Businessless

Another time, I suggested – perhaps too optimistically – that we rotate our schedules so Ivor could cover Saturdays once in a while. His reply, predictably delivered in the group chat for maximum dramatic effect, was that I should “be more understanding, as some of us have families and kids.”

Ultimately, his antics reached their natural conclusion. After one final warning, delivered with the kind of seriousness even Ivor couldn’t deflect with a joke, he was asked to leave.

In his true fashion, Ivor departed with the company work phone, which contained crucial contacts like suppliers, waste collection schedules, and maintenance numbers. Naturally, he had no intention of returning it.

Rather than prolong the absurdity, we decided to let it go. Within weeks, we had replaced the lost contacts, found new suppliers, and moved on, leaving Ivor firmly in the past.

But what truly set Ivor apart was his apparent mastery of the great unspoken truth of our workplace: the less effort you put in, the less anyone expected of you. And inversely, the more initiative you showed, the more likely you were to drown in tasks you’d later regret volunteering for.

Li and I, f course, hadn’t cracked this code at the time. We still operated under the delusion that hard work would be noticed and rewarded. The manager, on the other hand, had clearly figured it out. He didn’t fight. He didn’t overextend himself. And as a result, he floated through his shifts with an almost enviable ease.

Looking back, though, it’s worth noting that Li and myself outlasted most of our colleagues, Ivor included. Perhaps our naïve optimism, misguided as it was, gave us the stamina to endure the endless loop of chaos that defined our shop.

Take Ed, for instance. A tall, affable young man with a contagious laugh, Ed was technically a part-time assistant, though you’d be forgiven for forgetting he worked there at all. His primary roles included handling deliveries and collections from suppliers and covering the occasional shop shift. Conveniently, Ed lived just around the corner from the office – a fact that made his limited availability even more puzzling.

While Ed’s proximity suggested he could pop by at a moment’s notice to handle late orders or emergencies, the reality was quite different. Friends who lived miles away seemed to show up more often than Ed, who managed to cover only two days a week.

Sergio was, without exaggeration, the shop’s greatest enigma – a phantom employee whose job title was as elusive as his presence. Was he our digital guru, overseeing the website, managing stock levels, and handling customer support? Or was his role metaphysical, existing somewhere between the realms of intention and inaction? Nobody, not even the investor who hired him, seemed to know.

Sergio was never physically in the shop. not once did we see him lugging parcels, chatting with customers, or even lurking in the back room pretending to be busy. Communication with him was just as rare. Occasionally, he would send an email that read more like a riddle than an update:

Stock levels adjusted. Please verify.

Verify what, exactly? That we didn’t have ten truffle pasta packs when his adjustments claimed we did?

This became a recurring nightmare. Li and I would arrive at the shop each morning, americano in hand, ready to tackle the day’s orders. We’d pull up the system and discover a fresh batch of online purchases for items that, according to the shelves, didn’t exist. Ten packs of truffle pasta? Zero in stock. Six jars of black truffle tapenade? None to be found.

Cue the ritual humiliation: one of us would trudge to the office, pick up the clunky landline phone, and begin the awkward calls to customers.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson? Yes, about your order. Unfortunately, we’re out of stock on the truffle pasta you ordered. Yes, I know the website showed availability. Yes, I understand it’s disappointing. Yes, we can offer you a voucher…”

Meanwhile, the other would pace the shop floor, muttering curses at Sergio and his mysterious “adjustments”.

The worst part was explaining the situation to D.

– Why are there unfulfilled orders? – he would demand, pacing the shop like a disappointed school principal.

– Because, – I would reply as diplomatically as possible, – Someone, cough (Sergio) cough, keeps restocking items online that we don’t actually have.

D would pause, his brow furrowed in thought, before responding with his signature noncommittal, “hmmm…”

No follow-up, no plan to address the issue – just an unspoken agreement that Li and I would continue to shoulder the burden.

The cycle repeated itself so often that we began to view Sergio as a mythical figure, like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Stories of his supposed contributions were whispered but never verified.

