The Diversity Outreach Co-Ordinator With No Name

It was a one horse town, out in the wilds of the country, the badlands far beyond the M25.

The salon bar doors swung open and the be-ponchoed stranger stepped into the room. The piano stopped mid-tune, and all conversation halted. Each of the stranger’s steps on the wooden floor rang out as she made her way to the bar.

‘What’ll it be, stranger?’ said the barman, wiping the bar in front of the stranger.

The stranger looked around at the room. ‘I’ll have an organic nettle cordial,’ she said, firmly looking around at each face in the bar, waiting for each to turn and look away.

‘What?’ said the barman.

‘Organic nettle cordial… please.’

‘We… there’s….’

A figure at one of the distant tables carefully laid his dominos face down and stood up.

‘This is a lager pub,’ he said, hitching up his trousers as he made his way towards the woman at the bar. ‘Maybe, if you’re a bit posh and like that sort of thing, maybe some bitter. But not soft drinks… never.’

‘Well, I’m afraid that is going to have to change,’ said the woman carefully, softly.

‘Oh, yeah?’ said the big man, stepping closer to the woman.

‘If this establishment is gong to attract the right cross-culturally diverse, ethnic mix and members of the requisite sexual minorities, it is. Yes,’ said the woman, reaching into her bag.

There was a screech of wood against wood as the customers leapt from their chairs to take cover. The big man took a step back, as the woman quickly pulled a clipboard from her bag.

‘Look out, she’s got a questionnaire!‘ screamed one man as he dived head-first through the big plate-glass window stumbled back to his feet and ran, blood dripping from his lacerated face, for the hills.

The other regulars turned as one and began to stampede for the exits.

‘Stop!’ the woman yelled. She pulled out some identification. ‘I’m from the council. Nobody move. All of you sit down and get out a pen. The council needs a record of your ethnicity, sexual preferences, age, disability requirements and so forth, so that we can see if this establishment is fulfilling all the necessary diversity quotas. Come on now, one form each.’

Three days later, when the Diversity Outreach Co-ordinator With No Name rode out of the town on her bicycle, it was still a one-horse town, but it had wheelchair access to the saloon and the whorehouse now catered for the Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Community every second Tuesday of the month.