Usually this is the time of year when I receive bad news, often just before I am due to get my nose off the grindstone for a few days. It is now 10.45am on the day I finish work at noon, and yes, I have had a complaint from a client. They want me to do something about it. Now. So they can have a relaxing Christmas. Never mind that I'll be tearing around trying to sort it out with a builder who is just about to knock off himself for two weeks and couldn't give a rat's backside at the moment, or that the traffic is terrible and it will take me at least an hour and a half to get there to look at this 'problem'.
There was a time, years ago, when I was young, keen and thought my clients could do no wrong, that I would have worked on Christmas Day itself to sort something out.
So what's different about this year? I'm older, wiser and more cynical and I am sure they will manage. Nope. Sorry. Closed for business. At noon today I will be indulging my love of mince pies and ginger wine, with my feet up, a warm, sleepy cat on my knee, watching some daft Christmassy thing on the telly.
Problems? They'll keep, I'm sure. And a very Merry Christmas to my faithful readers, health, wealth and peace of mind, where-ever you are.
21 December 2007
16 December 2007
Christmas Post
Many, many hours of sweating over the drawing board later, and I am pinning up my project in the corner of the L shaped room ready for the examinations board. I was already in a bad mood as once again, I had been given the worst spot in the room – tucked into a corner, with part of ‘my’ space obscured by another board set at right angles. When I arrived, loaded down with rolls of drawings, boxes of models and files, there was a pile of architectural flotsam all over the floor, right where I wanted to throw everything before sorting it out. I cleared the old chairs, bits of cardboard, newspaper, old drawings, bits of sheet steel and light bulbs out of the way (the remains of some students' 'installation') and began sorting my stuff into some semblence of order.
It was ten in the evening, and I still hadn't finished. I decided to have a break and went looking for refreshment, preferably alcoholic. Almost unbelievably, there was no late night cafe on the campus, and for some inexplicable reason, the pub was shut. I was reduced to crisps, Fanta and chocolate from a vending machine, but there is nothing like a massive dose of salt and sugar to pep you up, is there?
Finally, finally, at around midnight, I finished pinning up my drawings and arranging models. I stood back, to admire the fruit of many hours labour and unspeakably awful crits. I looked at mine, I looked at the other students' work. Suddenly, I had a terrible revelation. I did not like my project. It looked silly and dull at the same time, an unusual combination of my ideas, the tutor's ideas, the other students' ideas and every other Tom, Dick and Harry's ideas all mashed together in the mixing bowl which gets labelled 'Pigswill'. It wasn't even silly enough to emerge from the other side of crapdom as 'blob' architecture, the latest fashion and bound to get a good mark.
'Sod it', I thought, and walked back to my friend's house, who was kindly putting me up for the night. She was still up when I arrived, and even more kindly opened a couple of ice cold lagers. then another couple.
The following morning I was sat in the dismal and dirty hall with no windows, waiting to be called for the final crit, the last hurdle for my Part 2. I had a slight hangover - well, quite a large hangover, and I was sipping mint tea to try and settle my stomach. I won't regale you with the horrible experience of the final exam, and the meeting with the wretched external examiner afterwards. Dreadful, devil's spawn of a woman. Made me feel like dirt. Her parting shot as I was leaving, totally demolished, was 'Well, no-one said it would be easy...' I turned and looked her up and down (she was short, plump and yes, had squinty specs) and had an almost overwhelming urge to grab the lapels of her black Dior jacket and slam her against the wall, a la Gene Hunt. Instead, I gave her my best cat-hiss and stalked out of the room.
I was so tired from the long hours and the stress it took about a week to recover. On the 23rd December I received a letter, the envelope marked with the University crest. I opened it with a feeling of inevitable dread.
'The examiners considered most carefully.... difficult decision.... needs a little more work....
FAIL
May we wish you and your family a very Merry Christmas and hope to see you in the New Year'
I took the model I had spent so many hours making into the garden, and committed arson.
Bah, Humbug!
It was ten in the evening, and I still hadn't finished. I decided to have a break and went looking for refreshment, preferably alcoholic. Almost unbelievably, there was no late night cafe on the campus, and for some inexplicable reason, the pub was shut. I was reduced to crisps, Fanta and chocolate from a vending machine, but there is nothing like a massive dose of salt and sugar to pep you up, is there?
