Jane’s assault on the UK political scene is about to begin.  She and I are to attend the inaugural “Election Warmer” cocktail party in her local constituency.

“Can’t you go on your own?” I protest.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Did Margaret Thatcher go to parties without Dennis?”

“I don’t know but, anyway, it’s hardly the same, you and I are not married.”

Although we might as well be, given the amount of time we spend together.

“You are missing the point,” she frowns.

“And that is?”

“That politicians are always surrounded by acolytes to give the impression that they are popular.”

“But you’re not.”

She waves her arm dismissively. “I know that and I don’t care, but other people do; they like to see their politicians being adored.”

Adoration?!  Doing a “Dennis” is one thing: that is quite another.

“I’m not going to pretend to adore you.  Some days I can barely tolerate you!”

“Really?” she seems surprised.

“Yes.” In fact most days.

“Oh, well, if you can’t manage adoration, admiration will do.”

Even that is pushing it.

“Can’t you ask Liz or Alex?”

“Alex would flirt with the waiters and Liz would eat all the food.”

Fair enough.  But I’m not about to roll over without a bit of bargaining.

“All right, I will go but on one condition.”

“I am not taking your place on the Relocation Committee!”

Damn, I was sure I had that.

“No, it’s not that,” I lie. “I, er – ”

I can’t think of another one.

“Well?” she presses.

“I want you to do something for me….”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how can I promise?”

“If you don’t promise I don’t show up, simple as that.” I put on my sternest expression and fix her with a look which brooks no argument.

“Ok,” she concedes.  “I owe you a favour.”

Sadly, Jane’s refusal to swap places on the Relocation Committee proves to be a remarkable piece of foresight, as the move is, unexpectedly delayed:

“Due to unforeseen difficulties the office relocation has been postponed to first weekend in May.   Relocation Committees will be advised of schedule changes.”

Clive calls a meeting.

“What’s all that about?” Danielle waves the e-mail in front of him.

“There have been problems with the IT system,” he advises.

“What sort of problems?”

“Something to do with power supply.”

“Would that have anything to do with the new ‘video conferencing’ facilities?” I ask.

“It might,” he avoids my eye.

“So does that mean we won’t be having them?”

“No, it means we won’t be moving until we have enough power to supply them.”

“Shouldn’t they have thought of that before they announced it?”

“Yes, perhaps!  I don’t know!” Clive’s nerves are getting the better of him these days. I’ve noticed.  ”But it is probably a good thing because our team is still undecided about layout.”

“I don’t think it’s the team which is undecided,” Tarquin chips in. “We all agree it would be a terrible idea to go open plan.  It’s the Management Board which can’t make up it’s mind.”

“Yes, all right! The Management Board is undecided, yes, ok; the point is the extra time is a good thing.”

“I don’t think so,” Malcolm moans. ”I will be away that week.”

“You don’t have to be here,” Clive tells him. “They are not expecting you to move the stuff yourself.”

“But what will happen if I’m not around to supervise?”

Absolutely nothing.  It will all go ahead exactly the same way as it would do if he was here.

“Why do you need to supervise?”  Melinda asks.  

“I know what removals people are like,” he frowns. “Thieves and villains.  When I moved house my entire Phil Collins collection went missing.”

I doubt it was the removals men who took it. My guess is: Mrs Morris, with a bin liner, over the fence.   Just a shame she couldn’t have disposed of his tie collection at the same time.  

“So, you see,” he goes on, “I wish to be present when they are moving my belongings.”

“Do you think they might take your West Brom calendar?” I can’t resist.

His eyes cloud over. “I wouldn’t put it past them.  And I dread to think what they might do with my Nick Faldo glove.”

Where other partners have photos of their loved ones; Malcolm has an autographed golf glove on his wall.

“Is it worth a lot of money?” Danielle asks.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it is.  One sold on eBay, recently, for quite a substantial sum.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Well, he did win three Open Championships you know.”

Of course she doesn’t know!  She can barely spell her first name.

“As much as I would to discuss Nick Faldo’s sporting prowess,” Clive snaps. “I think this is something you may have to raise at the next Partners meeting.”

“I shall do just that,” Malcolm agrees. “They can’t make arbitrary decisions like that and expect us just to accommodate them.”

Why not? That’s what they’ve been doing to the assistants for years.

“Ok, well, moving on, we need to discuss Fire Wardens and First Aiders.  We need one of each for the new floor.”

“I’ll be the First Aider!” Melinda volunteers.

A look of abject horror crosses all our faces.

“You!” Danielle puts our feelings in to words. “You can’t even tie your own shoelace.  How would you cope in a medical emergency?”

