Her Majesty's sun slipped over the horizon a few minutes ago this morning in the manner of a beater or junior game-keeper late to the day's briefing. One moment not there, the next a slow sidling up, hoping no-one would notice.
This contrasted with yesterdays performance when Mr Sun appeared in a spectacular blaze of crepuscular rays, very briefly, before falling asleep behind a thick wad of dull, grey cloud.
It's makes me giggle to think of a dirty great ball of nuclear (nu-cu-lar) fire arriving for work with all of the same tricks that I used to use when I worked for "the man" on office hours complicated by night-shifts, callout and "exigencies", when komputahs were rocket science. If I needed to bog off to do the food shop mid-morning or take the dog to the abbatoir I'd make a noise first thing so that everyone noticed I was there, leap into the air waving on old-fashioned print-out, shout "aha!" and wander off. This is known as the "he'll have gone somewhere quiet to think" ploy.
In order to leave early with absolutely no intention of coming back the same day it was only necessary to not shave, wear yesterday's clothes, be at the office five minutes before the boss and then invent some devilish overnight problem with one of my systems. Even one of my totally invented non-existent systems that I often supported for long, gruelling hours much to the boss's admiration. If it's in the knowledge-base log it must be true. Yes boss. Of course. I'm going home to, er, sleep now if that's alright with you.
Arriving late was not a problem either - the trick there was to always keep some obscure item of impressive looking hardware in the boot of my car. Something with dangling wires and about the size of a Kenwood was ideal. Drive up to the gates with headlights on, skid to a halt, swipe the pass so the barriers raised and then walk at a high rate of knots straight past the office towards an equipment hall, shouting "bloody idiots - this is going to cost the company a fortune - try this one".
Bosses are usually so gullible that it didn't even feel like sport.
Boot's on the other ruddy foot these days.
No, seriously; I have problems dressing.
Spent a happy week so far doing very domestic things, ranging from writing guest articles (mostly on why event photography is indispensible and adds multifarious value in unexpected ways, or why our pricing is the way it is) to listening to recalcitrant B2B debtors explaining that their business partner has the cheque book and that they are currently on a North Sea oil rig. I kid you not. In-between these fly-me-to-the-moon transports of delight (actually, writing the articles is pretty good fun) I've been keeping up with training and dallying with the sanity of several business consultants hailing from the far side of Her Majesty's Atlantic Ocean.
What they've been saying these past few months is all fascinating stuff indeed. I don't take photographs for a living using Nikons or lovely old mahogany & brass bellows cameras. No, I am building an "... audience-based loyal-following service company with a subscription list ...". Actually, that would account for why I spend only about ten percent of my time near a camera and the rest paddling out to North Sea oil rigs on a leaky lilo waving an invoice, a highlighter pen and a penalty clause.
Still, twenty-metre waves and the Coastguard notwithstanding, I wouldn't go back to working for "the man" for all of the tea in the Owl Towers main pantry. Seriously so. I may not wear the kaftan, the feathered boots, the beaded bandana or the John Lennon blue specs of the stereotype, but I have discovered late in life that I am a hippie at heart, and probably always was in spite of the suit.
A few nights ago when the "it" was crisp and cold and as clear as a convent bell the full moon was shining so brightly that I had to go outside and return the favour. The moon and I outshone each other for half an hour, and to be brutally honest, the airing-off worked wonders through the long-johns cat-flap.
The sky overhead was as black as pitch and puntuated by pin-point stars - and I felt as though I was in a vast room with an enormously high ceiling. Micky d'Angelo couldn't have painted it any better. So much out there, and all beyond the reach of my primitive little primate paw. The only way to see it (at the moment) is with the mind. There's so much reality chugging past in foreign places that we'll never get to see!
Now, what's next in Realityshire? Oh yes - please to quote for providin' nineteen-twenties style mobile studio service for four hundred guests at the Anaesthetists' Annual Ball. Hmm, that should be a laugh once several of them independently decide to smuggle in a cylinder or two of isoflurane & nitrous oxide. What the hell do I quote for once it kicks in? Carrying each of the snoring guests onto the set, composing some inventively incriminating photographs and then putting each of them back randomly to wake up next to somebody else's wife and with underwear that's on back-to-front? Might quote £0 and then just make a fortune on the blackmail ...
Do hippies resort to blackmail? Twenty-first century hippies, that is? How do I write that into my business model? How do I translate "Hole in my shoe that was letting in water" into commercial-Americanspeak, and combine it with the Boomtown Rats, Duran-Duran, nineties techno and a touch of Delibes to give the correct image? How to blend seamlessly Victorian/Edwardian, Roaring Twenties, nineteen-seventies, eighties, nineties, noughties and teens with a background fixation on Poonah in '43 or '44 and the invention of the diesel-electric elephant in re water-polo for the Regiment eh? All while wondering what is going on among the stars.
What curious creatures we all are when you stop and think about it, living on a spinning ball of rock and metal, paddling out to Britannia Platform A/471b with a tin megaphone, shouting "I know that you have a cheque-book up there with you Mr Smith, you can't escape" while all of those bright little nuclear fires burn overhead.
