I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried. P’s forward momentum was on a direct collision course with Survey Heaven. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.
“Hey there, guys,” said the clipboarder, I can barely remember his face now, or if he, in fact, was balding or just that his pale blonde, wispy Christian-boy-cut was just a prelude, a prediction of what was to come in about five years, ten tops. I cut over to P, and the look my friend shot me made my heart sink, chilly through my chest. “Oh, P, no,” I murmured.
“Yes?” said P, charm personified, with a special smile for Clipboard Man.
“How would you like to help us out by sharing a few opinions?” said CM, heroically oblivious.
“Oh, P’s got plenty of those,” I said, laying my hand on P’s forearm, “but we have to...”
“We’d love to,” said P, royally.
Nnnhngh. Great.
“Wow, great,” said Wispy Blonde Boy, strangely mechanically. “We’re going to start with some general questions first, okay? Great. Age?”
“Twenty-six,” said P.
“And it’s M...?”
“Doctor...”
“Oh, right. Cool. Doctor...?”
Blank stare.
“Doctor Wwwhhat?” Nicely turned, Clipboard Boy.
“P. Smith.”
“First name?”
“P.”
“Spelt?”
“P.”
He waited. “Ah. Okay.” He looked down. “Heh.” Tapped the paper. “Oh.” Cleared his throat. “Er, well, we’ve done age. Er, good. Oh. Nationality?”
“British.”
“Cool.” He opened his mouth for the next syllable.
“Is it?”
“Sorry?”
“Is it? Cool?”
“Er.”
“Coz my mother is half-Polish. Does that make it less cool? By a factor of 25%? Or less? Or is it still cool?”
“That’s c... ok. All right, we’ll get back to those, then, shall we? We’ll get onto the more interesting part, okay? You’re probably wanting to get on.”
“On the contrary,” said P, peering at the man’s chest, “Geoff, we’re two young things out enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of a Saturday afternoon in Cardiff with all the time in the world, well, until about six o’clock for the major shops anyway. Plenty of leisure to enjoy interactions with fellow specimens such as yourself, eh, Geoff?”
“Right,” said Geoff, clearly mentally reviewing his contract, with particular reference to the part that says ‘... any other duties that may arise in the course of the post...’ “Okay,” he said, and flipped up the top sheet, which bulged, curiously suspended; it was clearly for demographic data only. He started reading, slightly haltingly: “For each of the following statements, please state whether you strongly disagree, disagree, feel neutral, agree, strongly agree or if it is ‘not applicable.’ Please ask the interviewer – that’s me,” he said with a thread of the old grin “—if you are unsure about any question or if you would like to have anything repeated or if you have any queries. We hope you enjoy the survey!” He looked up. “Is that all clear?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said P. I dropped my brow into my waiting palm. The movement happened curiously smoothly, almost as if I had done it twenty thousand times before in the company of this particular person.
“Garrh,” I whispered, just as Geoff said “Right, okay,” and P said:
“Sorry, can I just ask something?”
“Yeah, sure,” there was an unmistakable note of fatigue creaking the pleasant tone.
“Was it ‘strongly disagree’ first or ‘strongly agree’?”
“Er,” said Geoff and, the saints bless us, went to check at the top of the page where his finger was lodged. “It’s, er, disagree first.”
“Strongly disagree was that?”
“Yes,” said Geoff.
“Only I wasn’t sure it if was ‘severely disagree’.”
“No...”
“Only I thought, that can’t be right, coz you wouldn’t severely agree, would you. I mean it’s daft!”
“Yes,” said Geoff slowly, for the first time taking a good look at me and back at P, subtly examining clothes for signs of Care In The Community Plus Assistant.
“Okay, go,” said P.
“Ri...” said Geoff.
“Only it’s disagree, sorry, strongly disagree first, yes?”
“Yes! Aah, what does it matter, exactly?” Geoff had definitely morphed from ‘efficient’ to ‘terse,’ and none too subtly. He was a perilous few steps from ‘brusque,’ and that’s only staggering distance from ‘unreasoned violence,’ at least when P’s unleashed, anyway.
“I just wanted to get it straight in my head,” said P with a sunny smile. Which wintered quickly. “And don’t look at her like that,” Geoff had been trying to catch my eye for support, which I wasn’t willing, hell, able to give, “she’s got a boyfriend already, you know.”
“Yes, sorry, yes.” Geoff’s mood, too, was suffering a different season – it almost looked like rain was imminent.
“Okay, go,” said P again.
“Right,” said Geoff. He took a breath. “When I think about chocolate I feel guilty.”
Silence.
With a helpful look, Geoff repeated “When I think about chocolate, I feel guilty.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Geoff, but aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions?”
A muscle was working in a corner of Geoff’s jaw. “Sorry, that’s the first statement; you’re supposed to say whether you agree, augh, sorry, strongly disagree, disagree, feel neutral, agree or strongly agree with the statement or if it’s not application. Able. Acc–applicable.”
“Ah,” said P, nodding.
“You see?” begged Geoff.
“Indeed. Sorry, could I have it again?”
“What?”
“The statement.”
“Right.” Geoff unclenched his jaw. Rapidly: “When I think about chocolate I feel guilty.”
“Wellll,” said P, “I think it’s going to have to be a ‘not applicable.’”
“‘Not app...’” said Geoff, clicking his pen and bending forward to the clipboard.
“Because I don’t know how you feel.”
“What?” Geoff looked up slowly.
“How you feel about chocolate I have no idea,” said P, slowly and helpfully.
Geoff blinked at P like he’d suddenly been presented with a fish supper that had unaccountably fallen into a conformation that formed a rather accurate portrait of his dear old mum.
“B-but i-it’s... it’s you that...”
“And what’s this?” P was peering, this time, at the clipboard.
“What?” said Geoff, still in that flat, fainting voice.
“This here,” said P, tapping.
“Eh?” He flipped the page back. “But...”
“What made you put that? And without asking me?” demanded P, indignantly. “And where’s the third box? Where’s ‘not applicable,’ eh?”
Geoff’s face was one big baby-puzzled frown.
“You’ve ticked the wrong box, there.”
Geoff looked over at me, head virtually creaking on its bearings.
I smiled helpfully “The mistake you made was ticking a box at all. P insists we call P ‘P’ because it doesn’t tie P down to the...”
P chimed in so we finished in unison:
“... social constraints of a falsely-imposed gender definition.”
“What the fuck?” murmured Geoff, finally.
“P,” I explained, “is not-applicable pretty much down the line. Sorry,” I added.