What can you throw away in business? Basically, I decided, anything over seven years old. Six for the VATman and one for luck. And I could do with some of that.
What the fuck am I saying!? I won £3,456,789, or whatever, at the beginning of 2002, and there’s still a huge chunk of it left. I have a good marriage, lovely home, lovely kids, and a beautiful grandchild. What more do I want?
I don’t know. I just don’t know what I really want, where my life is going … shit, this is deep water and I’m not ready for it just yet.
A book with my name on would be nice.
Wednesday, November 27
I tried to get back into routine. Work, lunch with Cory and Chrissy, then see what comes next. It was reasonably successful.
Ronnie and Sally were still a little wary of overdoing the banter; I could tell they could tell something was amiss. So I gave them a sanitised version of Dorothy’s problem and my part in it, and that seemed to relax them. Perhaps they had feared something was amiss with our business. Or my part in it. I will reassure them tomorrow: all is well. Very well.
Anyway, we worked like redundant hollow wooden horse builders until lunchtime, realised we were at least a day ahead of schedule, and decided we could all finish early today: me immediately, the other two after a post-lunch tidy-up, unless the phone suddenly got red hot.
Cory and Chrissy were in fine fettle. They cheered me up no end. So I went home, made a big pot of tea, and sat down with Jules and told her all about my new career at middleweight. She was amazed. Disbelieving at first, until I showed her four bruised and swollen knuckles.
‘How did you hide those from me?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Well, I didn’t flash them around. I just didn’t tell you, and you didn’t notice.’
She gently took my hand and kissed the knuckles. ‘Does it hurt?’
I winced. ‘Yeah, grievous bodily kissing like that, course it does.’
‘Stupid boy.’ We both laughed. ‘Sorry I didn’t notice. Your knuckles – or the fact that you haven’t been you usual silly self. I’ve got so caught up in Sarah and Sam …’
She kissed my hand again. ‘You did the right thing, sweetheart. That bastard deserved what he got. I’m very proud of you. You should be, too.’
By the time we had emptied the teapot I was. Mostly.
Think I’ll give you a rest, diary. Just for a few days.
Thursday, November 28
Just a quick memoir.
NOTES
Al-Qaeda have bombed a hotel in Mombassa, Kenya. But the really bad news is that they fired a missile at a holiday airliner carrying tourists back to Israel. It missed; but the point hit the target with devastating realisation. If terrorists start shooting down holiday-makers, God (or Allah) help us all.
Friday, November 29
Just a quick reminder in case I have to phone again.
Rang the pool people to ask what’s happened to our plans. Apparently our Personal Pool Consultant has been ill, but he’s back at work next week and hopes to finalise the suggested designs (two to give us a choice) in the next week or so.
Sunday, December 1
Where did the first eleven months go!? I shall be glad when 2002 is over, despite all the good things it has brought. Despite the heralding of Christmas all around us already.
New business, new start.
Jules and I, Ronnie and Sally, Cory and Chrissy (Sarah and Mike were in Kent) spent most of the weekend cleaning the shop and abattoir, dabbing paint around, carrying in and arranging office paraphernalia, and making gruesome jokes about our rare beef sandwiches and the ghost of cows past.
And all the while I felt my pride growing.
NOTES
And talking of pride …
The England cricketing machine (assembled by Heath Robinson plc) has just lost the Ashes. Three-nil, after three matches, after three days of the third. Useless tossers. What’s the betting they now go and win one of the last two Tests and the twats at the MCC will decide everything is okay after all, no need to panic, what crisis …?
Monday, December 2
We weren’t really open – but we opened. Thanks to Ronnie’s brainwave. (Where does he get it from? Obviously obliquely from his uncle.)
We left the old Closed sign up, but by 10am several passers-by, seeing us working behind the windows, tried the door.
‘Why don’t we unlock it?’ said Ronnie. ‘Let people in, tell them what we’re doing. Might attract some future customers.’
So we did, and by lunchtime we had told a dozen people about our new venture and received several promises of work. The new facia came in the afternoon, and when our name was up in tabloid red, the trickle became a … dribble.
An apt description because in the middle of the dribble came a great big nose.
The Beaky Bastard was incandescent – I could tell by the way the beak had become a beacon. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said without preamble.
‘What?’ I feigned yet again.
‘You put the business on the market. I made tentative enquiries, and you tried to spin me some cock-and-bullshit story about the Masons. You tried to humiliate me, didn’t you?’
I stored up cock-and-bullshit for future use, and said incredulously, ‘Do you really know something about the Masons?’
I caught him off-guard; knocked his rehearsed balls for six. ‘Might do,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, that’s great, Jim. You can probably do me a great service. Do us all a great service. You know Dermot Stone, the estate agent, main office in Abingdon? Has he got anything to do with the Masons?’
‘Might do. Why?’
I trotted out the sanitised version of the Dorothy/Eric saga again. ‘I’m not sure what Stone’s doing, or done, to the business, Jim, but I’m sure it ain’t good. I don’t really care, actually – as long as Dorothy gets a proper pay-off for Eric’s half of it.’
