How was it for you&;#063;

A lot is happening around me as I feel the sharp tip of Marco's pen
scratch against my back.

A week's a long time in corporatecuddlebiz. Individual specks of soap
on the bath water, here we all are at the end of our journey. Six days
ago, in this very room, we stood scattered, cautious, viewing one
another warily through the eyepiece of introspection. Since then, we
have been drawn together with a growing force, and now, right now, in
one, homogeneous, back-slapping mass, we are being sucked into the
vortex of virtual friendship. I was convinced I would fortuitously run
into some doldrums, then tread water and watch, detached, as my
collaborators raced by like frenzied driftwood. But I was wrong. I am
aware that I too have been riding the wave, and now here I am on the
edge, in the goalmouth, staring down into the maelstrom of measured
interpersonal development.

'Your turn,' I tell Marco as he slaps my shoulder to indicate he is
done. He dutifully turns his back to me. I place a hand on his shoulder
and write my message onto the clean white cotton of his T-shirt. I tell
him I am glad I met him and I want to keep in touch. And I mean it, I
really do. But the reality of the vortex is one with which I am
familiar. We enter it with all the euphoria of a last day at College.
Sadly, however, the chances of me keeping in touch with Marco aren't
that much greater than Marco turning up to work one day in a kimono and
his girlfriend's push-up.

Right now though, I am not concerning myself with the sustainability of
artificially-inseminated friendship. We shake hands and grip the
other's upper arm. 'Ciao,' I say, consumed by the international flavour
of the moment. 'I'll miss you.' Marco smiles his soft, modest smile.
'Ciao, Boy George! I'll miss you too.'

The energy level in the room is high. There is so much noise, even
though nobody is revealing the content of the feed-back he is
giving.

There is another hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Dick. His fibre-tip
works against the wrinkles and tickles me through the cotton. I wonder
what he is writing. It probably won't be nice - we haven't exactly hit
it off. It all started to go down-hill when I cheated in the energiser.
I feel a mild sense of regret. I had no right to hurt his expectation
of integrity. Besides, I prefer to be loved than loathed. He finishes
his message and leaves quietly. I decide not to stop him. It is a split
second decision, but in that split second I feel that I do not wish to
leave a message for him to remember me by. I would not know what to
write.

Instead, I stretch out and grab Annette. Her upper back is already full
of praise, mainly on the fairly obvious subject of her aesthetic charm.
Sandro has dedicated an entire sleeve to telling her what a 'lovely
young lady' she is. In order to make my contribution to the shrine, I
am obliged to go down on one knee and leave my feed-back in the area of
the shirt which hangs below her waist. With an embarrassing absence of
originality, I remind her how lovely and beautiful she is. Her cheeks
twitch as my knib sinks a pair of valedictory kisses into their marshy
flesh.

Now Sandro, the Italian Adonis, is in front of me. 'Finally!' he
exclaims. 'I-yava found you!' His grey curls spring from his scalp, the
horn rim of his spectacles lending a distinction to his wide,
hyper-alert eyes. I am struck not for the first time by his uncanny
resemblance to David Baddeil. He swings me round and massages his
message across my ribs. I find myself recalling our conversation
yesterday in the bar. We talked long into the night. He told me about
the divorce, and about his best friend with the long black hair and
violet eyes - he slept with her then lost her. I talked openly about my
concerns at becoming a father. There was a connection. I am not alone
in being seduced by Sandro's charisma, I realise that. But, as he
deliberatively inscribes his laundry-mark forget-me-not into my back,
there is a childish urgency in my soul, a desperation that he is
writing Arrivederci. See you again.

During the first few days of this big-business group therapy programme,
I formed few opinions on my fellow players in the drama. Only now, as I
stand on the edge of the vortex, is my soul ready to process the
information it has gathered on them. Yesterday's feed-back sessions may
have been the catalyst: there was no blood. We played with the
safety-catch on. Tarantino would have been disappointed. But the
candour and sensitivity with which difficult messages were delivered
was a bonding experience. Rarely are we called upon to be honest and
empirical in our opinions of those around us. It takes courage and
engenders respect. As a group, we have been brought together by the
process.

When I get back to my room, I pull off my T-shirt, pretending to myself
that there is no urgency in my desire to see what has been written
about me. I lay it flat on the bed, face-down. People like my trousers
and my sense of humour. Marco and Sandro want to see me again. That's
great.

In the bottom left-hand corner are the words: 'Sharp. Challenging. Keep
it that way. Dick.' I am astonished. He can't loathe me after all. If
he did, he would surely have disguised his true feelings with some
banality.

When I say good-bye to Dick in the foyer, we shake hands, we smile. He
tells me I am sensitive enough to manage my directness without hurting
others.

I tell him I have learnt from him. I mean it.

He's not a Dick after all.