Businessless

This book is dedicated to my dad, my mum, and my dearest friend, J.

Prologue.

How we met

It was a chilly November day almost five and a half years ago when Li and I first crossed paths. She had come to the shop for her initial interview, just as our previous business assistant was preparing to leave. My father, the firm’s director at the time, had arranged for a hiring agency to send a few candidates our way. Nestled in central London, our office enjoyed an enviable spot, flanked by Baker and Marylebone streets, right at the heart of all the hustle and charm. Or, come to think of it, maybe this is a long shot – the heart of London, as many would confidently say, is somewhere else, but liver or kidneys area look like an adequate reference as far as London’s breathing organism is concerned.

As soon as Li walked through the door, there was an inexplicable sense that this was the beginning of something enduring – a friendship that somehow felt older than that single moment. Li, you once told me you had the strange feeling we already knew each other back then. And I felt it too, as though our connection had been waiting patiently to be rediscovered that day.

I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday. It wasn’t just the beginning of a friendship; it was also the day my coffee preferences changed forever – a shared love for caffeine that would play its own essential role in our story. But, perhaps more importantly, it was the day we quietly agreed to turn every work-related twist, every ‘tricky’ moment, into something we could laugh about.

And the reality is, anyone can relate to this: there are those rare days when you feel like quitting, and there are days when you finally realise – it is entirely your choice how to respond to any challenges which you are facing at the present.

I was sitting upstairs at the reception desk, a little nervous myself, even though I was not technically involved in an interview. My father introduced us warmly.

– It’s very nice to meet you, – I said, extending my hand. – Would you like some tea or coffee?”

– Yes, coffee would be great, – she replied with an easy smile.

– Would you like some milk with that?

– Oh, no, – Li said, shaking her head with just a hint of determination. – Just black americano, please.

And that was like a bolt of lightning for me. Why did I assume back then that a young woman like me (I was 24 then) would only go for some fancy, extra shot, oat or almond milk based, and hazelnut sugar-free syrup latte? I couldn’t picture drinking a cup of strong-roast black coffee.

I somehow managed to create a parallel between my mixed views on certain things in life, and coffee: just like my never changing love for a full of ‘unnecessary sugar-boost calories’ latte, my perception on other things didn’t always have any alternatives.

So, you can imagine the extent of my internal disagreement when Li said “no” to a milky coffee.

You see that coffee has taken on a symbolic weight for us in the retail world. It’s not just a drink anymore – it’s almost a code, a language that speaks to the kind of day you are having or the person you are dealing with. A drink that also mirrored our no-nonsense attitude: sometimes direct and without the need for sweeteners. Cup of strong americano, no sugar, naturally would recreate in your mind a person with a bold, opinionated character. We both shared a view that there was no need to coat words in a syrup, so a strong americano suited us perfectly. It has become a way to make sense out of the occasional chaos around us.

It had become a bonding ceremony for Li and I to enjoy a strong cup of americano every Monday morning (and through the week of course). Over that first sip, we would recount the weekend’s events, like two old friends catching up after years apart. Naturally, the coffee fuelled our discussions about work too – from trivial matters to the pressing topics of the day. It is fair to say that this book might not even exist if it weren’t for our mutual passion for those steaming cups of coffee. So, to stay true to that, I’ve decided to keep the format of this book much like our Monday chats – a dialogue between friends and colleagues.

It will be important to say here that in my eyes the nature of our job was never challenging or tough. The stress level during our eight-hour shifts was always so low (with a few notable exceptions) whereas I was involved in a little bit of everything: from serving customers to dealing with the shop stock supplies and working on various marketing materials and their reprint. The reason why I was allowed to participate in all sorts of tasks when the company was just found, is because initially this ‘family business’ had my father as a sole director. I joined in straight after receiving a Bachelor degree; then I was helping part-time to boost the company’s presence with all my fresh knowledge of marketing and digital campaigning. Li had a Business assistant role, and similarly she was doing all there was to do in the shop.

This book is not meant to portray our job as dreadful or make it seem like there’s a reason to complain about it. Quite the opposite: we have chosen to approach our experiences with a light-hearted touch, finding humour in moments that could easily be seen otherwise. Where a simple smile wasn’t enough, we paired the absurdity with a hint of sadness, knowing that sometimes laughter is the only way through. Every scenario you read here, every situation I describe, shaped me in subtle yet profound ways.

