Foggy's Blog
Page 5
the rest later. Alright?”
He was very considerate and obviously cared a great deal about his customers. I suspected he was very successful in his chosen career; he must be, if he was able to afford that chunky gold identity bracelet. Perhaps I should get one. Would Lucy think it was edgy? Damn; it might just have swung the Danny Zuko audition.
Dazza took me to the till so I could take some money out. I only needed £20 but in the end I took £40 so I could take Myra to the cinema; Saw 7 (3D) was being re-shown. She loved the Saw films. I found the gore too difficult to watch and would probably spend most of the movie gazing fixedly into the popcorn box, but it was certain to cheer Myra up. I took my cash and left the bank, walking out past a long queue of angry-looking customers waiting at Dazza’s counter. Oops - he’d probably spent too long with me.
Foggy & Son
It was almost midnight by the time I’d taken Myra home – I could only pedal at a snail’s pace when she was sitting on my crossbar and it didn’t help that my back still ached. The pain went all the way down my left buttock to my knee. I was surprised to see Mr Ryder leaving the house as I cycled into the drive. He said, “Evening Foggy. Your Mum was worried that the house felt a bit cold but turned out her fire-place just needed a good stoking; should be nice and hot in there now!” We were so lucky to have helpful neighbours like Mr Ryder, although I didn’t have the heart to tell him we hardly ever lit the fire now. Mum just turned on the electric five-bar whenever the house got to the temperature where she said she could cut a pane of glass out with her nipples.
Mum must have gone to bed, so I poured myself some milk and munched on a Rich Tea. There was some post on the kitchen table that looked like the usual “Dear Householder” junk. I absentmindedly rifled through it and came across a scruffy white envelope addressed to me. It didn’t have a stamp and the Royal Mail had written ‘£1.50 non-postage handling fee owing’. Underneath Mum had written “Morty - U O me £1.50. Can u leave by toaster b4 u go to work tmw”.
Blimey. Thank goodness I’d arranged that overdraft; I only had £3.30 left after the trip to the cinema, which had been disastrous, financially-speaking. Myra had suggested that as it was a special treat for her, I upgraded our seats to VIP ones. They were £9.89 each, and were a big disappointment. Admittedly, they were made of leather, but that just meant I made a huge farting sound each time I changed position, so I could hardly move all evening. There was probably a little more legroom than the standard seats, but as the cinema was half-empty, it hardly seemed worth the extra extravagance. I’d only budgeted for £20 but by the time I’d bought the popcorn, two buckets of diet coke and Myra’s family-sized pic ‘n’ mix, I hardly had any change left from the £40 I’d withdrawn from the bank.
I hadn’t told Myra about the overdraft; she wouldn’t have been very happy to hear that I’d given Mum more money. For some reason, it always made her angry. I don’t think she understood just how expensive it is to run a home. Still, why on earth hadn’t I just suggested KFC? Myra would have been just as happy with a Boneless Banquet and it would only have cost me £9.99.
I tore open the envelope with a sigh, and then rubbed my eyes. Oh wow! It was from Dad! He’d written at last. I read the letter with great excitement:
Dear Morto
Sorry not to have been in touch sooner. Been busy setting up my new company. It’s going really well and I reckon I’ll be able to make you an associate director soon! Think of that son – you and me in business together, Fogarty & Son. Sounds good, doesn’t it? I am literally watching the money roll in! However, as the company is so very popular, I’m having to reinvest every single penny to keep up with demand.
I would love to come and see you son, but my cash-flow is extremely tight at the moment. It’s such a shame. But hang on though - there is a solution! Why don’t you invest in the business? I can guarantee to double your money in less than a fortnight and I could use the commission to come and see you! Imagine that!
The minimum investment is usually £1000 to everyone else, but as you’re family, I could accept £500. My bank details are 40.92.49 00389933. Just think – I could be down to see you in two weeks time! I really miss you son.
Yours truly
Dad
Gosh – an associate director! Me! I’d be able to put a deposit down on my West End flat in no time. Would Lucy come and visit me? I could take her to see Billy Elliott, or if she preferred, We Will Rock You. I’d heard her humming ‘Another one bites the dust’ the other day, just before she gave me my performance feedback.