‘Quite right. So …?’
‘Well, I understand that the Masons are very strong on propriety – honesty and integrity – and that quite a lot of them are prominent business people. I don’t know if Eric was a member, but I know many of them will have known and respected him, and, well, if they can just put the word round …’
He knew what ellipses meant when he didn’t hear them.
He left with a purposeful expression on his face, all those thoughts of business-on–the-market/tentative-enquiries/cock-and-bullshit story vanquished from his mind.
I was beginning to feel very proud.
Wednesday, December 4
The press is in the abattoir, ready to run again. The amazingly compact digital press is almost ready to go at the back of the shop. Macs and PCs in place. Counter up, shelves ready to take stationery, art materials, and other stock. It’s all coming together. We’re like kids who can’t wait for Christmas.
Thursday, December 5
11pm.
Wide awake. Thinking about tomorrow, and our siblings. With a stack of A4 at my side for verbatim evidence – this could be a long one.
Jules’s big sis rang soon after seven, just as we were settling down for an evening in front of the widescreen. Jayne had a little chat, mainly but spuriously about Sarah and Sam, it transpired, and then said John wanted to talk to me.
Ostensibly he also wanted to talk about Christmas – one of our traditional annual chats. Any ideas about presents we might like (‘suppose slippers are out of the question now you’re well-heeled … slippers/well-heeled!’), what about the kids, who’s gonna visit whom this year to deliver/collect presents (our turn to go to Leicester), and when. But he skipped through it, with barely another pun to cringe over, and moved on to idle chit-chat. Only not so idle, I thought.
‘Arnie was telling me about the new business,’ he ventured.
‘Yeah, we’re opening tomorrow. Exciting times. His Ronnie’s done a fabulous job. Arn should be proud of him.’
‘Er, what is … um, is he MD or something now?’
> ‘No a partner. I made him a partner.’
‘Oh, right – shares and everything, you know?’
‘Well, not in the conventional senses. But he has got a stake in the business.’
‘Oh, right – so he’ll be a millionaire before we know it.’
‘You don’t make millions out of a small family business.’
‘Oh, right – family business. I see …’
And there, basically, the conversation ended.
I wasn’t absolutely certain I could see where this was leading, but I had a pretty good idea. Within five minutes Arnie confirmed my suspicions.
He and Mags were obviously over at Jayne’s, comparing notes. I'd barely had time to order my thoughts when he rang. He didn’t beat about the bush.
‘So, mate – my little boy is a partner, eh?’
‘Yeah, I’ve given him a stake in the business – he’s earned it. You should be proud of him, Arnie.’
‘I am, Bruv. He’s a clever lad. Cleverer than his dad, obviously. And by the sounds of it, considerably richer before too long.’
‘It isn’t that sort of partnership, Arnie. He’s working hard for a living, and doing an excellent job, with great skill. And at the end of the year he’ll be rewarded with a nice bonus – if we do well. If we don’t do well, he’ll get nothing. And if the business fails, well, he’ll be responsible along with me and …’
It was a fatal pause; none of them knew about Sally.
‘You and …?’ he asked.
‘Sally – our other partner.’
‘Oh – how did this Sally end up a partner?’
‘It’s not really any of your business, Arnie. But, if you must know … I was going to sell the business originally, and she made me an offer. When Ronnie came along, and did so brilliantly, I decided to continue, and then, out of the blue, she came up with the idea of expanding the business into digital-print.’
‘Ah right. Let me think …’
There was a longish pause, before the inevitable came over the line.
‘So, basically, whatever this Sally paid you for a share of the business … you gave that sum to Ronnie.’
‘Not really – he earned it.’
‘Yeah, but… let’s say it was X thousands this Sally paid you. Ronnie didn’t have to pay you X thousands for his partnership. You gave it to him.’
‘Look, Arnie – Ronnie did a trial for a pittance, off his own bat. Then he worked long hours for an average wage, nothing special. He’s virtually been running the business lately, he’s worked his arse off helping to set up the shop, and he’s totally dedicated to the business. Everything he’s got, everything he will get, he’s earned. So stop this fucking nonsense, all right?’
There was no immediate reply, so I added, ‘See you the Sunday before Christmas,’ and put the phone down.
I’ve no doubt the next instalment will come tomorrow night. Or over the weekend.
Time to go to bed. We’ve got a shop to open tomorrow (Jules has volunteered to help, mainly with the catering). Fancy becoming a shopkeeper at my bloody age! After a lifetime as a printer. Must be bloody mad.
Friday, December 6
What a wonderful day. We were doing business less than a minute after I had ceremoniously unlatched the door, given an impromptu speech along the lines ‘God bless all who sell in her!’ (Ronnie and Sally insisted), and turned over the Closed sign. Our first customer was an art student who brought in an A2 poster he had created, to be copied full-size, full-colour. We didn’t charge him (would have done if it had been an expensive job!), but instead offered him a glass of Bucks Fizz and a nibble. He said it was a bit early, but then proceeded to stuff it down in typical poverty-stricken-student style.
