I shouldn't laugh, but JP is a comical sight? He's got plaster casts on both legs – we're talking, like, ankle to hip – and on both orms – we're talking from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. "I've got two broken tibia," he goes, "a broken fibula, a cracked patella, a broken radius and two broken ulnas." I give him my best fake sympathetic face. "And if that wasn't bad enough," I go, "you've got two broken orms and two broken legs as well." He gives me a look – it's like I've just offered to give him a bed-bath. He goes, "Yeah, I'm talking about my orms and legs. God, you're so thick."
I don’t know if it’s that I’m thick. I’m from that generation that thinks there’s no point in filling up your cupboard space with CDs when all the music you could ever want is out there and available to download illegally at the press of a button.
And in the same way, I've always felt there's no point in filling your head with knowledge and facts when you can find out anything you need to know online. By the way, I came up with this theory back in the 1990s, when no one had even heard of Wikipedia, so I could tell JP that, educationally, I'm actually years ahead of the pack.
But I don't. Instead, I go, "It could be worse, Dude. At least you're in the Blackrock Clinic. I had a sneaky peak at the menu on the way in – er, rack of Wicklow lamb with horseradish potato dauphinoise and a natural jus?"
“Yeah,” he goes, “I have to be spoon-fed each and every mouthful.”
"Swings and roundabouts," I go. "Swings and roundabouts. So, anyway, what happened – as in, like, actually?"
“I don’t remember much. I was in the Westbury. I’d just collected my Ethics in Business Award and I was walking through the hotel lobby, talking to a journalist on the phone, explaining how I hoped the way that we do business at Bloodless Human Good could set a new template for the relationship between estate agent and customer. And that’s when I felt . . . ”
“What?”
“A hand on my back. Someone pushed me down the stairs, Ross.”
“That’s crazy talk. I’m going to put this conversation down to whatever drugs you’re on.”
"Think about it," he goes. "I mean, it stands to reason. The property morket is booming again. There's fortunes to be made. Then along we come and we're suddenly telling customers the truth about properties. We were a threat to the big goys."
“Yeah, you haven’t sold a single house or aportment since you brought that whole honesty is the best policy thing in. I’m not knocking you here – I’m just making a statement of fact.”
“Things were beginning to turn, Ross. We were getting a lot of publicity for being straight-talkers. That frightened a lot of people in the industry. I had to be taken out. Whoever pushed me did so on behalf of various vested interests – it’s like that dude, what’s his name, who shot Kennedy?”
Don't look at me. I don't even know who Kennedy is. I decide to move the conversation along. We can both Google it later. Well, one of us can. I've still got the use of my thumbs.
“So,” I go, “the duty nurse rang me – she said you wanted to see me.”
He’s like, “Yeah, I did. Look, I realise you and I haven’t exactly been getting on lately.”
“Are you talking about you sacking me from my job?”
“Dude, don’t make this hord for me.”
“No, because I was just going to say, I wouldn’t allow something as trivial as a sacking to come in the way of our friendship. Dude, we played rugby together. Thankfully, we still live in a world where that means something.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. Because I’ve got a favour to ask you.”
“I wonder what this could be. Continue.”
“I want you to take over the running of Bloodless, Human, Good – just until my bones have healed and I’m fit to return to work.”
“Are you serious?”
“You were the most senior member of staff I had until – well, you know. And you’re someone I can trust. I mean, you said the word, Ross – rugby.”
“There’s no arguing with rugby.”
“But I need to ask you a second favour. I need you to keep the good work going. My philosophy. My commitment to telling customers the truth. It’ll yield fruit in time. Tell me you won’t let the agency return to the old ways.”
“You have my promise.”
“We’ve got a very young staff, Ross. They’re hungry, but they’re also very impressionable. They need a good role model.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because being a good role model is one of the things I’m genuinely amazing at. That’s me patting myself on the back.”
“Thanks, Ross.”
I say my goodbyes, then I point the cor in the direction of Ballsbridge. I throw the thing in the spot morked, "Managing Director," and then into the office I trot.
The staff all look miserable. You wouldn't blame them. Most of them haven't had a cent in commission all year. But they all brighten up when they see me walk through the door. One of them, a girl who has a bit of a thing for me, goes, "Oh my God, are you back – as in, like, back back?"
I don’t say a word. I walk straight past her to the little room at the back of the office that’s used as, like, a storage cupboard. I find the big brass letters that once hung over the window. I gather them up in my orms – the H, the K, the L, the S – and I carry them out onto the office floor, then I drop them on the corpet. They make a hell of racket.
I go, "Are any of you familiar with the TV programme Countdown?"
Of course they are – most of them were in UCD like me. They’re all like, “Yeah.”
I’m there, “Okay, let’s see who can put these letters together to spell out the name of what was once – and will soon be again – the greatest estate agents in the world?”
