Team Building

Danni's late for the team meeting. I suspect she's rehearsing the spontaneous speech she'll deliver to inspire and motivate us. We're suffering the usual problems - too much work and not enough staff. That means we're behind on our inspections, which means we're not prioritising, which means we're inefficient and in need of a team talk.

"Why don't we set lower targets?" Nigel asks, studying the monthly inspection statistics. "Or better still, why don't we measure quality instead of quantity?"

The nodding heads suggest he has a good point. Numbers don't reflect the work we do to improve hygiene standards in food businesses. "Management will argue the more businesses we inspect the more customers we protect," I say, using one of Danni's mantras.

"I'm amazed you remember that, Kent," says Danni, bursting into the room. "You're attention span has improved to a whole sentence."

I quickly lose interest in the muted laughter and turn my attention to the bundle of papers she places on the table. I miss what she says next as I'm not great at reading words upside down. I make out the words 'Better Regulation' and sigh. More priorities to prioritise.

"We need to think out of the box," Danni says, doing quotation marks in the air with her fingers. "It's not rocket science, is it? Joined up thinking and working - that's the key."

I assume that means we won't need to reinvent the wheel, but to make sure I seek clarification. "Do I need to find a window in my schedule to interface with other agencies?"

Danni's smile could neuter an elephant. She means well, but she's a fast track graduate who thinks cliches equal wisdom. She also buries her sense of humour in case it undermines her authority.

"So, Kent," she says, giving me the full weight of her attention, "does that mean you don't believe in working with others?"

I smile. "You're going to tell me there's no 'I' in team, right?"

She nods, no doubt pleased I remembered that one.

"But if you look closely you can find a 'me'," I say, giving silent thanks to David Brent for that gem. It means I won't be teambuilding with my boss for some time yet.

Muscle Bound

I return from a few days leave and find over 200 emails in my Inbox. Most of them are from my boss, Danni, who must work until midnight. Like the quotes on her desk calendar she signs off her emails with an inspirational thought. Unlike her desk calendar, which has a different quote each day, hers persist for a week, sometimes longer.

'Smiling uses less muscles than frowning' is the latest gem. As imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I'm adding, 'A punch to the face uses even less muscles' to my emails. I'm sure Danni will be so flattered she'll be speechless.

Oblivious to my attempts to endear myself to my boss, Nigel Winterbottom poses an interesting question. "Before computers and email what did we do when we arrived at work in the morning?"

Blank looks all round. The admin girls, who know the answers to everything, are unavailable for comment as they start workdays in the toilet, finalising their makeup. The rest of us think back to the time before computers - BC - and try to remember what we did. The various suggestions include discussing last night's TV, making cups of tea and coffee, photocopying private letters, and working out how long it takes three women to apply mascara when there's only one mirror in the toilet.

"We looked at the premises files," Nigel says, patting the stacks of manilla folders that cover his desk. He saves the office cleaners so much time they don't show any more. "We used to open the files, write up our inspections and complaints, and then go out on the district."

Much nodding and agreement on this one. "We still do that," I remark. "Then we update the computer records that replicate the written files. And let's not forget all those unwanted emails," I remind everyone. "Especially the ones from our leader that ask us to email her with our suggestions on reducing unnecessary emails."

That one gets them going. Soon, if the discussion becomes heated enough to involve more emails, Downland's mail server will go into meltdown. This will then cause a backlog, which we will have to spend even longer clearing when the problem is fixed. The guys in ICT will no doubt launch an investigation and email the results to everyone. If I'm really unlucky they'll eventually trace the fault back to me for stirring up an email debate.

I don't like the idea of that so my emails will carry the following warning: 'Emailing uses more muscles than frowning'.

That should make a few people smile.

Radio Celebrity

Downland's Communications Officer, Geoff Lamb, affectionately known as Mutton because he never listens to what anyone tells him, rings me late Thursday afternoon. The local radio station want to interview an eminent Environmental Health Officer about the new laws that will ban smoking in public places.

"Thanks, Geoff," I say, "I've never been called eminent before."

"I thought of you because you like the sound of your own voice," he tells me. "And your boss is incommunicado."

I walk across the High Street to Downland Radio and meet one of their news reporters, Julie. "I wake up with you every morning," I remark to break the ice.

"Thankfully, I can't say the same," she responds. Her frosty looks suggests she's heard that line too many times before. "You're the expert on the anti-smoking laws then?"

"The laws are to protect people from second hand smoke, not to persecute smokers."

She laughs. "Bring it on, I say. I'm sick of my clothes and hair smelling like an ashtray. I can't wait for the ban."

I like a reporter with an open mind. To be fair, she asks all the right questions, puts me at ease, and then makes me nervous by saying she'll need to make a few small edits. Did I say anything that could be cut down to something like, "all smokers should be shot"? Could my words be rearranged into a sinister threat to hound all smokers out of the district?

The following morning I make a determined effort to avoid the half-hourly news bulletins in case I sound crass. My girlfriend, Kelly, calls from the bedroom to say I'm on the radio. Fortunately, the flush of the toilet drowns out the radio. "You sounded great," she says, curling her arms around my neck. "Sexy with a hint of authority. You should do more interviews. You're a natural."

I manage to miss the next bulletin and escape to work where suddenly I'm a celebrity. A new career in radio beckons. From what I can tell the station didn't edit me into saying anything foolish, controversial or untrue. Then my boss waves me into her office. Danni, who gets her inspiration from the quotes on her desk calendar, gestures me to sit. She parts her curtains of hair to reveal a scolding expression. "Just had HR on the line," she says. "They're not happy."

Human Remains were not noted for their cheerful disposition.

"You're not allowed to talk to the press, Kent. It's not in your job description."

I look suitably contrite. "I told them they should be speaking to you, Danni, but they wanted someone with personality. How could I refuse?"

Her expression says she wants to fire me. But she can't afford to upset my father, the local MP. As a cigar smoker he's upset enough already.