LITMIR.BIZ

       INTRODUCTION

      I am sitting at a boardroom table in the offices of a PR company, interviewing an ex-Apprentice contestant called Raef. Though he was booted off the show in week nine, after Alan Sugar dismissed him as ‘a lot of hot air’, Raef remains possessed of an unshakeable self-belief. I find this irritating, and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not Raef’s fault he believes in himself. It’s probably something to do with the way he was raised.

      Raef is in the middle of a digressive burst of false modesty, which, I think to myself, is probably the only kind of modesty he has ever known. As he speaks I flip through my reporter’s notepad, looking for a question I may have scribbled down earlier and forgotten about, a question searching and incisive enough to pierce Raef’s shiny carapace of confidence. Instead, I find a page on which one of my children has written ‘DAD YOU SUCK’ in large block capitals, using a marker pen.

      When I get home an hour later, there is a new Personal Power newsletter in my email inbox. I’ve been receiving these regular motivational updates from an internet life coach ever since I signed up for an online course while writing a newspaper feature about life coaching. This was months ago, but I don’t know how to make the emails stop. These days I rarely read beyond the subject line, which usually says something like, ‘Hi Tim – Self-Confidence Is A Magic Key’ or, ‘Hi Tim – Happiness Is All Around You If You Look’.

      This latest newsletter is headed, ‘Hi Tim – How Would It Feel If You Knew Why You Were Here?’ and goes on to detail a prolonged exercise in soul-searching that is supposed to end with you receiving a short, secret phrase that sums up your reason for being on earth. I think about my life’s true purpose for a bit, but I can’t come up with a secret phrase better than ‘DAD YOU SUCK’.

      That evening my wife comes home from her bookshop and immediately launches into a tireless inventory of my failings. This has become a weekly event, which coincides with the shop’s late opening – my wife has spent many hours being polite to people, and she has already said all the nice things she is going to say today. I get whatever’s left. My oldest son knows it’s Thursday again, and he has come down to watch.

      ‘You didn’t slice the bread,’ she says, peering into the bread bin.

      ‘The slicing machine was broken,’ I lie. I have developed a dread of the bread slicer at the supermarket, the repeated operation of which only serves to underscore the grinding futility of existence. Also, it strikes me as vaguely unhygienic.

      ‘No,

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