Imagine you’re at the bank waiting to discuss your new account. From the other side of a the partition separating the desks in the open-plan office a deep, resonant voice summons you to a private booth where you take a seat and get comfortable (as comfortable as you can be when in the bank. I always feel like I need to ‘act natural’ in case they think I’m casing the joint) before addressing the lovely, helpful individual behind the desk.
Now imagine that the lovely, helpful individual behind the desk is a large blonde gentleman named Herbert. Herbert is dressed not unlike Heidi; complete with neckerchief, checked shirt, lipstick, earrings, makeup and fairly severe acne.
Cue panicked thoughts: ‘Oh dear, where do I look? If I look him in the eye will it look like I’m staring? But if I look at the ceiling and at the fascinating ink blot on the desk will it look like I’m trying to avoid looking at him? If I’m particularly friendly will it seem like I’m being patronising?’
I think I might have agreed to a pension scheme or some such.
Lovely man that Herbert. I do love what they’ve done with the ceiling though.’