The Best Man for the Job

In the desperation to escape fatalistic boss and religious nemeses at Job Number Two, I had applied for a part-time job as the personal assistant to an independent financial advisor.

Something I probably shouldn’t have done, especially when taking into account that even my potential new boss (Scottish this time – making an interesting change from Sassenachs) warned me repeatedly that I would almost certainly loathe it.

Giddy from the whiff of potential liberation from all matters real-estate, I disregarded his kindly concern and signed along the dotted line anyway.

Of course he turned out to be right, and within only a few weeks of starting, I was fighting a losing battle to keep my eyes open as I sat in front of my idling computer, stuffing envelopes with bulky information packs on Scottish Widow, Norwich Union or Scottish Equitable, answering the telephone to ex-pats with unintelligible queries about their nest eggs and resisting the urge to yell “do it your-bloody-self!” every time I was requested to perform the spoon-feeding, bottom-wiping tasks common to personal assistants the world over.

It was during these first weeks that I was abruptly catapulted from my semi-conscious state upon switching on the news one lunchtime, only to see the first of the World Trade Centre’s twin towers smouldering alarmingly from a gaping, twisted hole in its side.

There was barely time for that to register before I watched, open-mouthed, as a large passenger jet curved gracefully into the second tower, showering the surrounding area with debris from the impact.

I didn’t move from the sofa for the rest of the afternoon; glued to the television; unable to comprehend the sheer enormity of the events unfolding before my eyes – occasionally reaching for the telephone to give my UK-based, office-bound mother an update and to ponder on what it could all possibly mean.

And here we are; still pondering years later as the after-effects of that day rumble on towards a conclusion that threatens to be infinitely more earth-shattering: the world’s political and military powers seemingly unable to truly comprehend what began on September the 11th  2001, let alone know how to put the ensuing madness back in its box. (I wrote these words around 2008, never imagining how much further we would have fallen by 2025. I suspect humanity won’t consider it has reached rock bottom until we have torn ourselves and our planet to shreds. What a waste of a brain such as ours to have been packaged alongside a graspingly pointless ego and such primitively hateful tribalism.)

But world-changing events did not alter my employment status, although the arrival of a gaggle of telemarketers at last supplied someone with whom to pick away at the foibles of my boss (who, for argument’s sake, we will call Donald). One of the most noticeable characteristics being that he was incredibly tight with money.

The office budget was kept on an absolute shoestring;  often leaving us short of the most basic tools of our different trades. Previously I had put this down, unfairly I am sure, to Donald’s Scottish roots, but one of my new colleagues – for whom the word ‘tact’ had zero meaning – had a different theory which she put directly to him one day; much to the shock and embarrassment of the rest of us.

“You’re Jewish aren’t you?”

“No.” He answered shortly. “Why?”

“Well, you’re just so stingy.” She carried on, as if this was a perfectly reasonable accusation to level at your new employer. “I would bet money you’re Jewish, and as I am from Tel Aviv myself, that is saying something.”

“Well I’m not, so I wouldn’t waste your cash.” He retorted huffily, and stomped back into his office.

Months passed before he confessed that she had been right, and my surprise was accompanied by a cold finger of dread tracing my spine…

Because, maybe he thought I was being prejudiced that time I mentioned the unusually high number (for the Costa del Sol, at least) of Israeli and other Hebraic surnamed applicants for jobs at our office?

I’ve no doubt he found it horrifyingly offensive when I speculated that 9/11 was probably down to Palestinians responding to Israeli atrocities.

Gulp. I wracked my brain for more possible faux-pas.

Because we all know that while criticising your Jehovah’s Witness boss is entirely acceptable, the prospect of being accused of antisemitism by your Jewish boss is another kettle of fish altogether… The accusation was never launched, but I still feel that same cold finger of paranoia every time I think back.

We never did get to the bottom of why he denied his own heritage: it will just have to remain one of Life’s mysteries, although it did shed a little light on his over-achieving.

For not only was he a fairly successful financial consultant, he was also a professional violinist who had played for orchestras all around Europe.

Something that contributed to a far more interesting office atmosphere when he persuaded his charming Spanish piano accompanist to leave her (very well-connected in the upper echelons of Marbella society) husband, for him.