Verisimilitude

After almost 6 years working for one of the 'big four' banks I can hear the death rattle of my career. For 3 years I've looked after a portfolio of wealthy clients. People who find it acceptable to complain at length about which shade of blue is used on their statements. People who fear Gordon Brown had a personal vendetta against them and the fortune they would be leaving behind to their children.
I can clearly remember the beginning of the end for me. Sitting in a corporate friendly room of a generic hotel on smoggy Teesside. We were being trained in 'the appearance of truth'. Apparently odd numbers are more convincing. When putting a lending proposition together we were encouraged to up the fees using odd numbers. A fee of 4% could become 4.37%, giving the impression more calculations had been carried out and , at the same time, making more profit for the shareholders to hide from Gordon. The reactions in the room were overwhelming. Everyone commited to giving the appearance of truth. Everyone except me.

I've now become a client. I am spending, what I feel, is a large amount of money on kitchen equipment, new floors, 3 phase electric, intraction units and extraction filters. I have no fear of Alastair Darling casting a jealous eye over my legacy as it is being spent by the hour.
The work should be finished by Wednesday, giving me 3 days to practice with the shiny new equipment. No-one seems to move very quickly. The contractors smoke in a studied and zen manner. They are eager to tell me what they will be doing tomorrow and why it can't be done today.
The project manager is a burly Yorkshireman who has disappeared from view now that i'm committed to the contract. He reminds me of one of my more forthcoming clients at the bank. In as much as I appear to be trying to keep him happy every time we speak. He acts wounded if I ask any difficult questions. He needs constant confirmation that I trust him. He is in charge and he is spending my money.

Although there are signs in the window explaining why we are closed I am still turning away hungry customers. They wander into my beautiful building site and ask about pies or specials or something called a 'chicken stack'. I'm tempted to set up a barbecue outside and start making a living.
For the moment I'll check over todays invoices. Checking for odd numbers. Searching for the appearance of truth.

Turning Point

I stood staring at the locked car door. For a May morning the yard felt cold. I stared through the drivers side window at the steering wheel. The thought of opening the door and climbing into the car was more than I could cope with. The thought of a 36 mile journey to an office made me feel sick. Pulling on my socks earlier had been an effort but this was different. Something was very wrong.

Ten months later I am standing in an empty sandwich shop listening to the hum of refrigerators and I can't remember feeling this excited. The smells of stale cooking oil and long forgotten food scraps are overpowering. My boots slip on the grease covered laminate floor. I discover yesterdays forgotten sweet and sour chicken in the microwave. Overwhelmed by the cadaverous stench of the meat fridge I yell 'dirty bastards'.

I've just been handed the keys to 'The Oven'. I now own it. I am now a small business person. I am no longer depressed. I am no longer suffering crippling anxiety attacks. I am going to open a cafe, a sanctuary and a future. To quote a song which has spun around my head for ten years, a 'Reason for living'. But first I am going to rescue an onion from behind a gas oven which breaks every health and safety regulation.