How do I know that I am a hippie at heart? Because, proof positive, if I could find one, I'd much rather drive one of these than all of the shiny LED-headlighted Audi A6s or BMW Flash-Coupés in the world. It's a 1959 DKW. Isn't it the most real-looking vehicle you've seen since your first pedal car?
 |
| DKW |
Tea. I think I need more tea. And biscuits. Tea and biscuits will sort it. Always has, always will.
You don't happen to need an artistic critic for your audience-based loyal-following service company, do you? With the current job market I am prepared to work for the Man, the Wo-man, or the Rabid Weasel (Who Has A Cheque-Book).
ReplyDeleteIn any case you are correct, humans are strange and tea will fix most things.
In truth, privately between you, me and the gatepost - the move to vintage photographeristing was prompted in large part by their being very few openings working for the man that were worth getting levered out of bed for!
DeleteShould have done it decades ago ...
I shall post a "Wanted" notice for you though in the local rabid-weasel bar.
My theory is that by the time you get a handle on the world it's probably time to shuffle off the mortal coil. I'm going to live forever by remaining baffled and confused at the workings of human society.
I have sometimes thought that I would have liked to be a hippie, at least for a little while. But alas, I was born a decade too soon. It seems I'm perpetually a day late and a dollar short when it comes to life events. Maybe that's why I'm so confused about what to do next. But, as long as Her Majesty's sun comes up every morning it's all good!
ReplyDeleteI've always thought of you more as a biker chick, Ms Sparrow, or possibly a Mata Hari, but there's no reason you can't be a part-time hippie too. The glass is two-thirds full... just remember that, well, if you're going to San Francisco you'd better wear some flowers in your hair, you're going to meet some gentle people there...
Delete"This is known as the "he'll have gone somewhere quiet to think" ploy."
ReplyDeleteAn excellent ploy indeed, Sir, but always backfired on me when some disloyal and soon to be fired employee informed the visiting director that I had ratted myself on the rum store and was still not on my feet.
A truly excellent means of conveyance, the DKW, only eclipsed in the seventies by the Wartburg with its three cylinders and a set of points for each, a triumph of social(ist) engineering. Still my apprenticeship with the Stasi run automotive company stood me in good stead when I ran the pinnacle of UK automotive engineering and every 100 hundred miles or so had to keep stopping and reset the two sets of points squeezed into the one distributor cap of my Triumph Stag. Still, eight cylinders to play with in a Stag so I nearly always made it home.
When it comes to collecting debts, I have always favoured the Vinnie Jones ploy but accept there may be no repeat business.
I remember my father seriously considering the Wartburg in the very early seventies, alongside the Citroen GS and Volkswagen 1303S Beetle. He bought a Hillman Avenger in the end, which proved most satisfactory indeed (I was still driving it happily ten years later, and swapped it ony for another).
DeleteThe Stag should have been a world-beater and might have been, had they but fitted the Rover V8 instead of mating two four-pot Dolomite blocks (or whatever it was they did). Splendid beasties, most splendid indeed.
If only manufacturers could/would make vehicles with as much character, but behaving the way more modern cars do in regard to safety and economy and actually going around corners and stopping ...
I may be engaging the services of Miss Vinnie Jones soon; the particular berks in question do not seem to be getting the idea that it is moral, fit and proper to keep one's contractual obligations. More seriously yet, they seem to be taking the p*ss and that I can never, and will never, forgive ...
;-)
Well, so long as it is cash on the nail, no VAT, I fancy a trip to UK.
DeleteDo you still have that ceramic Glock that you can get through Customs?
DeleteActually I was thinking of dropping in to see the old Mater and swiping Father's Webley while she was pouring the sherry but if you want something ceramic, I can always beat him to death with his dinner service, you are the client after all.
DeleteSo, that's what is known as a hippie car in the world of nannies? Ours were VW beetles and Vanagons — always with large flower decals stuck all over. My friends even quilted the insides of theirs. Whenever we were hitchhiking, we knew the VWs would stop and pick us up. The Vanagons were the best, because we were usually pleased to find a "smoking section" in the back.
ReplyDeleteA hippie is anything without a collar and tie, Sir, or with hair that extends lower than the earlobes when standing in an upright position. Anything that hasn't done National Service or that thinks "lentil" is a legitimate word for "food". Or anything that Nanny takes a pot-shot at from her window up in the attic. I put flower decals on the Rolls once. Father wasn't awfully impressed.
DeleteA lot of my cars have smoked.
Does that roof-rack convert into a 4-seater sledge? If it doesn't; it should.
ReplyDeleteDo watch out for Charles Hawtrey brandishing a canister of laughing gas!
Should they accept my quote (and they should; it's plagiarised from Shakespeare) one sniff of a Carry On team and I will be in my gas mask and running Sir. Dignity be damned!
DeleteNot quite sure how I came to be here - on your blog - that is, but even though I don't know what the hell you are talking about - it made me laugh. That's good enough for me.
ReplyDeleteHello Elaine!
DeleteNot many folk know why they stumble into this "here" and, rather like the Hotel California, the staff are reluctant to ever let you leave. ...
Perhaps you were rooting through the bins again looking for the remains of hot dogs and burgers, but found my blog in there by mistake?
Have fun and never forget; wherever you go, there you are.