Small World

Small World Just when I thought I’d found the perfect excuse to bunk off work...

I was all set for a golden afternoon of daytime TV when I made a classic schoolboy error jem clarke

Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he still shares with his parents…

During the communal breakfast we share, I had no choice but to tell my parents I had lost my job.

After breakfast, everything takes precedence over conversation – hospitallevel cleaning regimes; Emmerdale omnibuses; ironing with The Archers; sleeping through University Challenge. All of them are blockers to my imparting my not insignificant news to this whiskery couple.

It was ambitious but necessary to start by explaining the butterfly effect – the idea that a butterfly flapping its wings can lead to a tornado several weeks later. It helped to give them a sense that some very small, innocent action on my part could have large, real-world repercussions. I could do it only in the few available minutes between the slurp, crackle and suck of the newly dentured laying waste to cereal like sulky teenagers.

My father misunderstood the concept: ‘Is it like when you drop the toast and it always lands buttered side down?’

But my mother had it licked straight away: ‘No. I decide to randomly hold a lift door open for your father in the 1960s. And now, 50 years later, you’re here piling free jam onto free toast.’

Father was still struggling. ‘Is it when the toast falls butter side up in your lap so it doesn’t butter your flies?’

‘It’s nothing to do with toast or butter. Mother got it right,’ I snapped.

Mother then went completely off the boil: ‘So it’s not about free toast?’

And Father yelled at no one, for no reason, ‘Let him have the damned jam!’

I withdrew to my office-cum-bedroom. I felt sad at the thought that it was now a job-seeking-zone-cum-bedroom.

Some weeks earlier, I was doing my call-centre job when I sensed I needed a well-earned rest. Swinging the lead in this working-from-home universe is harder than it looks. The usual suspects – sprained ankles, childcare falling through, any toilet-hungry bowel business – don’t cut the duvet-day mustard when your work laptop is on top of your duvet.

Thankfully, just as I was speculatively googling ‘Top ten accidents that happen in the home’, I heard a Radio 5 Live feature on power cuts. It prompted me to text my boss and explain how a power cut had put paid to my working day because my tablet was out of juice. I tutted something about the north-south divide and quietly took pride in my improv genius.

The great escape was on! I settled down for an indulgent afternoon of TV’s finest daytime offerings. As is de rigueur for the modern man, I texted my best pal, Kevin, an ‘as-live’ commentary on everything I was viewing. Unfortunately, I was accidentally texting the last number, namely my boss – which prompted an immediate phone call from supervisor Celia.

‘Jem, I’m a bit surprised to receive the following text in the middle of your power cut,’ Celia said. ‘‘‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. WATCHING JUDGE RINDER AND THE DEFENDANT IS ACTUALLY A DOG.’’’

‘Ohhh…’ I balanced my intonation between surprise and ignorance, which strikes the exact same vibrational pitch as profound guilt.

Celia said, ‘I think we all know what that text means, don’t we, Jem?’

Clutching at straws, I exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness. I see what you mean. I’ve just checked the TV and we’ve still not got any power. Do you think it means I’m seeing things?’

Celia floundered.

I gabbled, ‘Of course I am. It’s not as if Rinder is going to actually prosecute an animal… I think I just need a rest and we’ll pick up tomorrow. Electricity willing,’ I said, signing off with a jaunty laugh.

Never one to look a gift unicorn in the face, I even took Celia up on her kind referral to the occupational health psychiatrist. But, alas, two days later she left a snippy message on my phone. She said she hoped I enjoyed my last day at work as much as she had enjoyed the Judge Rinder pet episode on catch-up.

Other than about six continuity announcers, I’m probably the only person who can blame losing my job on the ITV Hub.

Tomorrow, when I explain this to a pair of breakfasting codgers, I’ll probably lose my jam allowance, too.