– Do you think he even exists? – Li asked one day, halfway through another round of apologetic phone calls.

– Honestly? I’m starting to think he’s just D in disguise, – I said. – Think about it: have you ever seen them in the same room?

The idea got us through the rest of the day with barely concealed giggles, though it didn’t solve the problem of phantom stock levels or Sergio’s perpetual absence. If he had a talent, it was making us look like fools while remaining entirely invisible. In a way, I almost admired his dedication to doing the absolute least. Almost.

Chapter 2. Monday

Monday hadn’t started on the brightest of notes. D, the investor, arrived at the shop, clearly in one of his less charitable moods. He instructed his driver to wait outside, a gesture that sent a chill down our spines.

Li and I looked at each other, each silently lamenting the sudden derailing of our plans for a peaceful morning. ‘Fantastic’ we both thought. That means he’s planning to stay a while. How many groundbreaking ideas will we be graced with today?

We had hoped to enjoy our americanos in relative tranquillity while booking orders, but D’s arrival meant the universe had other plans. His signature question came as predictably as the sun rising in the east: “How many orders do we have today?”

In the delicate art of truffle retail – a business centered on a luxury product that no one actually needs – this question was a minefield. Sales were dictated by the ebb and flow of seasonal demand, a factor we had long since come to terms with, though explaining it to D was like trying to teach a cat about rain.

The truth was that the truffle trade operated in cycles. Spring and autumn were lean months; summer and winter, however, were bustling thanks to the Umbrian truffle harvest. Black truffles, which were mercifully available most of the year, ensured we had something to sell, while the highly coveted white truffle, harvested only from November to January, made our winters lucrative.

But with the investor, it never mattered what we said. If we reported an influx of orders, clearly a positive sign, he would respond with a dubious “hmmm…” If, on the other hand, we shook our heads and sighed dramatically to convey a lack of orders, he would deliver the same contemplative “hmmm…”

And so, when he strode into the shop that morning, asking his signature question, Li and I decided to take the more dramatic route.

– How many orders do we have today?

We exchanged quick glances, sighed deeply, and delivered our response with the air of tragic thespians.

– Not many, D. probably around five or six orders. Maybe one or two store pickups.

– Hmmm… – D mused, stroking his chin as though weighing the fate of the business on this alarming revelation.

And then came the inevitable.

– Maybe we should create a truffle subscription box! Send truffles to people monthly. It’s genius – regular customers, steady cash flow. For instance, six months gets them a five percent discount. Twelve months? Ten percent off. It’s foolproof.

We stood frozen, trying not to exchange looks that might betray our thoughts. The logistics of a truffle subscription box were enough to induce a mild headache. Never mind that truffles, by their very nature, weren’t designed for monthly shipping.

I couldn’t help but picture the poor customer who subscribed on a whim, inspired by one too many food blogs. By month two, they would realize they were completely weary of truffle taste. Truffle linguini? Again? Truffle risotto? Please, no more. They would comb through our website desperately searching for a cancellation policy, only to find nothing but vague references to our ‘commitment to customer satisfaction’.

Frustrated, they would resort to Googling ‘recipes to disguise truffles’, blending them into sauces, soups, and possibly smoothies just to avoid waste. By month five, I imagined, they’d have set up a truffle swap with equally regretting subscribers.

But D, as always, left utterly pleased with himself, confident that he’d once again revolutionized the world of truffle retail. As his driver pulled away, Li and I collapsed into our chairs, sipping americanos and letting the silence stretch between us.

– You know, – I said, finally breaking the quiet, – this reminds me of the time I tried to cancel my gym membership. I’d been so in love with that gym – fantastic classes, great equipment, the perfect smoothie bar. But when it came to cancelling my membership, all of those fond feelings evaporated. First, I wanted to freeze it – seemed reasonable, right? But apparently, you can only freeze it for one month, and I was going on a long holiday. So I decided to cancel instead. I had to explain my “urgent need to terminate” – and provide evidence. Actual evidence! I ended up sending them my flight itinerary. Even after I provided everything, they informed me I’d still need to pay for two extra months. Apparently, three months was their standard policy, but they graciously reduced it for me because my reason was so compelling. And by compelling, I mean I begged. By the time it was over, I couldn’t even remember why I liked the place. All I felt was relief – and a little bitterness. That whole experience left a sediment, you know?

