It's like a jungle

We continue our series of 'coffee break' stories for you. Enjoy!

It's like a jungle - sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under...

First its the school run. That down-to-the-last-second calculated race from home, through the urban rat-run. Ducking and diving, weaving and bobbing, avoiding getting cut-up by some muppet driver or crushed by a bendy-bus.

Now you're stuck half way across the road. No, not at a crossroads - your car is out in the middle of the yellow box, blocking the previously free-flowing traffic from the common end and in danger of copping for a photo and a fine. It's you this time, the dopey driver holding up a mass convoy of grumpy worker drones on the move, and of course, the inevitable haulage professional - the one who's always in the right and most definitely has right of way, or will get it, even if it's not his by right. So it's pistols-at-dawn (or horns anyway) and a barrage of verbal and digital abuse.

So you make like an ignoramus and pretend you don't see or hear anything coming from your right. Tunnel vision with the odd sneaky look to the left every now and then to try a little manoeuvre to jink yourself through into the bus lane. Did I say that? Anyway, by slicing through the eye of a needle with speed and agility, both hands gripping the wheel, a cunning technique that Lewis Hamilton would be so proud of, you dart into the bus lane and spin off to the left.

Your daughter gets to school with just a little time to spare and you take a few moments to catch up with the mums and the odd dad you know - keeping in with the playground talk, the latest gossip. Word at the gate is there's some sort of love triangle going on between the P.E. teacher, science teacher and the new supply French teacher. And the more general stuff like what happened on Eastenders last night, what kid got caught shoplifting from the corner shop and why it's always the same kids getting picked to perform in the school plays. You have your bit to say sometimes but mostly you just listen and take it all in. You know they think you're unemployed because you don't usually have a suit on - it's casual every day at your place. You know certain people want to ask what you do for a living, but they never do, so until then, just keep them guessing. Anyway you give your daughter a goodbye kiss and tell her to be good and you'll catch up with her later when you get home from work.

But today is different. You have got the suit on, you're not going to the office, and you won't be home until after she's gone to bed. You've got a business trip scheduled, a flight booked and a seat with your name on it, destination corporate HQ in Paris. So you'll have to phone her later and wish her good night sleep tight, don't fall out the bed tonight!

So you park your car at the common and run for the train. Just made it, but as usual there's nowhere to sit, everybody squashed like sardines in a can. People puffing and panting, out of breath, others in dire need of a good wash. But you've got to do it. Changing trains is always a nightmare, especially when you're aiming for the line to Heathrow, but at least there's a seat this time. But then the young hoodie gets on and plonks himself down next to you, and for the rest of the journey, you're subjected to the tinny beat-box from his too-loud earphones. You try hard to ignore him, even though what you really want to do is put your foot in his mouth and give him what-for. Instead, you bury your head in the newspaper and grit your teeth.

At Terminal 1, you check-in, just hand-baggage, makes it easy. Then it's off to the coffee bar for a quick snack and a caffeine fix. You're thinking about the meeting ahead by then. You from the UK and your counterparts from France, Belgium and Germany, all convening to learn how some customs clearance outfit proposes to dig you out of a hole, get your shipments through the UK and across Europe in record time and save you money. You found them on the internet a few weeks ago when you were up to your neck in delayed shipments and desperate for a different option. But they claim to be specialists, and they certainly did seem to know what they were talking about when you phoned them. Now it's all heads-together at HQ in Paris to thrash out a way forward for the whole enterprise. Who knows, their team is probably on the same plane, maybe even planning their pitch in the coffee bar. Maybe that's them, over there.

So now you're refreshed and off to the departure gate, boarding the plane, and that's it for an hour or so - newspaper, snooze, maybe a sly cocktail.

In Paris, into the taxi and at last, at HQ. Thank goodness the common business language in your company is English! You find the meeting room, and there's time for a quick briefing before the customs clearance guys show up, bang on time. It was them at the airport coffee bar.

The meeting goes well. They're clear, concise and precise, and you get the facts. They know exactly what they can offer and how it will benefit the business, both now and as things develop in the future. They know how to handle getting your particular brand of products into Europe, using the UK as a gateway; they know about costs, duty rates, duty thresholds, timescales and payment methods. In fact, they know everything and put it across so well, you can only come up with a couple of minor queries at the end.

They leave you and yours to chew things over, but really, it's a done-deal. You knew from the first few minutes that the contract was theirs - it would be foolish not to let these guys handle it. They'd done their homework on your business - and that's a rare thing. They really knew their stuff, and their costs, all things considered, were pretty straight. They'll be getting 'the call' in the morning.

So it's back to Charles de Gaulle courtesy of a mad taxi driver and the scariest circuit of the city centre you've ever experienced. He's so fast, there's even time to pick up a little gift for your daughter and toast the success of the day before catching the flight home in time for a late supper and few minutes of Ugly Betty on the telly before bed.

8th Jan 2008

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It's like a jungle

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