M for Misc...

By James Clarke

This book reveals personal details about the author’s relationship with his secretary, Threnody Higginbottom (whom he addresses as “Miss Smith” around the office). Threnody files everything under M for miscellaneous.
There’s also some quite startling stuff within these covers (stuff you’ll hardly believe) on, for instance, James Bond in retirement and what to do with red wine. .
And if you know somebody in hospital buy this book for them. They will empathise with the author’s experiences and his views about hospitals; how, from the moment you find your theatre gown won’t close down the back, the hospital authorities are out to humiliate you.
And learn how the West has tried to deliver vowels to vowel-starved eastern European countries with towns named Sjlbvdnzv and Grzny – as well as to Wales with places like Ffwgr and Ffwrrm.
For the “terribly shy” there are instructions regarding... well, you know, um, well, s*x . The author provides some basic guidelines on how to hit it off with the opposite s*x.
Read about the admirable creativity of journalists when working on their claim sheets for expenses.
There’s a lot on sport and on hiking too, including some quite adventurous stuff, like the day the author assaulted Everest – and summited. (“Oh, the noise. And the people!”)

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Clarke
• Release date: Sep 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311691781

James Clarke

James Clarke is the author of Movie Movements: Films That Changed The World of Cinema and a number of other film books. He has contributed to Empire, Imagine, Resurgence and Classic FM and has lectured on the subject of film at the University of Gloucestershire and the University of Sussex.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

MY SECRETARY,THRENODY HIGGINBOTTOM

Celebrating secretaries' day

No such thing as a free lunch

Valentine’s Day

Just write nothing

The 13th Zodiac sign

Threnody takes a NAP

CHAPTER TWO

ANIMAL STORIES

The sad story of Willie

No flies on the President

Making a monkey out of stockbrokers

How About A Warthog Day?

Baboons on the warpath

Don’t try to fool the Kaiser

Bloody fools and elephants

Gorilla in their midst

The fascination of droppings

CHAPTER THREE

JAMES BOND

The Truth

How it all ended for Bond

Bond’s last assignment

CHAPTER FOUR

YOUR GOOD HEALTH

How to live forever

Once bitten, don’t cry

Your health on the dotted line

Finding the G spot

Growing old grumpily

Mind blowing chess matches

The danger of side splitting

The gown of humiliation

The real pain of surgery

Dancing and one’s own chitlings

Fenning’s fever cure

Accident man

CHAPTER FIVE

SPORT AND THAT SORT OF STUFF

The art of head punching

My assault on Everest

A pocks on tennis players

CHAPTER SIX

WORD POWER

The moving finger

The art of claiming expenses

Writing on the wall for graffiti?

A need for vowel movements

BACK MATTER

The Author

Some Books by James Clarke

CHAPTER ONE

MY SECRETARY,

THRENODY HIGGINBOTTOM

Celebrating secretaries' day

Threnody Higginbottom is my private secretary. I call her Miss Smith around the office. She files everything under M for Miscellaneous.

One day I noticed she had conspicuously circled Secretaries' Day on her desk calendar six weeks ahead of schedule.

Secretaries’ Day falls in September in South Africa, yet it was still barely mid-August outside.

I pretended not to notice. I like her to think I can remember special days unaided.

The day came and I waited till eleven o’clock before stopping at her desk and saying, Happy Secretaries' Day! From behind my back I brought out a surprise in an envelope. She opened it and exclaimed, But it's a Christmas card! That was the surprise, I said. Oh my, how we laughed.

Well, I certainly did. It's always nice to give a little surprise on Secretaries' Day. Last year I surprised her with an expensive (and hardly used) Get Well card. The year before it was a birthday card –a real one and in good condition.

Make no mistake, I am aware it is incumbent upon the boss to do something bordering on the generous on Secretaries' Day, otherwise one gets tea slopped in one’s saucer for months afterwards. So I took Threnody to lunch at Bobo's where, I was pleased to see, they'd installed seats at last. It made it a lot more comfortable than having to stand with elbows on the counter admiring the back-lit blown-up photographs of sausages and chips.

This is your day, I told her, and you may order whatever takes your fancy! Spare no expense! Even the 'Special' - a ladies' steak and chips, if you like.

To be frank, this annual lunch requires a very real sacrifice on my part. It's not just the money, it's that Threnody is so very reserved. She sits up very straight and tense while I tend to be an exuberant eater, waving my fork around and dropping things down my tie which, when I get home, I often dig straight into the compost heap.

I allow her to drop the Mr Clarke and just call me Sir. I call her Threnody although, formally, I never address her as anything but Miss Smith.

Threnody ordered a small hamburger, with chips. I ordered just a cold drink for myself but told her not to worry about me. Just relax, I said, and to show her that I was perfectly at ease and that there was no need for her to hurry the meal, I tapped a little tune on the table with my fingers while I looked about.

The conversation, as always, was frequently interrupted by little fits of coughing.

Cough, cough, cough she went before asking me if I knew how long it had been since she'd had a rise. Naturally, I was curious.

How long? I asked.

(Cough. Cough.) Four years.

She said she'd actually prayed for a rise. I was shocked that she should have gone above my head and said if she wanted a rise she must say so.

(Cough. Cough.) Well, I do! she said.

Then I too went into paroxysms of coughing and subtly changed the subject: How's your mother? I asked. (A lot of bosses don't care about their secretary's mothers.)

Fine, she said.

I asked her if she liked my surprise card. She said Yes. Then I reminded her of last year's Get well card and we had another jolly good laugh.

Top

No such thing as a free lunch

One Friday I sensed Threnody, head secretary of my one-man corporation, hovering near my desk.

What is it, Threnody? I asked rather testily which, on a Friday morning, a boss is entitled to be. Can't you see I'm busy?

She looked at my screen for a second and said, (Cough. Cough.) If you move the four of clubs over to there it will release the five of hearts which can then go up there and then that one...

I was about to do that, I said.

Those who have played solitaire on their computer, and get it to work out, will know the glow of satisfaction, the burst of pride, the ecstasy, that overpowering feeling of having mentally triumphed over mankind's most complicated and daunting piece of machinery, the pc.

(Cough. Cough) Do you know what day it is? Threnody asked, a little hesitantly.

I suggest you consult the nearest calendar, I said dryly.

(Cough. Cough.) It's Bosses Day!"

So?

"Well, in September, on Secretaries' Day, you took me to lunch so my mother said I (Cough. Cough) should take you to lunch!"

I swivelled my boss's chair around and tilted it in an executive sort of way so that I could see her more clearly. I noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing quite a snazzy dress and had had her hair done. I was, to tell the truth, quite taken aback.

YOU? Take ME to lunch? I said. Then, a little suspiciously I asked, Where?

Well, not that hamburger place that you took me for Secretaries' Day. When I told my mom I was thinking of taking you there she nearly had a fit. She said I should take you to La Maison Cuisine.

But that's very expensive! I said.

My mother gave me some money.

Well then, have you booked? I mean, what are you waiting for? They could be full!

And so it was that I found myself walking into La Maison Cuisine and ordering extra-large huitres and roti carnard a l'orange with une bouteille de vin rouge and waving la fourchette as I told Threnody my life story. I told her how I had started out in adult life with