– Yes, now picture those poor subscribers trying to cancel their truffle journey… If we actually launch this, we’ll need a dedicated cancellation department.

We both laughed at the thought, our spirits momentarily lifted by the absurd parallels.

– I mean, – I began, carefully balancing my americano in one hand while gesturing animatedly with the other, – it may look like a brilliant idea on paper to lock clients into six or twelve-month contracts. I’m sure D is envisioning a steady flow of revenue and monthly truffle deliveries creating this aura of exclusivity. But has anyone thought about the logistics of this so-called “campaign”? Who’s going to make it work?

I rolled my eyes.

– Sergio? The man who forwards us every single email from a dissatisfied customer because he can’t be bothered to deal with them himself? “Can you please handle this customer?” That’s his favourite line. He’d outsource his own existence if he could. And now we’re supposed to trust him to manage a subscription service? No chance.

Li burst into laughter.

– Can you imagine the chaos? One look at the subscriptions tab on the website and he will be out of the door faster than Ed on a Friday night.

– And then it will be us – I continued, – Answering endless phone calls from customers who want to cancel their subscriptions. “I’ve had enough truffles to last me a lifetime, thank you very much”. And you know how much we love phone calls…

– Despise, – Li corrected, – we despise phone calls.

– Exactly, – I said. – We’ve perfected the art of avoidance. If the phone rings and it’s not the courier or the supplier, we look at each other like it’s a ticking time bomb. Imagine adding cancellation calls into the mix. It’d be a disaster. We’d drown in them.

D and his unshakable faith in disruptive innovation. You’ve got to admire the sheer optimism of a man who believes the solution to any problem – real or imagined – is another harebrained business idea. Because when people think of monthly essentials, they won’t include luxury fungi somewhere between toilet paper and coffee pods.

It sounds wonderful, of course, until you consider the logistics. First, truffles are seasonal, perishable, and notoriously fussy about storage. Second, the very nature of truffles is indulgence – something special, not a recurring bill in your bank statement next to your monthly subscriptions.

The cancellation process? If D’s subscription box idea follows the same logic as most of his “genius” concepts, cancelling will be an exercise in bureaucratic torment. And yet, he would see it all as a success. He’d point to subscriber retention rates (read: the inability to cancel) as proof of the idea’s brilliance. The customer complaints? Just growing pains. The fact that Li and I would be the ones fielding these complaints? Just a minor detail.

Chapter 3. A day off

This morning, my phone buzzed with Ed’s name flashing on the screen. I hesitated. Experience had taught me that Ed’s calls rarely heralded good news, let alone on my day off. Still, optimism got the better of me, and I answered.

– Hey, M, – Ed began, his voice hurried and unusually nervous. – Do you know by any chance where the Challenge 25* note is?

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Challenge 25, the most basic requirement of any shop selling alcohol. We’d explained it a dozen times before.

– It should be displayed on the window upstairs, – I replied, keeping my voice calm despite the rising frustration. – Did you check there? Is everything alright?

– Yeah, – he said quickly, too quickly. – It’s just that… the council representative is here, and he’d like to have a look around and speak to you.

*Challenge 25 is a retailing strategy that encourages anyone who is over 18 but looks under 25 to carry acceptable ID if they wish to buy alcohol.

– To me? Wait, why m…

But before I could finish, I heard the unmistakable sound of the phone being handed over.

Before this call, Li and I often mused, in a moment of shared exasperation, about how comical it would be to see the guys manage a council visit without our guiding hands.

– Can you imagine, – Li once said, – Ed trying to explain food safety regulations? Or Marcus bluffing his way through a conversation about hygiene protocols? – and I’d laugh so hard I nearly spilled my coffee.