Finally, finally, at around midnight, I finished pinning up my drawings and arranging models. I stood back, to admire the fruit of many hours labour and unspeakably awful crits. I looked at mine, I looked at the other students' work. Suddenly, I had a terrible revelation. I did not like my project. It looked silly and dull at the same time, an unusual combination of my ideas, the tutor's ideas, the other students' ideas and every other Tom, Dick and Harry's ideas all mashed together in the mixing bowl which gets labelled 'Pigswill'. It wasn't even silly enough to emerge from the other side of crapdom as 'blob' architecture, the latest fashion and bound to get a good mark.
'Sod it', I thought, and walked back to my friend's house, who was kindly putting me up for the night. She was still up when I arrived, and even more kindly opened a couple of ice cold lagers. then another couple.
The following morning I was sat in the dismal and dirty hall with no windows, waiting to be called for the final crit, the last hurdle for my Part 2. I had a slight hangover - well, quite a large hangover, and I was sipping mint tea to try and settle my stomach. I won't regale you with the horrible experience of the final exam, and the meeting with the wretched external examiner afterwards. Dreadful, devil's spawn of a woman. Made me feel like dirt. Her parting shot as I was leaving, totally demolished, was 'Well, no-one said it would be easy...' I turned and looked her up and down (she was short, plump and yes, had squinty specs) and had an almost overwhelming urge to grab the lapels of her black Dior jacket and slam her against the wall, a la Gene Hunt. Instead, I gave her my best cat-hiss and stalked out of the room.
I was so tired from the long hours and the stress it took about a week to recover. On the 23rd December I received a letter, the envelope marked with the University crest. I opened it with a feeling of inevitable dread.
'The examiners considered most carefully.... difficult decision.... needs a little more work....
FAIL
May we wish you and your family a very Merry Christmas and hope to see you in the New Year'
I took the model I had spent so many hours making into the garden, and committed arson.
Bah, Humbug!
04 December 2007
What Alice Did Next
My tutor slowly rotated my cardboard model at squinty specs level and pursed his lips slightly. I sat next to him, trying to stop the shakes from too much coffee, waiting for the axe to fall.
‘Josh!’ he called, over my head, to the tutor he shared his large, white painted and thoroughly nonchalant office, sorry! studio, with. Both of them peered at my model, making little noises like ‘Hm’ and ‘Mmf’. I needed the loo, but stayed put, fiddling with my watch strap. Finally, my tutor put the model on the desk, and turned to me, raising his eyebrows. Josh immediately picked it up again, and balanced it on one hand whilst clasping his jaw pensively with the other.
‘Well,’ said my tutor ‘The interior is wonderful, with those curved perforated vanes dropping down through the space. Josh?’
‘Mmmff’ said Josh, adjusting his specs. ‘mmmmmmm - Lose the top, and we’re there’.
‘Yes’ said my tutor. ‘The exterior… didn’t we discuss the outer extrusion when we last met?’
‘Er-‘ I said, shakily, drawing breath for the first time in about five minutes, ‘you told me to put something on top to finish it.’
I had just spent about a week, including the bank holiday, reworking the thing to include the ‘upper massing’ my tutor wanted.
‘Well, I don’t think it works’ said my tutor. ‘Josh?’ I had visions of popping him out of the open window, four storeys up, behind us, but satisfied myself with a Paddington stare.
‘Mmm hmmm’ said Josh, putting the model down.
‘There’ said my tutor. ‘He agrees. I’ll see you next week.’
I stuffed the model back into the box, with a resignation born of many, many hours spent changing the design and changing it back again. Keep your eye on the ball, Alice.
‘Josh!’ he called, over my head, to the tutor he shared his large, white painted and thoroughly nonchalant office, sorry! studio, with. Both of them peered at my model, making little noises like ‘Hm’ and ‘Mmf’. I needed the loo, but stayed put, fiddling with my watch strap. Finally, my tutor put the model on the desk, and turned to me, raising his eyebrows. Josh immediately picked it up again, and balanced it on one hand whilst clasping his jaw pensively with the other.
