Week 23 - Andy - Tea for two

Four years ago, almost to the day, I started my new job. I wore new shoes, a nice shirt, and my good jumper. I was hired as a manager, with nine direct reports. Caffeinated and ready, I strode across the marble floors, and through the gleaming offices. I was a member of the knowledge economy – an up and comer. Ireland's young and educated workforce. A leader at the very cutting edge of business and marketing.

Three years and nine months ago, I made endless pairs of cups of tea, steeling myself for the next hellish one-to-one meeting. Every morning, in the shower, I wrote the number of days until I could convincingly leave in the mist on the door. I girded myself to come in at each turn. I made a cup of tea before each meeting, holding onto the thin paper cup to feel the heat of the water.

Two years and six months ago, I sat in a taxi from one part of California to another. The journey took an hour and fifteen minutes. During this journey, I was absolutely confident that I would be fired within two weeks. I was unable to do this job. Daily, I went into work, and alternated between anger and heavy, tired sadness. My team were disenfranchised, and I dreaded talking to them. Next to me, a cheerful and relaxed German sipped coffee and did his own non-managerial job confidently and well.

Two years and one month ago, I sat in a pub in a foreign city with my boss, and we talked about what could change. I told him I wanted to be a cheerful and relaxed and German. He understood – I'll be forever grateful for this. Shortly afterwards, I took a holiday, and came back to a different role. I stopped managing my team, and joined them. Within three months, I was taking meetings in a foreign city, deliriously happy, and drunk on cheap wine.

One year ago exactly, I spent a month in California, learning a set of skills that are unique in my role. This year, I have found what it is like to enjoy my job. I work directly with people I admire, and I hope that sitting next to me, someone wants to be a cheerful and relaxed Irishman.

Week 23 - Laura - tea for two

If I see another bourbon cream I'm going to throw it at someone. Probably Myrtle. Not until I’ve dunked it in my milky, tepid tea though. There’ll be more mess that way.

It’s exactly 3.30pm, and, right on cue, here’s Myrtle, singing as she clip-clops down the hall of Mount Pleasant Home for the Elderly with our tea and biscuits. “Just tea for two, and two for tea, just me for you and you for me,” she’s warbling, tunelessly.

Myrtle is my designated do-gooder. That’s not her official title, of course. She volunteers with the local group of Friends of the Elderly. Last month they started coming in here for afternoon tea. “It’ll be nice to have a bit of company,” Lena, the nurse-in-charge said. For them, maybe. For us, or certainly for me, it’s about as enjoyable as the chiropody appointments we have arranged on our behalf every month.

Like Gay Byrne used to say, there’s one for everyone in the audience. In this case that means there’s one whole do-gooder for everyone here who’s up to having tea in the afternoon. I’m almost envious of the ones who can’t make it out of their rooms any more to be honest. I've been driven to praying for a bout of dysentery these past few days; it’d certainly make for a pleasant change.

Honest to God, if I’d known I was going to end my days in Mount Pleasant Home for the Elderly - an antonym if I ever heard one - I would've lived a lot faster and, if luck had it, died a lot younger.

‘Your home from home,’ it’s called in the brochures. The poor folk who work in marketing must come from some really woeful homes if that’s true. Mount Pleasant? I can think of at least half a dozen more suitable names for this kip. Mount Boring maybe. Mount Give Up on Life Here. Mount Counting the Days Until Death. Mount Give Me Strength (Because You’ll Need It). Mount You Don’t Have to Get Dressed If You Don’t Feel Up to It - Just Wear Your Smelly Dressing Gown and Slippers. Even just Mount Unpleasant, if only to keep the cost of changing the signs on the front gate and door down.

I used to like a bit of afternoon tea in the past. Mostly just to balance out the usual debauchery that was my life then though. If they let us get up to a bit of divilment in here and upped their tea game to a few eclairs and fancy sandwiches I’d probably still like it. But God, this daily ordeal with Myrtle...give me strength.

I can tell you already what we’ll talk about. Why is it younger people presume older people’s interests stretch as far as who’s dead and not much more? I’ll get the rundown on the latest obituaries. That’ll be followed by a little silence, to give Myrtle a chance to rustle up a list of other riveting conversation topics, before we press on to talk about the youth of today, how the evenings are really closing in and what the local Tidy Towns/Neighbourhood Watch/Parents Against Crime group are up to now.

“Elenora, my dear, how are you?” Myrtle asks now, echoing tens of others just like her as they begin their bland interrogation of their assigned oldies.

“Fine, thanks Myrtle,” I reply, giving in once more and playing along with this charade of being friends.

Let’s get this over with for another day. You never know, I might be so lucky as to die in my sleep tonight.