CONFERENCE DIARY 2
WEASEL BLOUSE
For the benefit of those who did not read my last blog or for those who did but suffer short term memory loss I will recap. My boss has asked me to deliver a speech at a conference being held in Belgrade. My preparation has been far from ideal culminating in a late night drinking session with some of my fellow delegates. Read on.
Thursday morning in central Belgrade: The hangover from last night’s outing rattles through my head like a Siberian draught blowing in an empty room. Today I will represent the company and speak authoritatively on “Implementing a system of internal controls.” Word of my assured performance will filter back to the office and I will be marked out as a candidate for advancement. At least that was the plan but as I take my seat at the front of the hall the fear joins forces with the after effects of too much alcohol so that I am coated in a fine film of perspiration.
I look out at my audience who are equipped with headphones to allow for simultaneous translation from Serbo-Croat to English and vice-versa. They look like Cybermen. Through the double doors at the side of the hall I spy Eva and Carlos with whom I was drinking last night. They are giggling over cups of the thick black coffee that is being served to delegates. Towards the front of the audience I spot Xavier. He waves to me and I am relieved that he appears not to have taken to heart the jokes I made at his expense in the early hours of this morning.
All too quickly the audience are asked to take their seats and we begin. Our Serbian host gives a short introduction before handing over to the first speaker who is a Japanese Professor of Economics. He talks in English on the subject of “Reducing Regulatory Risk,” a subject that is quite as riveting as it sounds and enlivened only by the speaker’s inability to pronounce the letter “r” which emerges from his lips as “l”. As he draws to a conclusion I feel a rising sense of dread that is only partly eased by the audience’s polite applause. And then I am on.
I give my presentation aware of a nervous tremor in my voice and an unsteadiness in my hand as I turn the pages of my speaking notes. The bored thousand yard stares of the audience only add to my discomfort but suddenly I find myself on the last page and a wave of relief sweeps over me as I finish speaking. There is a slight delay as the translation catches up and then there is a round of applause. I take a sip of water and sit back triumphant. The host turns to me and asks whether I will take questions. I can hardly refuse and so I nod as if it is a matter of no consequence to me one way or the other. The invitation to ask questions meets general indifference until Xavier raises his arm and is invited to put his question.
“Can you tell us please, what is your policy for weasel blouse?” asks Xavier.
The audience look at me expectantly as I flounder. “Sorry can you repeat the question?” I ask.
“Yes. How do you deal with weasel blouse?” asks Xavier deadpan and then I get it. This is some sly Iberian revenge for the sleights suffered last night. Xavier wants to humiliate me in front of this audience. Well I have news for you my cunning Spanish amigo, I do not buckle under pressure. I smile to let Xavier know I am onto his little joke and then I say, “We are very relaxed about blouses for weasels and we also permit waistcoats for ferrets”. I am feeling pleased with the rapier like speed of my riposte when I note the look of horror on the faces of certain members of the audience and the total bewilderment on the faces of others and as I register all of this it suddenly occurs to me with an awful clarity what in fact Xavier was asking. Xavier wanted to know how we treat whistleblowers.
The host intervenes and voices some perfunctory thanks for my presentation and we break for coffee. As I leave the stage nobody wants to catch my eye and with almost indecent haste a taxi is found to take me to the airport. The car is small and of Eastern European origins so that the engine noise is deafening as we travel along the main road to the airport. I feel like I am fleeing the scene of some terrible crime and I welcome the distance I am putting between myself and the spot where doubtless people are shaking their heads in disbelief at my crass stupidity. I pray that Newman does not get to hear of what has happened and I mentally shelve my plans for a leather executive chair.
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