But the Money's No Good

The man on the phone sounded quite reasonable - he wanted a large extension at the back of his house and was not in too much of a hurry. Almost always, I will go and look at a possible new job - even one which sounds far too small to make any kind of a profit can turn into something wonderful. This one sounded good, large enough to make a nice little bag of money for Alice, but not so large I would not be able to fit it into the rest of my rather packed programme, and it was not too far away. Besides, smallish, bread and butter work is always good for the cash flow - at that time I had a couple of large projects on, which would pay good money eventually.... eventually. I needed money now.

I washed the car, as I do not like to approach a new client with the caked filth from the muddy farm tracks laughingly labelled 'drives' by their owners, and set off. It was in a pretty village not far from here, all little cottages with a beautiful, ancient church and a long, low, gabled red brick pub, the sort which serves large portions of British comfort food such as braised lamb, chicken pie and mash, mackeral with mustard sauce....

I digress, but with these thoughts in mind, I was in a good mood when I began to look for the turn off to my new client's house. As I drove down the lane, the houses were spaced further apart, and as is often the case in villages, terminated in a row of large, 1930's council houses just before the speed limit sign and the parish boundary. I crossed the railway and turned off immediately past the end council house. There was a narrow, potholed and muddy lane, with some smaller, rather less pleasant council houses on one side. They had obviously been sold off to their tenants as they were no longer homogenous in style - some had new plastic windows, some with hideous 'Georgian' glazing bars; all had new front doors, some had new porches... the effect was messy and tacky.

I found my new client's house, on the end of the row, with a large patch of land (I hesitate to use the word 'garden') fenced with anything he could find - from old sheep enclosures to bits of timber, logs, sleepers, wire and baler twine. A huge pair of high gates and timber fencing enclosed God knew what on one side. There was a BMW and a huge, almost new, pick up truck parked outside. My good mood began to evaporate as I got out of the car to find it caked in mud from the puddles and holes I had just driven through.

He answered the door, a beefy man in his fifties, wearing a suit, and shook my hand in a huge paw. 'My wife' he said, indicating the bottle blond beside him. She grinned, showing smoker's teeth and said 'I've done some drawings! We know what we want!' My heart sank. Almost always this ends in tears. I have to explain why the sketches they have slaved over simply cannot be built, usually because they would contravene every planning and building regulation on the statute book. Sure enough, I looked at a badly designed, poorly proportioned proposal for an enormous extension which would have covered a plot the size of an airfield.

Ever so gently, I suggested I might be able to save them money by designing something a little smaller. They looked at each other and then at me - 'Of course!' said the man. 'That's why we want an architect, isn't it?'

Feeling very slightly more positive, I asked them to show me around. The house was not too bad, but a little small. I asked to look from the back garden and the woman looked nervous. 'I'll stay here' she said. The man glared at her.

He opened the back door and I noticed she had disappeared into the living room and shut the door. I soon found out why. The door opened into the fenced enclosure, a filthy yard covered with pieces of meat, bones and dogs' doings. The smell was incredible, even in the open air. A cacophony of barking started - yes, dogs. Huge black ones with those disgusting, tan coloured, exposed bottoms. Five - five! Dobermanns.

I am not fond of dogs, as anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows. I believe that a dog is a working animal and not a pet. I also believe that most people who have them do not train them properly, and have the strange delusion that everyone in the world must love their dear doggies as much as they do. I believe a dog can never be trusted, no matter what its owner may say (unless they are in a police uniform and have a highly trained Alsation, well under control, on a lead). I believe the Devil makes work for idle dogs, namely barking, pooing, peeing, smelling, biting, jumping up people and ripping small children into pieces of stewing steak. Almost everyone who has a dog like this calls them 'guard dogs'.

I froze with horror. The wretched animals were loose, and there was nothing between me and them.

'Oh, they're all right as long as I'm here' shouted the man above the din, drawing himself up and puffing his chest out. What is it with some men? Do they think they have to prove their manhood by having enormous and semi wild dogs? Do they all have tiny... well, anyway.

'They're guard dogs' he said. 'My wife isn't keen, but living out here, what do you do?'

I wondered if he thought he was somewhere in the wild west, and had a shotgun tucked away somewhere. 'I think I've seen what I need to see, thank you', I said, hurriedly backing away as one of the foul beasts advanced, glaring at me, barking and spitting. After some more small talk that I could not remember afterwards, I left and sat in the car, trying to calm down. I was literally in a cold sweat. I would have to survey the building, inside and outside, and it would have been impossible, completely impossible, with a pack of slavering hell-hounds baying for Alice's blood. Even if he shut them out, I would have to walk all over that filthy yard in my nice new boots and end up transferring dog poo into my car.

Back in the office, I considered taking on the job for about two nanoseconds. I wrote a letter saying I had 'reviewed my workload' and 'had too many other commitments at present' and 'felt unable to provide a service at present'.

One advantage of working for myself is I can just say 'No'.