– It would be the performance of the century, – I agreed, imagining Ed attempting to locate the temperature logs or Marcus improvising some grand tale about our intricate system of storing the inventory in the “meeting” room.

And yet, here it was: the moment of truth. The council representative had arrived, clipboard in hand, and how were the guys handling it? By calling me. On my day off. To talk to him.

– One moment, – I heard Ed say on the other end of the line, and his voice was unusually cheerful as if handling a council visit over to me was the most natural solution in the world. A polite, businesslike voice greeted me.

– Hello, this is Mr. Patel from the council, – the representative said. – I’ve just got a few questions regarding the shop’s compliance with health and safety standards.

Of course, he does. Why wouldn’t he? And why wouldn’t I be the one to answer them, despite being nowhere near the shop?

As Mr. Patel began rattling off questions about temperature logs, food storage practices, and cleaning routines, my mind couldn’t help but wander to the conversation Li and I shared. I had joked about the chaos that would ensue, but now I felt more like the punchline to my own joke. Clearly, the guys’ idea of “handling things” was to bypass any attempt at personal responsibility and pass the proverbial buck – straight to me.

– Yes, Mr. Patel, – I said, switching to my best professional tone while pacing my kitchen. – The temperature logs should be in the black folder by the counter.

– Have they been filled out recently? – I was met with an awkward pause – no doubt Ed’s guilty face looming in the background.

I could almost picture the scene in the shop: Ed standing by the till, wide-eyed and vaguely panicked, while the council poked around with a clipboard. Li and I had tried countless times to instil a sense of responsibility in our colleagues – gentle reminders, detailed notes, even step-by-step instructions for tasks like switching off equipment. However, those tasks always seemed to slip through their fingers like water through a sieve.

– I’ll check on that, – Mr. Patel replied diplomatically.

Meanwhile, I was mentally drafting a list of things to go over with Ed and Marcus. Again. Perhaps this time I should laminate it and stick it on every available surface in the shop.

– And what about your waste disposal policy? – the council worker continued.

– Strictly followed, – I said firmly, though inwardly I cringed at the memory of the towers of empty boxes and containers sitting in our so-called “meeting” room.

When the conversation finally drew to a close, I exhaled with a momentary relief as I set the phone down, but knowing full well that this calm will last only until the next inevitable follow-up call. My breakfast tea was stone cold by now, but at least the immediate crisis was over. And as I stood there, I couldn’t help but think of another time Ed had managed to turn a simple task into a comedy of errors – this time involving a Christmas tree. But later about that.

The delicate art of delegation – or, as Ed and Marcus seem to interpret it, the fine tradition of creative avoidance. Why tackle a challenge yourself when you can simply toss it into the lap of someone more qualified, and ideally, far away? Bonus points if it’s their day off. The Challenge 25 debacle is a case study in how even the most straightforward responsibilities can, in the wrong hands, spiral into a crisis of Shakespearean proportions. The sign, the most basic tool in an alcohol-selling establishment’s arsenal, had apparently been forgotten, misplaced, or, knowing Ed, perhaps accidentally filed under Miscellaneous.

The sheer audacity of Ed’s handoff was almost impressive: cheerfully absolving himself of all responsibility, as though he were doing me a favour by granting me this opportunity to shine. This is the same man who likely wouldn’t locate a thermometer in the shop without detailed instructions and possibly GPS. Yet, when faced with the scrutiny of a council officer, he suddenly had the strategic prowess of a general retreating from the battlefield.

Meanwhile, I found myself walking the familiar tightrope of professionalism and damage control. “Strictly followed,” I assured Mr. Patel about waste disposal, all while suppressing the memory of that “waste sculpture” Ed and Marcus had inadvertently created in our back room – a modern art installation of cardboard boxes, empty containers, and crushed spirits.

Reflecting on the ordeal, I realize Ed and Marcus’s true talent lies in their ability to turn even the smallest oversight into a moment of high drama. Forget retail – these two should really pursue careers in improv. The way they can effortlessly pass the buck, ad-lib their way through inspections, and transform every situation into an all-hands-on-deck emergency.