Perhaps this short book will help you spot new opportunities in unexpected places, just as it did for me. The next time you find yourself questioning whether you are truly where you want to be, or if you’re doing what makes you happy, flip through a random page of this book. Take a quick moment to smile, but don’t lose yourself in overthinking. During my years with the company that will soon unfold in these pages, there was little time for too much introspection. And that’s okay.

So whether you’re reading this on a quiet train ride, or while sprawled out on your couch, I hope it brings a soft chuckle, or maybe even a full-bellied laugh.

Chapter 1. Acquaintance

A crisp autumn morning in London. I’m rushing to make it to the office on time – no small feat considering my hour-and-half commute from Berkshire.

Navigating the twists and turns off Edgware Road, I slip onto Harcourt Street, thoughts circling around a single refrain: coffee, coffee, coffee. I could easily enjoy a cup at home, but knowing there is a twenty-to-thirty-minute window of pure, uninterrupted dark roast indulgence waiting for me at the shop, I resist the urge.

Oh, right. I should mention – I work at one of London’s little family-run food boutiques, a place known for selling the finest Italian truffles from Umbria. One of those exquisite delicacies you could absolutely live without – though saying that aloud might undermine my commitment to excellence. Perhaps the line should go something like: You can live without truffles, but why would you? I will workshop it later.

‘Honestly, if I’m ten minutes late, it’s not as if a line of impatient customers will be waiting at the door’, I muse, soothing myself into a slight detour to Marks & Spencer* for a bag of cheese twists.

*Marks and Spencer is a major British multinational retailer.

Our midday treat – a quiet ritual shared with a cup of coffee after lunch.

In a way, it has become an unspoken pact: we never plan who is bringing what, yet somehow, each of us just knows when it’s our turn to fetch the snacks.

Bag of twists in hand, I carry on toward Crawford Street, our little oasis. Here, the flow of people passing by, and the hum of taxis and cyclists strike a delicate balance. It’s neither as crowded as nearby Baker Street nor as serene as, say… well, I’m not entirely sure there are any quiet corners in London. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.

I find a certain thrill in these busy mornings. There is something satisfying about being the first one to step into the shop and mark the start of our day by lifting the blinds, letting the early light spill across the main floor. The space fills with that soft, tentative sunlight, casting long beams that touch every corner, and I make a dash to silence the door alarm – though by then, it’s likely already ruffled the neighbours.

Normally, of course, this ritual falls to my colleague Li, who’s nearly always here before me. I’m speaking of those rare mornings when, by some twist of fate, I arrive before she does.

And then, of course, there’s the scent – a light veil of truffles, earthy and aromatic, wrapping the entire shop. Over time, the fragrance has grown on me, becoming as much a part of my daily rhythm as the coffee. Now, that scent feels familiar, almost comforting, like a touch of home. For many, ‘home’ has a distinct aroma – warm bread, fresh linens, maybe lavender – but for us, it’s truffles, grounding and rich. In some strange way, it’s the smell that connects us to this place.

Our shop isn’t large – just the ground floor, a bright space with three small tables for our customers and a reception area, where display shelves are stocked with samples.

Downstairs, the basement holds a spacious office where all the storing, packing, and shipping happen. Between these two spaces, divided by a staircase, lies our so-called ‘meeting room’. Amusingly, this ‘meeting room’ has only seen actual meetings perhaps once or twice, if memory serves. For the first couple of years when the shop just opened, it remained a quiet, unused corner of the shop, always at the ready should a rare, formal gathering ever be required. But then, something happened with the logic of the space usage – the ‘meeting room’ transformed into ‘store-all-we-can’ room.

– Can you grab me a roll of tape? – Li asked one day, standing by the door, peering into the abyss.

– Sure, – I said, stepping inside with all the confidence of an archaeologist entering an uncharted tomb. My foot landed on something that crinkled ominously – a box of tissue paper, buried under bubble wrap. – I think the tape’s back here…behind this mountain of expired menus…

– Oh, those menus! – Li sighed dramatically. Remember when Damian insisted we’d run out in a week? And now here they are, taking up prime real estate.

Still, you might think: That must be the perfect setup for a thriving business! A decently sized office nestled in the very heart of England, right where the magic happens. A prime location, really – the kind of place that just begs you to imagine a bustling hub of commerce. Add to that an array of amazing products with packaging so attractive they practically leap off the shelves, prices so tempting they could charm even the stingiest of wallets. Top it all off with a small but allegedly professional team, and surely, you’d expect success to come waltzing in through the front door like an invited guest.

