Using me as some kind of alibi

Advertising agency The Bleeding Heart Partnership got its name because it was founded in offices at Bleeding Heart Yard (before moving to its present location). Bleeding Heart Yard was mentioned by Charles Dickens in his novel Little Dorrit. A small, claustrophobic, cobbled court.


Wednesday. I got to work as usual, and opened my post (dealing with the pile very effectively by tipping most of it into the rubbish bin). I have been trying to organise my desk recently by only having one project open in front of me at a time - in practice this system is impossible to follow owing to the number of times I am telephoned or visited by one of the department heads wanting to check progress on their own particular assignment (the vanity of the heads of department, HODs for short, is incredible).

As an alternative to the one-thing-on-the-desk-at-a-time discipline, I decided to commandeer an unused table, put it adjacent to my desk, and lay everything out in sequential order. This at least had the advantage of enabling me to find a project file immediately, without having to ask one of the HODs to wait while I sorted through stacks and stacks of paper. While I was doing this Dave Sawyer, one of the Operations Supervisors (former driver promoted to supervisor, aged about thirty, short stature, fair hair, very pale blue eyes, way of wrinkling up his forehead whenever he is asked a question and has to think about the answer) came up to me and began talking. He is exaggeratedly polite to managerial staff, and has cultivated a soft-accented respectful voice for this purpose (in contrast to the aggressive language, punctuated with obscenities, that he uses when commanding the operations crews). Although he is a father of two, and often drives the company’s road-train (a lorry of huge proportions) on the route up to Scotland, his short height, and his cheeky demeanour around the offices, give him the appearance of a young boy. This morning he went on and on about his hobby, which is presenting a show on hospital radio (something he takes immensely seriously) before finally coming to the point and asking whether I would add the hospital radio station to the company’s sponsorship programme (I told him I couldn’t just spend money as I liked, and he’d have to get the Managing Director’s approval before I could add the hospital to the company’s list of nominated charities).

After Dave Sawyer had gone I realised it was nearly eleven and I hadn’t yet done anything useful. I began to look at the list of deadlines and think about what was most urgent. As I was doing this I heard the door at the far side of the general office crash open and Mitch Holmes walking across the floor (his heavy step unmistakeable, his Yorkshire voice booming out greetings to people as he passed). He appeared round the partition to my corner and said: “Fancy a trip out?” I bundled up all the papers on my desk and threw them any-old-how into a drawer. Ten minutes later I was in Mitch Holmes’s car on the way into central London.

As we drove we talked about Norfolk (a county we both know well - he has a tiny cottage near Kings Lynn which he uses at weekends). He recommended the Hare Arms at Stow Bardolph as being one of the best restaurants in the east of England. We parked near the Barbican and walked down to Charterhouse Street and into the company’s advertising agency, the Bleeding Heart Partnership (so called because the agency started life in Bleeding Heart Yard).

Sitting in Reception while we waited for Jon Theobald (agency Partner and Creative Director), we could see onto the general floor - I was surprised at the large numbers of people flitting backwards and forwards, every face seeming to have a look of intense concentration. A man who appeared to know who we were came up and introduced himself saying: “I’m Chris Raphael - if there’s anything you need just ask” (Chris Raphael was about twenty-five, rugby-player’s build, firm handshake that almost crushed my knuckle bones - Mitch Holmes also experienced this crushing handshake and quietly said “You can fuck off” as Chris Raphael walked away). After we had waited for about ten minutes a very beautiful young women appeared (slim build, almond eyes, long light-brown hair) and told us in an Australian accent that Jon Theobald had been delayed and would be with us shortly.

Eventually Jon Theobald arrived, genial and avuncular, looking genuinely pleased to see us. He gave us a quick tour of the agency - the upper floor (where we had been waiting) dealt solely with PR accounts, the atmosphere one of frenzied disorder, the staff moving around with a kind of manic despair. Downstairs was the advertising agency, quieter and more ordered. We talked for quite a while with the head of a section that worked solely on producing annual reports for City institutions.

After the tour we went outside, and Jon Theobald led the way to Davy’s Bar - downstairs to a subterranean bar area, sawdust on the floor, and into a private dining room (no bigger than a large cupboard, almost entirely filled by the dining table, framed prints on the walls). Our lunch lasted about three hours and was very carnivorous - sausages and lamb chops to start, followed by large steaks. Jon Theobald ordered a variety of red wines, which were excellent, and refilled our glasses continuously so that talk became very unguarded and Mitch Holmes began to agree to all sorts of advertising proposals (Mitch Holmes becoming red-faced with the effects of the drink, laughing in an explosive sort of way, often for no real reason). In between the talk about advertising we also discussed the Tory leadership contest, Jon Theobald praising Ken Clark (“The guy’s got his own radio show talking about jazz every week - how media savvy can you get!”). Mitch Holmes also expressed support for Ken Clark. I said nothing.

When the coffee arrived Mitch Holmes got up abruptly and said he had to go, asking if I could get back alright by train (not a problem, although it could have been). He disappeared behind the frosted glass of the dining room door, leaving me to have coffee with Jon Theobald and discuss the situation in Iraq. Not for the first time I felt Mitch Holmes was using me as some kind of alibi.