Chapter 4. Meeting room

Ah, the “meeting room”. In the beginning, it was a pristine space, with a sturdy rectangular table and a few chairs neatly arranged, as if waiting patiently for an occasion of significance – for instance, a strategic brainstorm, an important conference call, or at least a brief discussion on the future of the business. But, as the weeks rolled by without so much as a single meeting, its intended purpose began to fade, quietly replaced by a more practical calling.

At first, we just stored a few necessary supplies: spare packaging, shopping bags, toiletries, and an emergency stash of truffle oil. Soon, however, the room started to attract anything and everything that didn’t have a designated place. An extra coat rack mysteriously appeared, followed by an assortment of random boxes from past orders. Slowly, the space transformed. One box became two, two became four, and eventually, we found ourselves stacking items in complex arrangements that would give even the most experienced warehouse organizer pause.

Before long, the “meeting room” was lost to a mountain of supplies and oddities. Extra chairs? They found themselves jammed in a corner, like reluctant guests at a dinner party who didn’t know when to leave. Excess stock from last winter’s truffle shipment? Oh, it was now a proud feature in the corner, as if we were intentionally creating a truffle mountain for aesthetic purposes. Old promotional materials that no one had the heart to throw away? They were stuffed behind the door, probably making the door a fire hazard in the process. It got to the point where we couldn’t even step inside without tiptoeing over a tower of tissue paper or risking a cascade of cardboard boxes.

Stepping into the room became an obstacle course. The delicate art of entering without causing an avalanche of cardboard boxes became an unspoken challenge. One wrong move, and you’d be tumbling over a tower of tissue paper, or, if you were unlucky, a small cascade of forgotten packaging materials would come crashing down on you in a very “before and after” warehouse disaster video.

We tried. Oh, how we tried to tidy up. We gave the room an earnest effort at being something remotely presentable. We even managed to make it look non-hazardous, at least to the naked eye. If the local council from Westminster happened to wander in for a surprise inspection, they’d probably pass it off as “quirky” rather than condemn it for violating half a dozen safety codes. Even the pest control worker – usually a man of few words and many complaints – had nothing to say after we cleared the corners. And believe me, those corners were where the most dangerous species of dust bunnies lived. We were practically heroes in the eyes of public health.

But, as with most attempts at order in this chaos, it didn’t last. Marcus must have noticed the freshly cleared floor space in the “meeting room” and, thinking it was a perfect opportunity, decided to drop off the beer order. Fine. A necessary delivery. But Marcus did not just leave the beer in an orderly fashion. No, that would have been far too easy.

Instead, Marcus thought, why not leave an entire wooden palette in the middle of the room? A massive, jagged wooden contraption, with nails sticking out of it like a medieval torture device, proudly occupying the now-precious space we had cleared. It was as if he had decided the “meeting room” should be a temporary storage unit for things that wouldn’t even pass a cursory glance from a health and safety officer.

Of course, the idea of “Health and Safety” in this context was laughable. The idea of keeping anything remotely organized was an afterthought, and, as usual, the universe had conspired to ensure that the meeting room was never more than a whimsical disaster waiting to happen. The palette, with its rogue nails and defiant presence, was a perfect metaphor for how the whole business was run – chaotic, unplanned, and yet somehow, impossibly, still standing.

Chapter 5. Christmas Tree setback

The bar of expectations rise,

My confidence requires proof,

My gut, my mind think otherwise

And yet my ego tells me ‘do’

As soon as at the end of December, when the holiday rush died down, the shop turned from festive chaos into a sleepy quiet. Other shop keepers on our street in London would switch their decorations from garlands and Christmas trees to rose petals, boxed chocolates and other Valentine’s Day attributes.

Li and I knew that it was time to strip the shop of Christmas cheer and prepare for Valentine’s Day. This task wasn’t exactly scheduled. We would glance at the window displays of neighbouring shops, wait for the first brave soul to swap out Santa for Cupid, and then grudgingly follow suit.