You will remember I had come to the conclusion that the office brochure should be bog-standard A4 format so that prospective clients might actually glance at it and then put it on their reference shelf, to pull it out at the appropriate time. The Jerk has been pretty moody about that. He is secretly longing for a big white A3 jobbie with an up-thenostrils mug shot in sepia.
So he has started parallel brochure talks with the Bloke, the one I met in the pub and foolishly gave a glowing reference to. The ghastly thing is that I am certain that the recipient of most of Emily's (the one with the dog under the desk) recent mobile calls is actually the Bloke. I feel like the high-rise yob whose mother dies in agony because they can't ring the ambulance from the phone he has just vandalised.
Emily's dog did it again.
That does it. I'm really off this time. No, not private practice aka, according to the RIBA, extreme poverty. Nor another snakepit like this one.
During the downturn there was this joke: What does an architect in work say? Answer:
'Will that be with ice and lemon ma'am?' That's exactly what I will be saying next week on some tropical beach: far better than half-doing extremely average cannon fodder architecture and brochures. Wait. How, on the day I leave, am I going to introduce a tin of baked beans into that bloody dog's food?