Having stripped nearly all the leaves from one of the huge jungle plants in his office, spun around on his chair until he nearly fell off and sat at every other chair around the boardroom table, the managing director gives up on his shiny new, bare-bricked, spiral-staircased office and goes to sit with the rest of the staff.
“Name? Name? Who was I phoning?” holding the telephone receiver in one hand and tapping the phone book with the index finger of the other, the Managing Director glares at the secretary across the desk. Expecting his staff to be psychic is one of his many curious habits. He shrugs, and gives up on the phone call.
Not only does he fail to keep track of what he’s doing; he also fails to inform his staff of various, seemingly essential information.
“Tracey! Why isn’t the Russian order loaded?”
“W-what Russian order?” asks the secretary, fearful of his temper.
“The one I arranged last Tuesday! God, don’t you listen to my phone calls?”
“Right, well… I’ll make sure it’s done today…”
He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, chuckling. No doubt contemplating how much fun it is to terrorise his nervous, useless staff. He leans a little farther and the chair slips, along with his smug expression. He catches it in time, though, and no-one seems to notice. He’s starting to regret leaving his office.
Turning back to his computer, the MD attempts to type a short email. This proves difficult, however, and he looks relieved when he’s interrupted by his mobile phone.
Indeed, most of his working day seems to comprise of pacing around the office, talking in a theatrically loud voice on his (company) mobile. “Martin! Mate! You up for footie tonight?” [Pause whilst he listens and twirls his over-groomed hair like a schoolgirl] “The pub? Ooh, I dunno mate, have to ask Senior Management,” [he holds the phone with his shoulder at this point, enabling him to accompany these words with a gesture like the ‘jazz hands’ at the end of a cheesy musical. He adds these at the end of every sentence for the rest of the conversation, along with ‘dramatic’ pauses] “You know how she gets if I spoil her plans-”
Tracey interrupts by waving her phone receiver at him.
“Oh Jesus! Just a second, Martin.”
“Jeremy from TSG, about the January shipment?”
“I’m bu-sy!” he replies in a sarcastic, sing-song voice. Tracey tells Jeremy he’ll have to call back.
“Yeah, yep, I’ll speak to her, and I’ll get hold of Clarky and let you know.” He clicks his platinum-plated poser-mobile closed.
His phone conversations are often followed by a rubbing-the-nose-in-it question directed at an inferior member of staff:- “Daniel,” [still in the comically projected theatre voice, with too much emphasis on the vowels] “Have you been to the gym recently? No, you haven’t, have you, Daniel? Are you still living at home, Daniel? Aah…”
Daniel smiles sarcastically.
“Well, on that note, I’m off! Done far more than I needed to today”, the MD gloats.
It is three pm.