We took about £250 (minus £50 for cheap Bucks Fizz and canapes) over the day; hardly enough to pay three wages, a lease, and a bank loan, but we knew it was a great start. We just knew by the number of people who came in for a free drink, by the friendly way they chatted, by the way they smiled. And once the digital press starts earning its keep, once word gets around – there’ll be no stopping us. I KNOW IT!
The other thing we discovered was that none of us is natural shop assistant material – oddly, something we hadn’t even thought of. The copying/laminating equipment is towards the front, so customers at the counter can watch the various processes, the Macs/PC/scanners and so on are behind them, in front of the digital press, so those not serving can work on our print jobs, be they digital or conventional out in the abattoir. But it soon became a pain in the arse getting up and down, getting started on some work on screen, and then having to break off – and smile.
Obviously, we won’t be serving free-loaders from now on, but it soon became obvious that when only two of us are in the shop (i.e. when the near-retiree has one of his many days off) our other work, our big-paying work, will suffer. And we can’t afford to let that happen.
After we had locked up, we all piled into The Half Moon down the road (obviously destined to become our new local) and debriefed. Debriefed! Twat. We talked about the day; the good, the bad, and that ugly problem.
Jules said she didn’t mind doing a couple of days a week when we were busy, but she didn’t want it to turn into a full-time part-time job. Sally suggested student part-timers, art or media students, perhaps even freebie work experience people. And how about starting with her young sister Kim, who would be on her long Christmas holiday soon. A philosophy student who would be glad of any Christmas job that wasn’t connected with the Post Office, blisters, and aching legs.
Sally’s due to move into a new flat in Bicester next week. Kim could either stay with her, or with their parents. So that’s how we left it. Sally will sound out Kim over the weekend.
Saturday, December 7
8pm.
This is too much like hard work. Jules and I are totally drained.
It was non-stop from 9a.m. to 5.30p.m.. All four of us behind the counter; seemingly every citizen within a ten-mile radius paying us a visit at some time during the day. We took almost £1,000, and orders for print jobs worth more than £2,000.
A lot of the younger trade stemmed from Ronnie’s posters advertising ideas for Christmas: a template for making your own individual Christmas cards, Merry Christmas posters for shop/house/school windows, and scanning family photographs with a Christmas motif or message over one corner, to be used as cards or framed presents.
You clever boy.
Off to bed.
Sunday, December 8
Guess we'd got used to the easy life – we were so wiped out neither of us woke till after 10am. Unheard of since the kids were born. I did us a fry-up, and we spent what was left of the morning reading the papers. Too bloody cold for golf. Just as well I told the lads I wouldn’t be playing for a while.
We were to have seen Sarah and Mike at Kidsville, to help with a couple of jobs, but they decided it was too cold there for Samuel, so we drove over to them for a cup of tea – and a cuddle with Sam.
Late-afternoon I finally got round to taking the phone off answer-machine. Both John and Arnie had left messages. I had no intention of ringing them back, but I made the mistake of not putting the answer-machine back on, because five minutes later John rang again. He was embarrassed but determined; I could tell by the quality of pun as we exchanged small-talk (‘that’s the trouble with a shop, you never know what’s in store … store!’). But he steeled himself and finally got round to spitting it out.
‘Just something that occurred to me after I spoke to you the other day. Well, er … Arnie was telling me you lent Ronnie two grand back in the spring.’
There was an awkward pause. I inadvertently helped him out. ‘Yeah. A loan. He’s already paid it back.’
‘Otherwise it would have been unfair on our kids?’
Another pause. I had no option but to walk right into his trap. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘But now you’ve given – in inverted commas – a partnership, worth a lot of money, to Ronn
ie.’
‘Look, did Arnie also say what I told him about that ... that Ronnie’s worked his arse off for it. He did a trial for next to nothing, he’s virtually been running the business while I’ve been semi-retired, he’s worked all hours setting up the shop, and he’s totally dedicated to the business. He’s earned every penny.’
‘It’s the principle, Harry.’
‘Principle!’ I must have blasted his eardrums. ‘Can your kids design a professional lay-out? Do they even know what desktop publishing is? Can they work a press? Are they multi-talented computer experts? Have they the ability to set up a new business? Could they come and work for me and do all these things?’
There came no answer.
‘That’s my fucking principle, John.’
A little voice said, ‘There’s no need to swear.’
The line went dead.
The BBC Sports Personality show calmed me down nicely. Good show, chaps. Saint Gary Lineker gets better by the day, putting veteran broadcasters in the shade.
The lovely Paula Radcliffe, looking quite sexy in a black gown, won by a mile (well, 10,000 metres really). Wayne Rooney won the Young Personality award. He came on swaggering, chewing gum, his tie not quite hiding an undone top button; the very epitome of a very nervous 17-year-old. Scoring goals in front of a huge crowd is obviously a doddle compared to this trouser-bricking experience. Good lad.
NOTES
Just discovered that Miss Turkey was voted Miss World last night. So what? Give me a Paula – or even a Wayne! – any day.
The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner) Page 21