The Planner(12)

‘So I need to go and see the sights of Brixton and get mugged in Dalston?’

‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than that. Living in a modern city is an art form. What you need is some kind of plan to acquire and experience all the things in London that really matter. And curiously, you don’t seem to have one.’

Felix was right. Planning worked – James believed in planning. Or at least, without a plan you’re fucked. Even a bad plan, and they almost always were, had to be worth something. And James didn’t just need any plan. What he needed was a masterplan: a comprehensive and all encompassing strategy for his own development. Christ, he was a planner. If he could draft plans for affordable housing provision and traffic calming measures, then he should be able to come up with a plan for himself.

‘Perhaps it isn’t so odd. It’s certainly a familiar literary conceit – professional accomplishment belying personal incompetence. The distinguished chemist who doesn’t know how to make an omelette; the Mafia boss unable to control his teenage daughter. We might have the same thing here.’

James knew hardly anything about London. He had studied it and worked on it – you could say it was his profession. But that was the problem with being a town planner. You spent your time describing a city, but not living in it. He had taken instruction in how to be as detached and objective as possible and in the process he had become self-detached: he knew a great deal about the city’s air quality, but had no idea what to do with himself on a Saturday afternoon.

‘Look, you really shouldn’t go to Nottingham. Not until you’re sure that you’ve done all you can here.’

‘It’s actually a good job offer. I know you don’t think it’s what my life needs, but professionally it would be a big step up.’

‘All you need to do is make a plan and start implementing it. And if it doesn’t work out then take the Nottingham job. How long did you say you have to decide?’

‘About two months, I suppose.’

‘Well, there you go. Two months – that’s an enormous length of time in my sector. In two months products can undergo the most profound transformation.’

‘In my sector, it takes two months to write an economic impact assessment. Nothing has ever happened in two months.’

‘Believe me, in that time, all of London’s treasures can be opened up to you. You’re also good-looking – albeit in a not-very-exciting English way. That will make it easier.’

In all likelihood, thought James, Felix was a wanker. His name and profession were a giveaway. Plus, there was his appearance: the surly brown eyes, the unfriendly narrow nose and thin lips that seemed to be on the verge of breaking into a laugh but never did. He even smelt like a wanker – when he leaned in close, there was a zesty, menthol smell, as if he’d just that minute come out of one of his adverts for an upmarket brand of shower gel. And yet, for all that, there was no doubt that he wanted to help James, that he was being kind. Who knows, maybe he was kind.

‘Do you want another drink?’ said James.

‘That would be good,’ said Felix. ‘But I don’t think you should spend too much time in pubs like this. There aren’t many personal development opportunities here.’

James looked around him. It was Lionel’s favourite pub – a middle-manager’s pub, a pub where he could sit, safe in the knowledge that, in here, he would always be the one on the highest pay grade. Even James could tell that it wasn’t very nice. It wasn’t unsafe or anything – it wasn’t glamorously foul enough to attract thieves or drug dealers. It just didn’t attract anyone – except for environmental officers and town planners. At lunchtime it served sausage and chips and pies with thick crusts that sometimes made Lionel’s gums bleed. It had a dartboard and a fruit machine with a £4.80 maximum jackpot, which no living person had ever witnessed.

‘I’ve been coming here for years,’ said James. ‘I’ve sort of come to like it.’

‘That’s the danger. You’ve ended up liking all kinds of things that aren’t good for you.’

At the other end of the bar were numerous members of Southwark Council’s Planning, Community and Environment Directorates. Not everyone of course, but enough – a representative sample of the profession. Neil Tuffnel was there, drinking beer and trying to dislodge a peanut that was stuck in his teeth. Rachel had a pint of Guinness and a packet of crisps. Rupinder was at a table with a glass of lemonade that would last her all night, a useless pillock called Shahid was telling jokes to a dimwit called Phil Struthers. None of them were bad people, some of them were even quite good at their jobs, but you’d never want to be one of them. And James was one of them.