I get up late and breakfast on coffee, a roll and freshlysqueezed orange juice on the terrace. I am a man of modest tastes, not afraid of hard, white-collar work. I left school at the age of 19 with a good Leaving Cert and no skills. Why acquire skills when jobs are so much easier to come by? That's what I say. In my line of work, a central location is essential and for this reason I chose Temple Bar to live in. After breakfast I take newspapers, letters, mobile phone and the morning's faxes and go into the bathroom for a good long soak. I get about four job offers a day by fax, but there is nothing to interest me today. Turning to the newspapers I see that the markets have reacted well to the flotation of the building society - my windfall shares have doubled in value so far. I switch on the phone and play back my voicemail.
The first message is from Vinnie, my agent. He wants me to do payroll spreadsheets for a large accountancy firm for three days. The rate is £10 an hour. The man is a fool. He knows I don't work for that kind of money. He will have to go. The Celtic Tiger's labour market is a seller's one and I will not be taken advantage of.
Distraught ambassador
The second message is more attractive. The embassy of one of our European partners desperately needs someone to interpret for a function that evening. Now, I have only schoolboy language skills, but there is such a desperate shortage of linguists that they are willing to hire me for the evening. The ambassador sounds most distraught so I ring him back immediately to confirm. "Only, your Excellency," I caution him, "I'm afraid it will cost somewhat more than the figure you mentioned."
There is a pause. He says: "We'll take it from the entertainment budget. That way we can pay you in the hand." "A pleasure doing business with you," I say and hang up. Time to get down to work. The embassy gig will be a bit of fun, but I have to pay the rent too. I put on my suit and his the street.
Networking is all-important for the modern temp. Who you know is more important than what you know - thank God, since I have no useful skills to speak of. Fortunately, the pool of labour is so small that it is not difficult to get your face known and seen in the places that count.
First stop, the Shelbourne, where I meet an old friend of mine from the dark, distant days of the PMPA typing pool. He is filling in behind the bar, the apprentice barman having been headhunted by a Mulhuddard catering consultancy. He advises me of an urgent vacancy in the Criminal Assets Bureau: their senior auditor has cracked up under the pressure of the workload and they are crying out for an experienced chartered accountant to prepare a case for trial that very afternoon.
I get on the phone and arrange to meet the Minister for Justice, who arrives 10 minutes later. We speak of terms and conditions and I agree to a small reduction in my fee in view of the fact that I am not a chartered accountant, and indeed have no more than a passing knowledge of arithmetic.
Laughable lunch-break
I spend an hour in the CAB before deciding it is not for me, and walking out. Let them find some other sucker. The one-and-a-half hours allotted to me for lunch is laughably short - even though I had taken the precaution of booking a table and ordering food in my favourite restaurant over the phone. Outside the office - I couldn't possibly tell you where it is, one passes through so many different ones - I hail a taxi and go to lunch.
My girlfriend Renagh, a waitress I met on the temping circuit, is waiting for me. At the moment she is working as a lounge girl in a four-acre pub off Camden street. The size of the pub works to her advantage, as she can run out and do nixers on an undermanned building site around the corner without being missed.
Stuffed roast duck drenched in Guinness sauce, served with wild mushrooms and sauteed new potatoes, and washed down with an excellent white wine; but the lunch is marred slightly by the maitre d' insisting on trying to talk Renagh into working for him. I mean, really, a grown man down on his knees. But Mr Guilbaud is an old friend so I tell the maitre d' I'll mention his predicament to Vinnie.
After lunch the business of networking continues. Renagh decides to ring in sick and we visit a few exhibitions - the ones with corporate sponsors - and I add a few more business cards to my wallet. Feeling thirsty, we head into a bar for a drink. It turns out to be the bar Renagh is currently working in, but the manager just winks at her. He knows which side his bread is buttered on. We sip our drinks and discuss mortgages and pension plans before I take my leave. The embassy awaits.
Hidden expense
It is a formal affair and it is necessary to hire evening wear - another hidden expense in the life of a temp. The occasion is the launch of some book or other. I never really do figure out what it was all about, though I am of course introduced to the author. After my speeches, the party gets under way and I mingle with the assembled critics, academics, diplomats and what-nots.
A businessman draws me aside and asks me if I can use Windows 95. I regretfully inform him that that was not on the curriculum at school. He is staggered at this evidence of the inadequacy of Irish education, but gives me his card anyway. There is cheese and wine but like any good temp I know better than to over-stay my welcome. I am home by midnight to feed the cat and surf the Internet for a couple of hours before turning in for the night.
I don't really have a typical day. The life of a temp is so varied. There are days when you work hard all afternoon, and then there are the dry spells - when you could just not be bothered going to work.