But let me stop you right there.

Because up to this day, I remain firmly convinced of one undeniable truth: you can have every ingredient for success in place, down to the last detail, but if you lack one crucial element – the willingness of your team to follow instructions and work together – well, you may as well just pack up your ambitions. And here’s the kicker: the number of employees doesn’t matter. It could be a sprawling corporate behemoth with thousands of workers or, like our operation, a cozy little setup with just under ten people. Chaos is not a respecter of headcounts. It’s a mindset, an art form, and it flourishes when even a few individuals decide that the rules don’t apply to them.

Take our team, for instance. Less than ten people, you’d think we’d be a well-oiled machine, moving in perfect harmony like one of those synchronized swimming teams at the Olympics. But instead, we were often more like an amateur improv group – everybody doing their own thing and hoping it would somehow come together in the end.

The problem? A few of our colleagues decided they were CEOs of their own little empires. Instructions? Optional. Teamwork? Overrated. It’s like watching a game of chess where half the players would be ignoring the rules, and the other half would be there just trying to figure out which pieces are missing.

Alright, let me just brew myself a quick cup of coffee while you settle in and acquaint yourself with the key characters in this story. It may take us some time to unravel precisely what’s going on here – and what everyone, in fact, does around this place. Fair warning: clarity isn’t exactly our specialty, and certainty is often in short supply.

So, if we find ourselves tangled in a web of half-explained happenings, I’d strongly suggest enjoying this little book with a generous dose of humour, and perhaps… a touch less analysis.

Steve, my dad, the Director – if there’s one word to describe him, it’s exceptional. Exceptionally intelligent, exceptionally skilled with numbers, and exceptionally hardworking. He didn’t just run the company; he held it together, patching cracks in its foundation before they turned into chasms and steering it away from disaster on more occasions than I could count. And no, this isn’t nepotism talking. This is cold, hard fact.

To be fair, this book doesn’t need much embellishment anyway. Exaggeration is unnecessary when the highs were truly high, and the lows were chaotic enough to make one question the very fabric of reality.

What truly amazed me was my dad’s tolerance for the cast of characters swirling around him, each more perplexing than the last. They’re not bad people, per se. Most of them had good intentions – or so we told ourselves during moments of fleeting optimism. But good intentions, as we all know, don’t necessarily translate into competence, and many of them lacked even a faint understanding of how to run a business.

Had I been in his shoes, I doubt I would have lasted a single day without losing my temper – or my mind. I sometimes wondered if my father secretly enjoyed the challenge – or if he simply refused to let the madness win. Whatever his reasons, his resilience was the glue that held us together. Because if even he had faltered, the rest of us wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Lijana (or just Li, as I often call her) – my colleague and a great friend, is involved in most of happenings of this book. Business assistant. Her presence always softened the edges of even the most chaotic day as she seemed born to bring a calming order to our little shop. She is the kind of person who is drawing others in with her genuine warmth. Yet, underneath her kindness is an unshakable sense of responsibility. A quiet yet powerful force that held things together. And then there is her gift for bringing humour into the most trying situations. Whenever the shop descended into a minor catastrophe – it was as if she knew that laughter could ease the tension and remind us all to breathe.

Marcus, the investor’s son. There’s no need to tiptoe around the truth here – the boy received special treatment. When Marcus joined the team, Li and I exchanged hopeful glances. ‘Finally’, we thought, ‘fresh blood, eager to learn. Surely, he’s here to soak up knowledge like a sponge, to master the practical side of the business he was destined to inherit’.

But Marcus’s arrival quickly turned our enthusiasm into bewilderment. It became clear, almost immediately, that in his mind, he didn’t need to learn anything – he already knew everything. Better than the rest of us combined, apparently.

With the confidence of someone who’s read half a manual and skipped to the conclusion, Marcus jumped from task to task as if the fate of the shop rested solely on his young, uncalloused shoulders. One minute, he was directing sales efforts; the next, he was dabbling in marketing strategies, before pivoting to order labels as though the entire supply chain would collapse without his intervention. He didn’t hesitate to remind us, subtly and not-so subtly, that we couldn’t possibly manage without him.

