The Lions Den

I

In here, its still dark. I am flaoting in the nebulous spaces between sleep and concsiousness. Daylight is creeping over the room, but I am not aware of it yet. In here, I am dreaming. It is real. Vivid. I see a small, frail man wrapped in a sheet. he is standing on a sandy shore lit by the breaking dawn. The air is humid. Very warm for this time of day. The man bends down and takes a pinch of salt left by the waves between his fingers. He lifts it up before him like victory and turns to smile at me with a toothless grin. His eyes are shining.

The alarm sounds and I am snapped awake. The vivid image of the little man slips away from consciousness like the tide. The light in my room is grey. Growing slowly into beige. Soon it will be unbarebly white. Soon I will be fighting morning commuters for a seat.

On the train, there is a hint of freshly scrubbed corporate warfare in my nostrils. Its a brutally clean and efficient smell. Mingling with the powerful scent of colongne and perfume. The mixture sends me reeling. I look around. Eyes are bloodshot and unnaturally wide from lack of sleep. I blink out the window at the passing houses, then lok down and attempt to focus on what I am reading. A phrase comes into focus.

"Renunciation gives one the inner peace, the spiritual poise, to achieve results."

Hmmm... Inner peace. Spiritual poise.

So heres my first problem.

When I get to work, Nebuchadnezzar, ( my boss) has this look on his face. I dont know what it means. He is smiling at me and saying, " good morning, how was your weekend." I am wondering if his friendly demeanour is masking a nasty desire to use my K.P.I.s ( Key Performance Indicators) as an excuse to shunt me off to the mail room like an enemy of the state to some siberian gulag.

I smile back. "fine thanks, " I say. I make up some mumbo about a pleasant weekend with the kids. Of course, I never have a pleasant weekend with the kids, because I am constantly making excuses about why I dont have time to play back yard cricket with them. Why dont I have time to play back yard cricket with the kids? Because I spend my weekends in a cold sweat trying to keep my K.P.I.s above the water line. Trying to keep pace with perpetual computer programs that are designed to measure my worth as a functioning machine. Its not a fair match up. They dont need to sleep, or eat, or attend to their progeny's emotional needs. I smile. I can feel mashed cornflakes in between my teeth. I am trying to conjure up some of that spiritual poise. but I can only think of that other word.

Results.

"the Mackenzie reports? On your desk by five."

O.K. So heres my second problem. Its 10.38am and Belinda from the twenty eighth floor has hunted me down and ambushed me outside my office. She is armed with a black biro, bulging manilla folder and a pair of sharp blue eyes. She scribbles something down that I cant see, while she interrogates me about our departments failure to meet monthly targets. She suggests to me that our department attend a weekly breakfast seminar on "rebranding oourselves." This months topics include, " being the product" and how to give yourself a three hundred and sixty degree performance review." This may help to lift our performance, she says. One eyebrow goes up as she scribbles away.

I am feeling a desire to weep for some unknown reason. I avert my eyes to the flourescent tubes buried in their perspex coffins marching back in rows along the ceiling for as far as the eye can see. "Hmmm.. Might be something for our team to consider, " I say finally. Feeling in my pocket for a pen to give the impression of urgency. When I look up from my faux pen finding, Belinda is marching off down the hallway, barking something at me over her shoulder.

So, I am now flicking casually through the newspaper while my mind races through the days tasks. A coworker is munching noisily on a sandwhich. Someone else is flicking the pages of a gossip magazine contemptuously. I say it casually, to the airconditioning. Trying to mask my panic. "ever been to one of them breakfast seminars?" I turn the page. Sandwhich muncher almost snorts tuna onto his silk tie with digust. "washte ob thime." He manages. Before I can pursue the topic, we are all frozen to the spot by the entrance of the king. The Boss. We will call him Neb. Close behind Neb, is his chihahua, Nigel.

I focus intently on the paper. Neb, is looking directly at me. I notice this out of the tiniest corner of my eye but I am pretending not to notice. I look up and feign surprise.

"dont forget those reports son." He says to me over the top of his glasses.

How can you have spiritual poise before you get results?