Jennifer James on seasonal disorders
The Insider has been struggling for the past few days and not with the usual bout of seasonal crapulence, despite the worst endeavours of wellmeaning friends who have dragged me along to a bevy of events at which mince pies, mulled wine and Quality Street have featured heavily.
What I have definitely not got, is the flu; if I were a man I might try to allege that this was the case in search of a modicum of sympathy, but I know it to be untrue and as a lawyer of conscience I cannot tell a lie. Certainly not when there is no discernable profi t in it, anyway. Having had the flu in 2000 so badly that I could not eat for two weeks (the “F” plan?) and ran a fever so severe that even the neighbourhood foxes were put off by the clear aroma of sweaty lion emanating from my person on my ague-ridden forays to the local grocery store for full-fat Cola (the only sustenance I could manage), I would not wish that back on myself. In those far-off days before I met the Italian I was living alone and although then, as now, I had a hoard of tinned food that would probably sustain me through a small-scale nuclear exchange, I could not eat any of it and would have starved to death but for Tetley Tea with sugar in it, the aforementioned Cola and my substantial
reserves of body fat.
No, dear reader, I have got la grippe, a cold in the head, the lurgi or whatever the mot juste these days might be. The symptoms are irritating rather than threatening, unless you count the titanic evils I get on public transport if I dare so much as sneeze, wheeze or cough. I am careful at all times to use a hanky; on one dreadful occasion when no hanky could be found in time, I resorted to pulling my sweater over my head in Galapagos turtle fashion and sneezing within its confines to the consternation of all around me. From the assorted tuts, teeth-clicks and unrepeatable comments, one would think I had Ebola and was painting the walls with it; in these ill-tempered times I trust that phlegm is not suffi cient provocation for assault with a deadly weapon but I won’t be riding the night bus till I’m all better.
Of course the obvious question on your lips may well be: “What the Cringe are you doing going into work if you are in that state to begin with?” Thereby, intrepid reader, hangs a tale. You see, this is the Office cold, and as a colleague has given it to me, so would I be remiss if I did not in turn pay it forward to other co-workers as yet unsullied by its green gooey clutches.
In these credit crunch-ridden times, people all over London and especially in law firms are turning up to work with germs whizzing out of every orifi ce at a pandemic rate. Th ere are myriad reasons why someone might turn in for work when really they ought to be on the sofa with a cup-a-soup and Murder, She Wrote. Many a young mum struggles into work with a streaming cold, all too aware of the sidelong glances that any sick leave (particularly if it coincides with half term) brings her way. Some young team members think it shows commitment to the fi rm or even (bless!) machismo to carry on working despite a honking catarrh that can be heard across the car park. Some older colleagues feel, fairly or unfairly, that the Powers that Be are only waiting for an opportunity or an excuse to hoof them into early retirement and so stagger in with varying degrees of pre-pneumonic plague, gritting their teeth and soldiering on in the odour of sanctity and Vick’s Vapo-rub. I don’t say that any of it is right, but it is a true reflection of many offi ces that I have worked in and I know I am not unique, or at least not in this respect.
With my current cold, I wake up fi rst thing every morning feeling as though the Italian has punched me full in the nose— not that he has ever, or would ever do such a thing as he is a gentle creature and besides would be somewhat averse to having his family jewels Fed-Exed to Tbilisi.
After struggling in to work with a head full of irritable dwarves with hammers and a nose that won’t stop running long enough to (say) use my Oyster Card, if I was then to find that a colleague had bagged the working day in order to sleep off a hangover, I would as you can imagine chew the wasp.
The expressions on the well-fed faces at Middle Temple Revels a few weeks back, when one junior/pupil barrister partook in a sketch whose whole point may well have originated in a drunken wager that, “I bet you daren’t get up at Revels in front of the Master and his Lady and all the Benchers and say ‘Does your mother take it up the…’ (expletive deleted, rhymes with Class, which I’m afraid that particular sketch lacked in droves)” would be as nothing compared with my grimace if such an eventuality were to occur. The fact is that in most offi ces there will be at least one lovable klutzy employee (male or female) whose penchant for days off sick is apparently in direct proportion to how much he/she likes to go out on the sherry on a school night and to how much the boss likes/fancies/wants to get jiggy with him or her.
In times of economic hardship however, bosses are less likely to take the inherent risks that accompany dipping their pen in the Office ink. As lust flies out the window so do performance-related issues walk in the door. I may be feverish, itchy and throwing off more germs than an Outback dunny, but I’m at my desk and at least theoretically productive.
