Little scaly faces

Francis is off on his travels again, consigned to airport lounges and hotel food for another week.

I have to say that he looks remarkably cheerful about the whole thing.

"The sardines are calling," he says, putting a hand to one ear.

"What are they saying?" I ask, suspiciously.

"Here's....Johnny!"

"Why are they watching horror films?"

"Why not? And don't ever underestimate the power of modern technology. They've probably got those unlimited DVD rental plans, same as the rest of us."

This conversation isn't going anywhere, unlike Francis, who is following the fleet with such assiduity that it can only be a matter of days before he's given a company waterside hovel and apron to wring his hands in when there's a storm at sea.

"What is it with you and sardines?" I say.

"They're touting Omega 3 as the wonder cure for Alzheimer's now," says Francis, "and the company's taking it very seriously."

"Fair enough," I say, "but aren't you taking things a bit far? I know Waitrose has this thing about naming every one of its organic chicken farmers, but surely you don't have to know every oily fish by name before it goes into a miracle cream or potion."

"Funnily enough, you get fond of their scaly little faces," says Francis. "I think I've got a real rapport going."

He heads into the kitchen, and soon there's the cheery sound of an orchestra warming up as the trademark tune of the many different pieces of software installed on his computer announce their presence.

"What are you doing now?" I ask

"Appraisals," he says. "I need a bit of peace and quiet. It's absolutely essential that I clear my head so I can summarise my team's contribution to sales in an objective and dispassionate way."

Two minutes later, he appears again.

"What's another way of saying 'cynical bastard who questions all my decisions'?" he asks.