Ginny is really gone

Ginny’s farewell drink was last night. It started orderly enough downstairs in a grotto - a throwback-bar that somehow beamed itself from 1977 to 2007. By the time I arrived at seven o’clock, the entire team were tanked and rolling. As the music volume increased, so did the difficulty of hearing the various speeches lauding Ginny while, in a parallel and brutally truthful way, pointing out that she was a one-off and “none of you other consultant losers will ever come close”.

A man dressed in black asked us to leave. We did, only to find ourselves in upstairs cocktail bar of the same establishment. The difference between downstairs and upstairs being the increased music volume, the availability of high-price and poor quality cocktails, and four tubby balding blokes dressed in white suits. Purple and pink lighting fuelled the expectation that a porn shoot was about to get underway.

Four hours and five hundred Euros worth of liquid later, I close the tab, settle up and the party is over (at least the party on company expense). Realising this, the entire crew make their collective way to a cheaper bar on the Noordemarkt.

Something horribly wrong happens with Brenda’s ability to steer and she and her bicycle clatter into a parked VW station wagon. I bail and make my way home.

Have you seen her?

We try our level best not to be slovenly, to look at detail, and treat our clients with care and consideration. Contrast this to the email received yesterday from one of our serviced apartments competitors:

• Dear Ideal Housing - last week one of our guests, a 95 year old wheelchair bound invalid from Omaha named Mrs. Ziegler, rolled herself out of one of our apartments and disappeared along with her 85 year old carer. The family is concerned for Mrs. Zielger's safety (nice, after a week's abscence) and remain concerned that she may not have gone of her own accord (they don't know where her will is). She is under medication (easier to influence) and her jewelry has also gone missing (read: the old biddy is a gold mine and is on the run). If you see her, please give us a call.

Jimmy is keeping his eyes peeled as his suspects that there is a considerable reward.

Kepeing my finger on the pulse

Away on vacation for a week in England. Tension is building. Not tension in that the vacation is too short or tension in that the weather is not just tippity-top, but more tension relating to not taking a peek at my work email when I know I can. Finally, I denial myself the denial of not logging in a taking a peek. As I trawl through the mail headers and read the details, I quickly conclude that the stream of trivia left behind on my departure, continues unabated in my absence. Mails about checking out keys properly, parking fines (the game is to fervently deny you were the offender and then meekly concede on the production of the police photo showing you driving at 140 KMH, naked, in a built up area), the whoever-has-finished-my-milk rant, and so it flows ever on. I swear we will bring the Internet to its knees with the weight of nothingness. Once more, I feel connected.

Off to pub tonight for warm beer.