I caught him once – or maybe twice – in what I can only describe as a peculiar mood. I had just landed a substantial sale with one of my private clients, the kind of success that normally calls for a celebratory nod or at least a polite “well done.” But instead of congratulating me, Marcus stood there with a look of wounded disbelief, as if I had personally devoured those truffles in front of him without so much as offering him a bite or a “thank you.” Was he upset that I had made the sale, not him? Was he trying to telepathically remind me that, in this tiny universe of truffles, he was meant to be the star salesman? Or was it something even more mysterious, locked away in the labyrinth of Marcus’s enigmatic mind? I couldn’t say.

Damian. The investor. We often just referred to him as ‘D’ instead of Damian when talking among ourselves. A man of distinctly varied temperaments, ranging from enthusiastic visionary to stern critic with little warning. On a good day, you might catch him in an inspired mood. In this state, he was brimming with ideas so abundant and random they seemed to fill the very room, leaving little space for anything else. These ideas were entirely self-generated and delivered with such enthusiasm that one might mistake them for a gift you hadn’t realised you needed.

But on his less charitable days, D’s fountain of ideas dried up, replaced instead by a downpour of criticism. And not the constructive kind. No, his critiques were as far from the truth as the shop was from being the most ‘luxurious boutique’ he often described in his pitches.

The problem wasn’t just his mood swings, though. It was that everything with Damian eventually got personal.

His mornings at the shop followed a predictable routine. He’d arrive, sometimes with his driver, other times on his bicycle. After greeting no one in particular, he’d make himself a coffee and settle in, surveying the shop like a general preparing to rally his troops.

If you were quick, you might manage to appear busy enough to avoid his attention. Polishing the same glass for the fourth time or furiously reorganising an already pristine shelf often did the trick. But if you miscalculated – or worse, hesitated – you’d find yourself trapped in D’s volcanic imagination.

And then it would begin.

– How about we go around to the neighbours and drop off some leaflets? – he’d start. – In exchange, we can display their information in the shop. A win-win!

Now, the trick here was to respond with just enough enthusiasm to seem engaged but not so much that it encouraged further elaboration.

– "Yeah”, you’d say, nodding as if this were the most groundbreaking idea you’d ever heard. “That could work. We could ask a few…”

But before you’d even finished your sentence, his mind had already launched into another orbit.

– Or we could host a small event here, something cultural. Maybe a wine tasting! Or a cooking demo. Yes! That would bring people in, don’t you think?

You’d nod again, trying to keep up, but it was no use. By the time D reached his third or fourth idea – “How about a charity raffle? Maybe we should start a blog!” – your brain was as scrambled as the shop’s inventory system.

The real skill, of course, was pretending to retain all this information. As he rattled off proposal after proposal, you’d nod solemnly, as if mentally cataloguing each suggestion for later action. In reality, you’d forgotten the first idea by the time he got to the second, and by the fifth, you were simply trying to keep a straight face.

And then, as suddenly as it started, the brainstorming session would end. D would sip his americano, gaze around the shop with a satisfied air, and declare,

“Right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Once he’d left, the shop would return to its usual rhythm, and I’d gather with Li to debrief, piecing together fragments of Damian’s monologue. But by then, we’d be too relieved to care.

– What was the first idea again? – I’d ask, squinting at my notes.

– Something about leaflets? – Li would reply, equally confused.

– Was it before or after the blog?

But by the time we’d sorted it out, it hardly mattered.

Ivor was, without question, one of the most intriguing characters to pass through our shop. A man of principle – or at least one principle, which he wielded with unshakable conviction: “Sorry, I don’t think so, but thank you for your understanding.”

This phrase became his universal shield, fending off any request that even hinted at inconvenience. We heard it so often that Li and I seriously considered having it emblazoned on custom t-shirts for the entire team, as a kind of inside joke and battle cry.

– Hey, Ivor, do you think you could cover Friday this week? We’ll take Saturday for you.

– Sorry, I don’t think so, ladies, but thank you for your understanding.

– Alright, how about we swap another day instead?

– I’m sorry, but… – Cue the pause, the apologetic shrug, and that familiar conclusion: …thank you for your understanding.

To be fair, this catchphrase didn’t define him entirely. Ivor was, without a doubt, the best of us when it came to dealing with customers. His quick wit and self-deprecating humour could turn even the most demanding client into a satisfied one. In fact, his humour was so disarming that Li and I sometimes wondered if he was quietly mocking us, even as we laughed along.

It wasn’t that Ivor didn’t work – he just worked selectively, prioritizing tasks that showcased his talents or allowed him to charm his way out of trouble. The problem was that the shop didn’t run on charm alone.

