THE WHOLE FINANCE TEAM knew something was up. As soon as FD started taking furtive phone calls from those overpaid City advisers in red braces, it was clear we were either buying or selling something. Judging by the frequency of the HR director's visits, I reckoned selling. Seems the chairman (TC), in a desperate bid to find a topic of conversation for his meetings with City analysts now he'd exhausted his usual repertoire (Jim Davidson's cast-off gags and that nifty new nine iron he's just bought), promised we'd return "surplus cash" to shareholders through a buyback. (If it's that surplus, I'll find a home for it...) But with no actual spare cash lying about, we needed to sell the odd under-performing division, pronto.

You'll recall how FD promised me a role on the M&A team next time we were in Deal City (RF June). So joining the "strategic disposal team", it looked like my big moment had finally come. I pictured myself negotiating at City !7, lunch tables and pulling late-nighters at the lawyers' office. Instead, I ended up... hacking spreadsheets. The job was sorting out a sheet from which FD, the City adviser and the auditor could estimate a value to put under the "for sale" sign.

This spreadsheet – not created by me, natch – was what we, in the trade, call a "three-hander". It was originally a divisional budget which FD had cobbled together, seemingly as a practical exercise while slogging through Excel for Dummies. Added onto it were figures and formulae created by some trainee accountant for a three-year plan that was written, presented to the board and instantly forgotten. The third leg? Extra tabs inserted by the City adviser's advance team to try and create a rough valuation.

Even FD could see it needed tidying before we got serious with any buyer. But after only a few days' work, I had created a set of tabs which made perfect sense. It was all neatly linked and colour coded, with vital information logically presented – there was enough detail to win over the dullest due diligence nerd. Which was a good job: our advisers had found some desperate private equity house that needed to invest its funds in our sector double-quick, and the deal was moving ahead swimmingly. That was until some anxious type asked FD, was he "comfortable" with the numbers? Cue hasty consultation with advisers and auditors. Not long after, FD, with as much charm as he could muster, asked my opinion on how we could audit the spreadsheet. Struck with a vision of grateful Blaminio shareholders, I asked for some time to find out.

Believe it or not, Excel will check the formulae, the input fields – even the formulae with fixed numbers in. So I put the program through its paces, then wrote a report setting out what results we'd obtained and how we could therefore be confident the numbers stacked up. The disposal was hailed as a triumph, shareholders will soon be getting a cheque, the advisers have run out of pockets in which to stuff their fees and it's going to be bonus time for the directors. I didn't get an extra penny, of course, but I was still pretty pleased with my efforts. A few days later, I was ordered to tidy up the paperwork on the deal. I came across a note from the auditors to FD. Despite the usual ungrammatical non sequiturs, its meaning was pretty easy to grasp. They were telling FD they would be happy to check out the financial information (ie, my spreadsheet). The fee for this work? £26,000. Twenty. Six. Thousand. Pounds.

So that's why FD had come to me. He didn't fancy the fees. But what hourly rates were they proposing to reach that quote?! How many man hours did they intend to give that spreadsheet?! Like the mug I am, I'd done it for a pint in the grotty local and a muttered remark from FD, which at the time I'd taken for thanks. Clearly, what he actually said was, "Drink up, loser." At least I know what my next career move is: advisory firm, here I come!