I knew Dad would be in touch! If you wish for something hard enough, you could actually make it happen. He’d forgotten to put his address on the letter and there wasn’t a phone number for him yet but it didn’t matter - I could see him in two weeks! Should I use the overdraft for the £500 investment or wait until payday? I didn’t really want to wait and after all, I’d get £1000 back in under a fortnight! It sounded amazing; Dad had really landed on his feet. I couldn’t wait to show his letter to Auntie Trisha’s girlfriend, Biffa. She’d said, over Christmas lunch, that Dad was in Parkhurst! I knew it had just been the Guinness talking and she probably meant Parkstone, but it had been playing on my mind a little.
I re-read the letter several times, finished my milk and went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. Would I be able to balance my role as an associate director alongside my musical career? And it would be such a wrench to leave all my friends at Perypils … but Dad needed me. Blood’s thicker than water, as Mum often says, usually when Myra kicks off about the housekeeping money again. Fogarty & Son. Hmmm. I had been considering changing to a stage name, something cool, such as Trevino or Balotelli, or Napolitana.
I just started to drift off when I remembered I had my disciplinary meeting with Kate tomorrow. My bowels twinged and I was wide-awake again.
Disciplinary Action
I had dressed in my best white Burton’s shirt for my meeting with Kate. I did put a tie on too, but after a barrage of comments: “You in court today, Foggy?” “Got an interview have you, Foggy?” “Someone died, Foggy?” I took it off. I wasn’t in the union because it cost £6 a month, so Jess was coming to the meeting as my representative. I would have liked to ask Lucy, but Jess was very insistent. “Let me do the talking, Foggy, I’ve got it all worked out. Just remember you’re feeling stressed and anxious - the bastards can’t touch you for that.”
The meeting was at ten o’clock and I felt sick with nerves. It was impossible to concentrate on what customers were saying to me and I kept stumbling and stuttering over the legal disclaimer wording, causing one of them to ask if he could speak with someone else, as he didn’t have time for “Gareth bleeding Gates”.
A jaded-looking George came over just before ten and said, “Alright, Foggy? I’m sure the meeting’s nothing to worry about, but perhaps you should clear your desk, just in case. Don’t want to drag out a long goodbye, do we?”
Oh my God! Was I about to lose my job? My stomach went all icy. “Don’t worry,” hissed Jess. “They can’t kick you out if you’re mental, it’s against the DDT.” What was the DDT? I thought that was something farmers used to kill flies, but Jess really seemed to know her stuff; thank goodness she was coming to the meeting with me.
At ten o’clock, with gushing armpits, I followed Jess to the meeting room. Kate was there with a brown folder in front of her and George was sitting to her left with his iPhone in front of him. Kate told us to sit down. I smiled at her but she didn’t smile back. She looked very stern. I smiled at George too, and he squinted back at me through bloodshot eyes. There was an overpowering smell of aftershave in the room; it almost masked the stench of Jack Daniels.
Kate said we were having this formal meeting because my level of absence had reached an unacceptable level. She showed me my record of sickness for the last twelve months and slapped a note-pad and pen down in front of George so he could take some notes. My mouth was very dry so I just
smiled and nodded.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Morten?” she asked, giving me a strange look.
“He’s too anxious to answer you,” chipped in Jess. “After all, he has been suffering with his nerves. He’s been awfully stressed about this meeting - look at the state of his fingernails. And his dreadful skin. You don’t look like that if you’re normal, do you? It’s obvious he can’t take care of himself anymore.”
I tucked my hands under my legs so no one could see my fingernails. The grease from my bicycle chain was so difficult to remove from my cuticles. My skin had been a bit prone to break-outs lately but I thought my Clearasil cover stick had done the trick …
Kate was examining my sickness record. “You haven’t had any occasions of absence because of stress or anxiety,” she said. George’s iPhone made a loud clanging sound. “You’ve been off sick with a bad cold, sinusitis, another bad cold, excessive mucus caused by an adenoid infection,” she paused and swallowed, holding her hand up to her mouth. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling too well herself. “And then, most recently, you had a stomach upset.” She looked up at me. “So nothing to indicate stress. Or anxiety.” Clang!
“All those illnesses are caused by his anxiety,” explained Jess,