The last Christmas that Ivor graced the company with his presence before his eventual dismissal was, in many ways, the prefect encapsulation of his unique managerial style – or lack thereof. True to form, he managed to negotiate a schedule of half-shifts during the busiest season of the year. What’s more infuriating, everyone – apart from Li and me, of course – seemed to accept it without question.

No, we were decidedly not okay with this arrangement. Red-faced from hauling boxes up and down the stairs, we found ourselves glaring at the clock as Ivor would saunter out at precisely 2 o’clock, delivering his signature dry farewell: “See you tomorrow, ladies.” And this was the store manager.

– What’s the point of him even showing up? – Li would sigh, as we finally collapsed for a well-earned coffee break after packing and shipping more boxes than we cared to count.

– Exactly, – I’d agree, – He just creates more unnecessary chaos.

For a while, it truly seemed that his peculiar working hours and minimal contribution were being tolerated, if not outright condoned. But patience is a finite resource. While the investor remained cheerfully convinced that Ivor was the shop’s hardest worker, my father had started to see through his façade of charm, and decided it was time to issue a formal warning.

Manager’s response, predictably, was to take it personally. His attitude toward us shifted almost immediately, and the passive-aggressiveness that had always simmered beneath the surface boiled over.

Li and I still chuckle – albeit bitterly – about one particular gem he posted in the group chat during his final days of glory:

“Ladies, could you please not leave the sponge on the sink? Unless you want to get three stars for hygiene rating.”

– Unbelievable, – I muttered to Li, – Like we’re the only ones using that sponge. And what’s the connection between a sponge and the shop’s hygiene rating? Is he trying to make us look stupid?

– Whatever his reasons, it doesn’t make him a better manager, – Li said with her usual, dry wisdom.

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 h2 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.

With few signs of hesitation, Monday was set as the display transition day.

Of course, this simple transition had almost turned into an actual crime scene. It started with a phone call.

– Guess what, – Li said, her voice was unusually frantic, – We just received a four hundred pounds fine. And I think our Christmas tree has been confiscated.

– Confiscated?! – Before I could say anything my mind immediately pictured a council officer stuffing the tree into a van, while our angry customers wept over the absence of baubles and aromatic truffle gift sets. – How could anyone confiscate a tree? Did the council representative decide it was a health hazard?

– I don’t know, – Li sighed. – Maybe it was too festive…Maybe it offended someone’s aesthetic.

We started laughing, imagining the absurdity.

– Do you think the council’s tree squad came in after hours? Perhaps it was making too much noise at night – keeping the other trees awake.

I giggled, but clearly, I was still trying to piece things together.

– Perhaps the penalty fine is not related to the tree, but then again, there would be no reason for the council to confiscate it… Where is this silly tree?!

The Christmas tree, let me clarify, is blameless in this story. I regret calling it silly; it was merely an innocent participant in the chaos that defines our retail lives. But allow me to paint the scene:

Picture it – a council representative, clipboard clutched tightly, stepping into our shop right in the throes of the peak season. The December madness was in full swing, sales booming, and shelves perpetually in need of restocking. Yet, amid this whirlwind, their eagle eye locked not on a misplaced temperature log or the precariously stacked boxes of truffle oil. No. it was the Christmas tree that caught their attention.

Within moments, the council representative deemed our festive fir unfit for purpose. And just like that, he took it. Carried it out of the shop as if it were a contraband item in a high-stakes heist.

You might think, “it’s just a tree,” but oh, how wrong you’d be. This wasn’t just any tree; it was a beacon. A shining symbol of the season, meticulously decorated to lure customers with its twinkling lights and carefully curated baubles. And let’s not forget the strategic positioning – it stood at the very entrance, exuding Christmas spirit and practically whispering to passerby, “Come inside, buy some truffles, indulge in the festive cheer!”

Now, instead of a storefront brimming with holiday warmth, we were left with a barren corner where the tree once stood. The shop suddenly felt… naked. Devoid of joy. The rich aroma of truffles could only do so much when paired with an emptiness that screamed, Christmas is cancelled.

But the indignity didn’t stop there. As if losing the tree wasn’t punishment enough, we were slapped with a penalty charge. Yes, we not only lost our tree, but now money too. The irony, of course, was that this fine could have been spent on more decorations to replace the tree – perhaps even a new one, less rule-breaking, but just as charming. And while the council representative must have left satisfied, we were left to face the fallout. The end-of-December rush, fuelled by Orthodox Christmas and the approach of Chinese New Year, meant we couldn’t afford even a day of looking anything less than festive. Decorations weren’t optional – they were a necessity.

