Sent:
21 July at 2:54 PM
Subject:
My order
Dear
Mr Quilty
I’m
a busy man and you, with the hopefully well-deserved title of Manager, Dan
Mulligan’s Liquor Barn, will also be busy – so I’ll cut to the chase. But
before I do, let me say how refreshing it is to have a man back in charge at my
local Dan Mulligan’s after what seemed an eternity with your predecessor Mrs
Fitzpatrick lashed to your bottleshop’s mast like Odysseus struggling to avoid
hearing her customers’ siren song. She not so much captained a proud vessel as
ran a pirate ship that just happened to sell alcohol.
Mrs
F was an increasingly inflexible woman over such petty matters as purportedly unpaid
accounts. Savvy operators who get jiggy with it see me as an “influencer”. At
my semi-regular candlelit suppers, my guests often take a sip of wine and
exclaim: “Good God, what the hell is this?” Immediately this offers an
opportunity for me to pump Dan Mulligan’s tyres and, at no cost to you, detail
the offerings in the Bin Ends container en route to the right-hand cash
register. Which reminds me, I’d like to once again complain about the range of
snacks arrayed near that register. Presumably some marketing department bunny thought
selling biltong (surely against health regulations forbidding flyblown, airdried
strips of zebra meat) would give an international bent to the store’s otherwise
ho-hum offerings. Frankly, all it does is attract South Africans. Many a time
while browsing Mrs Fitzpatrick’s rack, I found shouts of “Hey boet! I had a
lekker day today!” deeply depressing.
Now,
where was I before you distracted me? Oh, yes, my order. I’m writing to you
from a suite in one of Canberra’s better hotels, in fact, from my recent
experiences, the only accommodation in town with clean bedsheets. After a tiring
day advising ungrateful PR clients, there’s something off-putting about
throwing back the sheets to find short black hairs (either from a small man
with alopecia or the nether regions of either sex) scattered willy nilly. I’ve
taken to packing a portable Crime Scene Investigator ultraviolent light to wave
over hotel bedlinen. Any trace of dried bodily fluids has me demanding a new
room or at least a decent discount on the room rate. Pro tip, Mr Quilty: if you
accept the discount
then sleep on the outer edges of the bed.
Obviously
being marooned in the nation’s capital with 286 kilometres between my digestive
tract and an acceptable restaurant has prompted thoughts of marbled beef
matched with that remarkable little Emu Plains Syrah you keep for your shrewder
customers. A man with a worldly view such as yourself will immediately spot my casual
use of the French word for Shiraz (although “Syrah” does sound disturbingly
Middle Eastern unlike “Shiraz” which is obviously Australian in origin). It’s
these nuances that, like a Mason’s handshake, give we oenophiles a secret
frisson, although entre nous I’m not certain I know what a Mason’s handshake
feels like. Occasionally when greeting clients I feel an odd pressure or tickle
on my hand but I never know if they’re a Mason or pleading: “You up for a booty
call, Glenny?”
Ah,
clients, Mr Quilty, they’ll be the death of me – or vice versa. Let me add,
lest there be another misunderstanding with the police such as the time I stood
in a carpark outside a client’s office and shouted at his window: “I’m going to
kill you, you mendacious mother …” that the jibe was in jest.
With
me in the publicity business and you in retail, we’ve both seen the best and
worst of humanity. In a just world, the corporate frauds I’m forced to pander
to and the Moaning Minnies you have to tolerate would be dressed in orange
jumpsuits and breaking rocks in a chain gang. Thirsty work.
Speaking
of which – my order. Being in Canberra, I’ll need one of your team, this time preferably
someone not on parole, to deliver my weekly mixed dozen to my home. Feel free
to add in any complimentary bottles you feel will frot my palate. Delivery this
evening will be fine. At around six, my cleaners will be wrapping up, so your
chap can wait outside until they’re finished then carry the wine into the
kitchen (careful with the new benchtops, they’re Silestone). The cleaners are
an odd couple. Not a word of English between them so your delivery man should
speak loudly and slowly. I call them Kim and Kim. At least one of them has to
be named that, am I right?
Let
me know how it goes.
Best
regards
Glenn
Gazman
--------------------
Sent:
22 July at 8:01 AM
Subject:
re: My order
Dear
Mr Gazman
Now
there’s a coincidence. I was scheduled to write to you about your account.
I
must admit I didn’t know my former colleague Frances Fitzpatrick very well, but
she’d never struck me as a person with a nervous disposition. Nevertheless, in
her last three months in this job, Frances developed a facial tic which made it
difficult to apply her lipstick straight.
As
she stormed out the office door, she flicked me your account file and used a descriptive
term … it’s here somewhere … ah, yes. She referred to you as “that prick.”
Nevertheless
at Dan Mulligan’s we’re not people to hold grudges no matter how well deserved.
Besides, I’m keen to claw back the $2,385.25 you owe our company.
So,
despite the accounts team chorusing “Are you insane?”, late yesterday afternoon
I dispatched our new delivery man Trevor with your mixed dozen plus a
complimentary bottle of limoncello with a difficult to read Use By date.
Trevor
reports that when he arrived in near darkness, your front door was open and he
could hear voices and stifled laughter. He popped his head through the door and
was greeted cheerfully by your cleaners who (i) are Filipino; (ii) speak fluent
English. Rosamine and Ernesto were standing in the hall discussing what
appeared to be an electronic cucumber which they’d found in the drawer of your
bedside table. They invited Trevor to give his opinion as to why a single man
would have such a device and what it could be used for. A consensus was quickly
reached: the treatment of … and I admit I’ve had to Google the spelling of this
word … haemorrhoids. We’re having an office sweep on
a range of suggestions, but the smart money is piling in on the original
conclusion.
Apparently
(and, Mr Gazman, I’m simply repeating what I’ve been told) you’d again failed
to leave money for your cleaners. Trevor was so moved by Rosamine and Ernesto’s
plight that he offered them your mixed dozen and the Italian liqueur.
Such
a gesture is against company policy and a sackable offence. However, across the
office we all agreed: given your involvement, we’ll make an exception this time.
BTW, our lawyers are currently drafting a letter of demand for the $2,385.25.
We won’t charge you for last night’s wine.
Cheers
Reg
# # #
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