Monday was a Bank Holiday in the United Kingdom. Because I got up fairly late I wasn’t all that sleepy in the evening, and so stayed up far too late. It was a big mistake.
Tuesday
After only about five hours sleep I got up at six and set off on the journey to work. In too much of a rush to make a cup of tea at home, I bought one at the station. I caught the later train, hoping there would be no hold-ups (and there weren’t, allowing me to get to the office on the stroke of nine).
I borrowed Kate’s car and went up to Watford to the new BQW offices. Steve C, my contact there, seemed to have more security than George W. Bush (outer gate house, security desk in the main atrium where my folder was “searched”, main reception, another reception on the upper floor where I had to wait for Steve C to collect me, entry-coded door to his floor, entry-coded door to the meeting room he had booked). It was surprising to see the building all fitted out - last time I was there it was just an empty shell.
In the evening I was asked to dinner in Rachel’s flat in Maida Vale (“nothing special, I’ll just do spaghetti”). I was very reluctant to go as I was so tired, but I forced myself to say yes as Rachel is a very good friend to have. We got off at Warwick Avenue and walked the rest of the way as I wanted to see the Warwick Avenue tube entrance mentioned in the Duffy song (“When I get to Warwick Avenue meet me by the entrance of the tube…”).
At the flat Rachel’s flatmates Rebecca and Juliette were both at home. We had olives with feta cheese to start, then spaghetti, then low-fat strawberry yoghurts (served in wineglasses rather than eating them out of the plastic pots). To drink we had a bottle of Italian soave, which they chilled in the freezer.
Afterwards we sat in the living room and talked. Another bottle of soave was opened, but as I would have to drive later I had tap water. The girls became quite tipsy and talked of their relationship problems (but not Rebecca, who never lets down her guard).
“I mope around cafés thinking I have no big romance in my life” said Juliette. “All my money goes on just everyday living. Other people manage to get their lives together, so why can’t I?”
I left at nine, and by the time I got home it was nearly midnight - not very good.
Wednesday
Things have become very quiet in the agency, although I have a number of substantial projects to keep me busy. There was no excuse to go out, so I had to sit at my desk and shuffle papers. Warm outside, but it was cold in the office as the windows were open each end and this caused a steady through-draught.
Joey (freelance) came in to collect a cheque, his walk so bowlegged he almost waddled. After he had got the cheque from Sheila he stopped by my desk to talk, telling me he had worked all through the holiday weekend. While there is no football he is training with a boxing club and suggested I went along to see some of the fights (this seemed a risky sport for a graphic designer, especially as his fingers didn’t look all that robust, but I think he enjoys punching people).
When he had gone Alan (director) came up and said the agency wanted to cut down on the use of freelances and I should put all work into the studio.
In the afternoon I struggled with The Advertising Campaign That Has Gone Horribly Wrong (booked into a magazine that has just folded). The whole thing has become a morass, and every time I think I have found my way out the safe path disappears and I get dragged down deeper. We have almost certainly lost the account.
Thursday
In the morning Pete (my “assistant” and basically the office junior) confided that he was having an affair with Sarah, the receptionist. Sarah lives with Ben (one of our photographers, and Ian’s son). They have been partners for about two years. Pete has only just turned eighteen and is immature for his age. Sarah is aged about twenty-two, and (I would guess) is very experienced. Ben knows about the affair and has gone into a sort of sulk.
“He doesn’t treat her very well” Pete told me. “I’ve been seeing her since February, and she is soon going to leave him. I may be driven out of this company” (said matter-of-factly and without self-pity).
At lunchtime we had another of the fatuous Staff Meetings. Tony W (print buyer, production, some media buying) broke the silence at the end to ask about pay reviews. Sheila (office manager and director) looked furiously at him, and Ian (our MD) mumbled something about “merit” salary reviews this year.
In the afternoon I got proof copies of a mailer just about to go out (we do a lot of direct marketing). To my horror (and I mean a real feeling of horror, since I can’t afford another mistake) I noticed a prominent spelling error on the front. I had to quickly stop the mailing going out and arrange for a reprint. Then I went through the job bag trying to work out how the error happened. All the proofs were fine, and signed off by the client. Eventually I found out that Tony B (graphic designer in the studio, aged late fifties) had made a last-minute change to one of the colours before the job went to the printer, and must have knocked the keyboard by mistake (he was so ashamed it was impossible to be angry with him - “We’ll draw a veil over all this, and I’ll lose the cost of the reprint” I told him).
Friday
We have a sort of dress-down policy for Fridays, but one of the upstairs PR execs went too far and appeared in combat Capri trousers.
“When I specified casual dress on Fridays I was thinking more of a tweed jacket and cravat” said Terry (overall MD and owner of the agency).
Everyone laughed (nervously, as you never know when Terry is serious).
In the afternoon I went to Cambridge as I have acquired two new clients in the city - one totally new (brought in by Kate); and one handed down from upstairs. This is very good news as I like Cambridge a lot, and will be there on an almost weekly basis. And it will probably mean I can go home early if I arrange the client meetings for about three o’clock in the afternoon (I learned this trick from Ian).
More on Warwick Avenue: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkkmQNA_aRs
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