We left that evening feeling more like detectives than shopkeepers. The mystery of the missing Christmas tree hung over us like a low, ominous cloud. Why was it confiscated? Why was it not on our shift? And why hadn’t anyone said anything? All we knew for certain was that Ed and Marcus were working that day, which, in retrospect, should have been our first red flag.

The truth, when it finally unravelled, was nothing short of tragic. No, the tree hadn’t been confiscated by some joyless Grinch-like council authority. It hadn’t been stolen in a daring heist by desperate competitors seeking to outshine us.

The answer was far more devastating in its absurdity: Ed and Marcus, in an act of staggering brilliance, had packed the tree back into its original box.

Now, you might think, “Ah, how responsible of them! Keeping the tree safe and tidy!” But you would be sorely mistaken. For reasons best left to the mysteries of the cosmos, they had then left the boxed tree outside the shop. Yes, outside. On the pavement. Like it was waiting to be collected with the bins.

Did Marcus and Ed stop to think that perhaps leaving a boxed Christmas tree on a public street during peak season might not be the best idea? Apparently not. Perhaps they thought someone would magically understand their intentions. Or maybe they assumed the tree would sprout legs and march itself back inside once the shop reopened.

This whole tree fiasco perfectly captures the unspoken truth of retail: no matter how meticulously you plan, your success or failure often rests on the judgement of the least qualified person in the room.

From a business perspective, the Christmas tree was an asset. A meticulously placed piece of seasonal marketing, strategically designed to generate foot traffic and nudge customers into parting with their money. In the retail world, you can hang all the “50% off” signs you want, but nothing says “buy something unnecessary” like the warm glow of a festively lit tree. Losing it was more than a blow to aesthetics; it was a direct hit to the shop’s ability to capitalise on holiday sentimentality.

And of course, the fine. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like the council handing you a bill for what could have been spent on replenishing the stock or other expenses. The fact that this penalty stemmed from an internal act of incompetence rather than an external force only adds to the sting. In business, fines are often seen as a cost of doing business – until you realize they’re a cost of doing business with Ed and Marcus.

Form a risk management perspective, this incident highlights the importance of systems. What the shop needed wasn’t just a tree but a protocol: a clear, written-down, bulletproof guide h2d “What to do with the Christmas tree when it’s not in use” – and perhaps laminated for good measure.

Finally, there’s the question of reputational damage. A Christmas tree on the pavement doesn’t just look bad; it speaks. It tells a story to every passerby that goes something like: This shop might not even be able to handle its decorations, let alone your holiday orders. Perception matters in retail, and unfortunately, our bare corner likely screamed, “Christmas is cancelled – and so is competence”.

We called the council the next morning. A particularly grumpy representative answered.

– Good morning, we are calling about a four hundred pounds fine for…leaving a Christmas tree outside? – Li started, her voice was full of denial and forced politeness.

– Oh, yes, – the representative replied curtly. – You are that shop on York Street? The tree was reported to us as an obstruction on the pavement.

Li and I exchanged glances – we weren’t entirely sure whether to laugh or cry.

– Right, – I said, – The thing is, it was our colleagues who left it out on the pavement, not us. In all honesty, we were supposed to put it in the storage the next day, but…

– It doesn’t matter who did it, – the council worker interrupted, clearly in no mood for my defence case. – It is your shop, your responsibility, therefore, the fine stands.

Li read my expression and gave me a resigned look, mouthing “of course”. The council worker had zero sympathy for our tree predicament – or who knows, maybe they had seen one too many Christmas trees abandoned in the wild this season.

After Li and I shared a laugh, the reality set in. The fine was real, the tree was gone.

– I don’t know, Li… Can anything work smoothly in this place? How hard was it really to put the tree away nicely until the next year. Seriously, the ‘meeting’ room is just a few steps away… or do we have to put the tree away ourselves too? Among other things?

– Well, now that there is no tree… there’s one problem less. – she laughed quietly.

We figured that perhaps my dad didn’t want us to stress unnecessarily about the situation. Or maybe he thought, if I tell them now, they’ll spend the entire day disserting it instead of working – no truffles will get sold, no orders will get packed. But eventually, he spilled the beans.