THE CARD OF MANY SIGNATURES

Well as the seasons change, so do the placement students. One lot out, another lot in. It's like a constant stream of young people from Reading University - always 21, always between their second and final year, always unnervingly quiet but irrepressibly eager. They never grow old as we grow old, nor jaded as we might grow ever more cynical. These are the perpetual wide-eyed newbies, thrust for the first time into the world of work, of kitchen-chit-chat and of the unspoken etiquette that we all take for granted.

With the efflux (Yeah, don't worry, I had to look it up) of bright-eyed computer scientists, and the influx of even-brighter-eyed computer scientists, comes the usual set of leaving and welcoming traditions.

My least favourite leaving tradition is probably the Card of Many Signatures. You'll have come across this, probably in different forms, but you'll know what I mean. Two arrived on my desk this morning - both for departing students.

It's always the same. The Card of Many Signatures arrives in a large white A4 envelope, much bigger than the Card's own coloured envelope which is invariably included inside. To the front is stapled a printed sheet of names, many of which have been struck through with biro. The standard instructions are usually scrawled next to the printed Arial 12 point Excel table:

[Escapee's] leaving card. Please return to [Escapee's Manager] by [Escapee's Leaving Date]

I pull the pendulous envelope towards myself, at which point of course, a handful of loose coins clatter out of its open mouth and scatter across my desk, noisily. Everyone hears. No-one speaks. Sheepishly, I gather the one and two pound coins up as silently as I can, before adding my own and dropping them back into the package as stealthily as possible.

Then, when these numismatic paratroopers have landed safely back in the fold, out slides... the Card of Many Signatures.

It's always Snoopy or a bus-full of people waving, or generic balloons, or giant letters saying "Sorry you're leaving". I know for a fact too, that for the recipients of many of these cards, the purchaser (and many of the signatories) are often definitely not sorry that the person leaving is leaving and have consigned themselves to documented hypocrisy. They crossed off their name from the list with a sigh of relief and an exuberant flourish of the pen.

Nonetheless, whether you're sorry or not, the rules are that you must sign it. So, I flip open The Card of Many Signatures and gaze upon the endearing messages that have already been scribbled across both sides at acute angles.

"Good luck in your future career!"

"All the best!!!"

"It's been fun!"

"Thanks for all you're hard work!"*

"So long, Mr President!"

It's like there's been an explosion in the factory that makes exclamation marks. They are everywhere, scattered across the handwritten wall of bland compliments, multiplying everything that precedes them like a factorial of cumulative irritation. In fact, it must be a challenge to find a document... pretty much anywhere... with more exclamation marks in it, than an old leaving card - even a textbook on the use of exclamation marks, I'd wager.

At this point, I normally sit there, pen between my teeth, trying to think of something that doesn't make me sound like a twit. Clearly, others have been creative:

"Get lost you old fart."

...Or they've referred to some in-joke that's designed to make the recipient smile and everyone else who reads the card wonder what it means.

"See ya later, Iron Balls!"

OK then.

I don't like resorting to platitudes, and I don't want to be rude, even for a laugh. However, I also don't like sitting at my desk with my pen in my mouth for half an hour, cursing my luck that I didn't turn out to be Hemmingway. So I usually write:

"All the best, [Escapee]," and sign my name underneath, safe in the knowledge that this will be read precisely once, before The Card of Many Signatures finds its ultimate destiny in the recycling bin.

Once signed, I realise with a predictable sigh, that everyone else around me has already also signed it and I must surreptitiously take it to the other end of the room to the people who are on the list, but have quite possibly never heard of the person to whom they're about to wish the best of luck. Dutifully though, they will, presumably undertaking the same impersonal ritual that I've just been through.

That's what bothers me, I think - the predictability of it. Unless something unthinkable happens to me, there will one day be a Card of Many Signatures with my name on it. I too, will have to look pleasantly surprised when I open it as the exclamation marks burst out at me, in front of a circle of gathered engineers. I'm not sure I want people who don't know me very well to wish me luck. But with clockwork precision, they will. They absolutely will. Ho hum.

It's at this point, that the A4 envelope makes a surprise return to my desk, where it's slid towards me by someone who raises their eyebrows and then runs away as if they had been carrying a hot potato. Before I can protest, I scan down the list of names and realise with a silent whimper, that I have forgotten to cross mine off and The Card of Many Signatures has come back to me. Every. Time.

Sigh.


*It's surprisingly difficult to remain calm when I have a pen in my hand and I see this.