WE’RE getting a visiting card made for you sir!” said someone on my staff, and I shuddered.
It’s become fashionable today to hand out business cards or so it seems to me, as cards, nineteen to the dozen are dished out to me.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say extending my hand to thin air. I look for the person who just a moment ago was making conversation, my arm caught in mid-air as if holding a vase or article of great value.
I slowly lower it, looking round to see whether those around have noticed my ludicrous action and once I have got silly fingers firmly back at my side, look round angrily for the person who had fooled me into offering it.
I find him either desperately fishing into pocket, opening wallet and looking furtively inside or walking over to his wife and enquiring whether she has any of his business cards left.
Then with a flourish he hands it over to me. I put in my pocket and for a moment I feel triumphant for Mr. Business Card man had actually wanted me to read it then and there in front of him, but with a vengeance that comes from him having ignoring my extended hand a moment before, I don’t give him that pleasure. “So, what is your name?” I ask pleasantly.
“It’s on the card!” “And what do you do?” “It’s on the card!”
“Ah yes!” I say and wander away from the sullen stranger who I notice is quite glad I didn’t offer him my own in return.
I don’t because I never seem to have one handy and also because the one that was printed for me fifteen years ago and which gives outdated information about me, still hasn’t run out.
The reason being the printer died after having delivered those cards and his overzealous son who took over the business thinking his father hadn’t completed my order printed another thousand cards for me.
Now what do I do with two thousand cards? So, I’ll take the cards with me on my final journey home. “What’s this you’ve brought with you Bob?” “My visiting card my Lord,” I will say, “Here have a look at it.” “No Bob.” “But it tells everything. See here it tells you I wrote every day. I was a columnist, a humour writer!” “I know Bob,” “Without looking at my visiting card?”
“Your card my son, tells me nothing about you,” says God as he tears up my card, “Your heart does and I’m looking at it now Bob”! I shudder again and turn to the one who’d said she was getting a card made for me, “Can I do without a card?” I ask, and as she looks at me disapprovingly, I make good my escape..!