“I’d be great.  I have experience of advanced surgical techniques.”

“As a patient!”

“Same thing.”

“No it isn’t.  You were asleep.  And, besides, you almost fainted when Lynnette showed you her appendectomy scar.”

“It wasn’t the scar that upset me; it was the sight of Lynnette’s stomach.”

“Well, there you go.  Think of all the other horrible sights you might have to see.”

She surveys the room, probably imaging us all in various states of undress.

“You’re right,” she pulls a face. “But I thought all the First Aider did was hand out the odd bandage.”

“I’m afraid not.” Clive shakes his head.  “The  First Aider needs to be able to deal with any medical emergency which might arise.”

“What classes as an emergency?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Such as?”

Tarquin having a hissy fit, Liz running out of chocolate; The Boss causing someone physical harm……

“Anything from an industrial accident to a heart attack.”

“Has anyone actually ever had a heart attack in the office?”

No, but I think Clive might soon be the first.

“Not to my knowledge!  But there is a first time for everything.”

“I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any deaths…..”

“No?!  Then you’re probably not the right person for the job.”

No, she should stick to murdering my typing.  That’s damage enough. 

“Any other volunteers?” his voice is tinged with desperation.

“I am probably the best man for the job,” Simon nods.  “I have British Army training and  I’m already familiar with basic field principles and CPR.”

“Thank you Simon,” Clive sighs.  “I’ll put your name down.  You will need to attend a refresher course in resuscitation methods next week.”

“Will he have to do mouth to mouth?” Danielle asks.

“If the emergency called for it, yes.”

“Oh thank god I didn’t sign up!” Melinda exclaims.  ”No offence, guys, but I don’t fancy snogging any of you!”

The feeling is mutual.

“Mouth to mouth is not the same as snogging,” Danielle tells her. “Don’t you watch Casualty?”

“Nah, not unless there’s a good looking doctor in it.”

“All right!   Clive calls a halt to the discussion and moves on to position of Fire Warden.  “Any volunteers for this role?”

“I would be happy to do it,” Simon says, “but there needs to be a separation of powers between the two positions.  I couldn’t administer burns treatment and evacuate everyone from the building at the same time.”

I bet he could, if he turned his mind to it.

Tarquin is shooting him malevolent looks. 

“I’ll do it,” he offers. “I don’t think I need British Army training to usher a few people down the stairs.”

“You would be surprised,” Simon tells him.  “We once did a post-earthquake simulation; we found that very few people were brave enough to leave their stations after it hit.  They had to be led out by force.”

Tarquin gives one of his funny little laughs. “Well thank goodness we’re moving into Bishopsgate and not the San Andreas Fault.”

“The point is,” Simon scowls, “It is not as easy as you might think.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “All I have to do is wear a yellow jacket and tick everyone off on a clipboard.”

“You wouldn’t have time for clipboards if the building was burning down!”

No, he would be too busy saving his precious fountain pen collection.

Meeting over, I seek out my cronies to relay the news.   The story about Malcolm and the golf glove has them all in hysterics.

“How much does he think he’ll get for that tatty old thing?” Jane scoffs.

“A substantial sum,” I repeat.

“But a ‘substantial sum’ to Malcolm could be anything more than a pound.  I was once passed a leaving card he had signed, with a 20p donation in it.”

 He is notoriously mean.  No one knows what he does with his money. We speculate that Mrs Morris must be wildly frivolous (Jane thinks she has a drinking habit) but no one has ever met her so she may not even exist.  

“Perhaps he spends it on wild women and horses?” Alex laughs.

“I think he might be allergic.”

“To horses?”

“To women.”

Jane certainly provokes an adverse reaction in him.  

“Perhaps he has a secret love child?” Liz speculates.

Our look of collective scorn is enough to quash this theory.

“He might donate his partnership drawings to charity?

Given my experience with the leaving card, this is even more ridiculous.   We give up.

“What else was decided?” Liz asks.

“First Aiders and Fire Wardens.   We have to have one on each floor.”

“Who volunteered for those thankless tasks?”

“Who do you think?”

“Simon and Tarquin?”

“Spot on! Although we almost had Melinda in charge of medical care…..”

“Oh lordie,” she rolls her eyes. “But still, I’m not sure those two will be any better.  God help us if we ever have an emergency!”

“I can’t wait for the next fire practise,” Alex agrees.

Suddenly, I remember Jane’s promise.  “You know you owe me a favour?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

“I have just thought of what I would like you to do.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischievous understanding.  “Your wish is my command, Dennis!”

I figure that feigning admiration is a small price to pay for putting our new Fire Warden/First Aider through their paces….