Performance

‘Take a seat, Mr Bellewether; I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Alan shuffles over uncertainly to his manager’s desk and pulls out a chair. In the twelve months he has worked at The Office of National Statistics, he has never been addressed by his surname. Was it a tacit admonition? Or maybe a recognition of seniority, a nod at a promotion?

‘Thanks for waiting, Mr Bellewether,’ said Tim, Alan’s manager. His tone was one of pointed neutrality, like a wizened doctor observing a patient had soiled himself.

“No problem, I don’t have any other plans,” Alan joked, somehow cocky and deferential at once, like a patient making light of having shat himself.

“Indeed,” Tim replied coolly, settling into his bulky executive leather chair.

“As you know, Mr Bellewether,” Tim continued, with an unmistakably malevolent emphasis on the name now, “today is your performance review.”

“Yes, sir,” Alan gulped, imagining Tim’s chair as a cockroach, hostile and overgrown.

“If my records are correct, this is your first performance review.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As a junior analyst at the Office of National Statistics, how would you assess your performance? Poor, fair, good or exemplary?”

Alan hesitated. To say exemplary would be hubristic; to say poor would be career suicide. Better not risk it.

“Fair to good?”

“The former or the latter?”

“The latter?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“A statement? A statement!”

“Please don’t shout, Mr Bellewether.”

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, in the sort of abashed quiet that followed ordering a lime cordial at an Irish pub, or climaxing in the first minute.

“I would say, Alan, that your performance has been exemplary.”

Alan spat out his coffee. Or he would have done had he been drinking coffee. At any rate, he proceeded to say I nearly spat out my coffee.

“You’re not drinking coffee. Would you like some?” Tim countered kindly.

“No, I’d probably spit it out. Anyway, how do you mean, exemplary?”

“Well, Alan, I could show you some … stats.”

*

Tim had spent ten minutes or so fiddling around on his laptop, ostensibly fetching the stats he’d promised. Alan, who had failed to meet virtually all of his Key Performance Indicators, faintly hoped a mix-up had occurred, that he would be lauded for someone else’s industry and by the time they found out his contract would already be renewed …

“Here we are,” Tim announced grandly, the printer gurgling to life suddenly. He swiftly produced a large wad of papers and thrusted them at Alan. “Have a gander.”

Alan picked up the first sheet. His face turned white.

In bold black letters: ALAN BELLEWETHER’S INTIMACY REPORT. A pie chart underleaf detailed the frequency, nature and duration of his sexual activity in 2024. A small black wedge in the chart denoted his two extramarital affairs.

“What the hell is this Tim?”

“It’s self explanatory, no?”

Tim sifted through the papers at random, blind with rage.

ALAN BELLEWETHER’S DIETARY HABITS. Again, a large pie chart delineating the frequency and nature of his eating and drinking habits.

“You drink a lot of lime cordials, Alan. Excellent source of Vitamin C.”

“This is sick. Have you been following me? How do you know what I eat? What I drink? Who I … sleep with?” he whispered the latter two words.

“It’s all in your contract, Alan. You did read the contract, didn’t you?”

He had not.

“Of course I read the fucking contract! I didn’t consent to be spied on.”

“Yes, you did. Did you ever think it strange that a man with no university experience, a man who is borderline innumerate, a man with no discernible technical or analytical skills, could be an analyst for the Office of National Statistics?”

Alan was speechless. It was strange, now that he thought about it. He had chalked his position up to some Homer Simpson at the power plant fluke in the rigours of capitalism, a mystery to be enjoyed and unexamined.

“So … I’m what? A guinea pig? You just follow me around and make these bloody pie charts and the work I do has nothing to do with anything?”

“Well, that’s a tad simplistic but, essentially, yes.”

Alan rifled through more papers. ALAN BELLEWETHER - STREAMING HABITS - (more ABBA than he cared to admit). ALAN BELLEWETHER - READING HABITS (the pie chart was conspicuously empty). ALAN BELLEWETHER - GAMBLING HABITS (he felt a furtive pride on reading PROFIT - £2,650).

“So, where do we go from here? I’m in half a mind to sue.”

“There would be no grounds, Alan.”

“My father-in-law is a successful barrister.”

“And how would he feel about your infidelities? Your gambling?”

“Not great,” Alan ceded. “He’s actually a plumber.”

“I knew that.”

“You seem to know everything.”

“Almost everything, Alan, almost. What I need to know now is, seeing what you’ve seen today, would you like to extend your contract?”

Alan sighed.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Certainly. You undertook this role voluntarily. If you should choose to resign, we will cease operations. Of course, it will be difficult to replace you. You are the most profoundly ordinary man I’ve encountered in my lengthy career, Mr Bellewether. We should be sad to lose such an exemplary everyman as yourself. Our economic, educational, cultural and political forecasting owes no small measure to your first-rate mediocrity.”

“I see,” Alan said, stroking his chin. “In some ways it’s a civic duty, I suppose?”

“Precisely.”

Alan nodded, shook Tim’s hand and made off homeward. He needed a drink, something with no Vitamin C.