’t that Councillor Rathbone’s garden centre?” Danni looks at me for confirmation.

  “You can ask him when he does his mindless Christmas tour,” Lucy says. “And I’d like that minuted. Talk about a waste of time and money. He comes round, cosying up to the Leader, to thank everyone for their hard work over the year. Those who haven’t lost their jobs, that is. And those who are covering for those who’ve lost their jobs or gone off with stress from covering those who’ve gone off with stress.”

  Danni raps the table with her knuckles. “Can we get back to animal petting, please?”

  I clear my throat. “Last Christmas, when I wasn’t losing my heart over a bush, a couple of garden centres brought in reindeer as an attraction. They can pose the same risk of spreading E coli as cattle, goats and sheep. Therefore, we need to demand the same precautions we expect from others to protect young children – separation, cleanliness, good housekeeping, proper hand washing points, notices and so on.”

  Danni nods. “I want us to demonstrate how we’re protecting vulnerable children from the menace of E coli O157. I don’t want any outbreaks, especially on the run up to Christmas.”

  “So, you’re happy for us to serve notice to prohibit reindeer, or petting, where the proper precautions can’t, or won’t, be put in place?”

  “Close them down if they won’t cooperate,” she says. “I’m not having children dying from E coli.”

  “Isn’t this all a bit nanny state?” Lucy shrugs as everyone stares at her. “Sorry, but what are we going to ban next – elves because tall people can’t be one?”

  “Could tall people be goblins instead?” Kelly asks. “And I thought elves were children anyway. That means they must touch Santa’s reindeer all the time, like. Why haven’t they been well ill with E coli?”

  Once again, Kelly’s come up with the telling point. “Maybe they’re immune,” Nigel replies. “Farmers become immune to E coli, don’t they?”

  “I don’t want an outbreak of E coli, okay?” Danni rises and leaves the meeting, slamming the door behind her.

  “You heard our governor. Let’s get out there and protect young children.”

  Across the district the team find ten places that are bringing in reindeer for Christmas. They all protest about our demands, refuse to cooperate, and threaten to report us to the Daily Mail if we prohibit any contact by children. It’s all heading for an ugly stand off when help comes from another of nature’s creatures. Lucy discovers a café infested with rats, sheltering from the cold weather. She closes the café on the spot. Naturally, I can’t resist mentioning to the local radio station that rats and mice are often drawn to places that already have animals due to the abundance of food.

  The threat of having the whole business closed down prompts nine of the ten to install hand washing facilities, signs, and whatever else we recommended. The tenth business refuses to take the reindeer when they arrive. I’m not sure what happened to them, but there are rumours the police took them to a rescue centre.

  By the week before Christmas, things are calming down, allowing us to catch up on paperwork, inputting, and internet shopping. Kelly’s copy of ‘50 Shades of Grey’ resurfaces after a two month absence, looking a little worse for wear. Nigel’s copy of ’50 Sheds of Grey’ remains unopened despite his best efforts to give it away. “It’s the perfect book for men at Christmas,” he says.

  “All pictures,” adds Lucy.

  On Wednesday, the Leader of the Council and Portfolio Holder start their office tour at 10.30. Danni has issued a decree to ensure we remain at our desks to shake hands with this most important of members. “I’m not putting my hand on any member,” Lucy says, pulling a face. “Especially Gregory Rathbone’s.”

 

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