‘Well,’ said my tutor ‘The interior is wonderful, with those curved perforated vanes dropping down through the space. Josh?’
‘Mmmff’ said Josh, adjusting his specs. ‘mmmmmmm - Lose the top, and we’re there’.
‘Yes’ said my tutor. ‘The exterior… didn’t we discuss the outer extrusion when we last met?’
‘Er-‘ I said, shakily, drawing breath for the first time in about five minutes, ‘you told me to put something on top to finish it.’
I had just spent about a week, including the bank holiday, reworking the thing to include the ‘upper massing’ my tutor wanted.
‘Well, I don’t think it works’ said my tutor. ‘Josh?’ I had visions of popping him out of the open window, four storeys up, behind us, but satisfied myself with a Paddington stare.
‘Mmm hmmm’ said Josh, putting the model down.
‘There’ said my tutor. ‘He agrees. I’ll see you next week.’
I stuffed the model back into the box, with a resignation born of many, many hours spent changing the design and changing it back again. Keep your eye on the ball, Alice.
03 December 2007
Let Me Eat Cake...
Sorry about the last two posts – as Which End Bites says, I sound as if I’ve had bad news. Let's not get downhearted! I’ll lighten up a bit.
Joy, oh joy when I enter a client's house to a gentle symphony of cooking smells, especially when it’s cold outside. I am quite happy to sit and discuss their project at the greatest length, wallowing in the heavy scented air, if there is baking going on.
My new client was a very tall and very beautiful woman, who had probably been a model in her youth. Although no longer young, she was still stunning, like a white version of Grace Jones - powerfully built, cropped blond hair and cheekbones you could stand a drink on. (No, I’m not gay). Amazingly and unusually for someone of her physique, she was a very good cook and an enthusiastic eater.
I was there with the builder, who sat slumped in the armchair, gazing at her rapturously and nodding slowly whenever she spoke to him. ‘Would you like some cake?’ she asked, standing up. She was wearing shorts, and I wished my legs were half as good as hers.
It was the stickiest of ginger cakes, laced with a liqueur, totally evil and no good for the waistline. Watching her tuck into a large slice of it, I could not understand why she wasn’t ten feet around the middle.
Every site meeting during the lengthy conversion of her outbuildings into an annex, there was some delicious morsel – scones, mince pies, fruit cake, shortbread….my weight started to increase and some of the builders were obviously finding work straight after the morning break difficult. They were almost always full of cake.
I found out, after several months, the lady was a kick boxer. When she was not doing that, she enjoyed cycle road racing. Although I was sorry when the work was finished, I doubt I would have been able to get into any of my clothes if it had gone on much longer. Oh, but the cakes... heaven.
Joy, oh joy when I enter a client's house to a gentle symphony of cooking smells, especially when it’s cold outside. I am quite happy to sit and discuss their project at the greatest length, wallowing in the heavy scented air, if there is baking going on.
My new client was a very tall and very beautiful woman, who had probably been a model in her youth. Although no longer young, she was still stunning, like a white version of Grace Jones - powerfully built, cropped blond hair and cheekbones you could stand a drink on. (No, I’m not gay). Amazingly and unusually for someone of her physique, she was a very good cook and an enthusiastic eater.
I was there with the builder, who sat slumped in the armchair, gazing at her rapturously and nodding slowly whenever she spoke to him. ‘Would you like some cake?’ she asked, standing up. She was wearing shorts, and I wished my legs were half as good as hers.
It was the stickiest of ginger cakes, laced with a liqueur, totally evil and no good for the waistline. Watching her tuck into a large slice of it, I could not understand why she wasn’t ten feet around the middle.
Every site meeting during the lengthy conversion of her outbuildings into an annex, there was some delicious morsel – scones, mince pies, fruit cake, shortbread….my weight started to increase and some of the builders were obviously finding work straight after the morning break difficult. They were almost always full of cake.
I found out, after several months, the lady was a kick boxer. When she was not doing that, she enjoyed cycle road racing. Although I was sorry when the work was finished, I doubt I would have been able to get into any of my clothes if it had gone on much longer. Oh, but the cakes... heaven.
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