Architect's Conversion , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Will Collins

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105 pages

English

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Reginald Pratt is an architect who lives an extremely bland existence in the London suburbs with his mother and his cat. Reginald's philosophy on architecture in particular and life in general, has been influenced by his late father, also an architect. Being mollycoddled by Mum, and theorising about low cost social housing and architecture for the people is no longer an option when Reginald loses his job, and is possibly about to lose his accommodation. His career abruptly changes direction, and through a series of bizarre circumstances he finds himself unintentionally jettisoned into the glitzy lifestyle of the French Riviera. For Reginald, life will never be the same.

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Humour

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	22 novembre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781782344872
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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Extrait

Title Page
THE ARCHITECT’S CONVERSION
by
Will Collins

Publisher Information
Published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2012 Will Collins
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The right of Will Collins to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Dedication
To the Guv and SJC for their support and encouragement on this and all my projects.

Chapter One
If at first you don’t succeed,
failure may be your style.
Quentin Crisp
Apart from their immediate interest in the movie they may be watching, few people take much interest in the careers of the protagonists in popular entertainment, let alone creating rating tables, spread sheets and graphs to prove a point.
I’m told that law enforcement officers and private investigators are well represented as typical heroes, as are medical personnel, lawyers and journalists.
But whose careers are most often selected by the script-writer as providing the lucrative, glamorous and sexually intriguing lifestyles required to captivate an envious audience?
Architects, apparently.
At least, that’s what Kevin says.
This frustrates Kevin on two counts. Firstly, because he isn’t an architect. Secondly, because I am. The reality is that Kevin’s job in a plumbing accessory store is considerably more glitzy than my current path on my chosen career. I say chosen , but really it was inevitable.
My late Dad was an architect, but a far cry from one of the stereotyped heroes of Kevin’s imagination. Dad was more corduroy and suede, with a strong sense of his social duty as an architect to help create the brave new post-war world. I don’t think his position in the minor works division of The Ministry of Public Building and Works did much to contribute to this, but this was compensated by his other contributions to the bar of the local working men’s club, where ‘Archie’ as he was known, was often on his anti fascist soapbox expounding his views on the state’s obligation to provide housing and similar social facilities.
In Kevin’s fantasy world the architect hero has an Aston Martin (or at the very least a Jaguar), but in Dad’s world the reality was a sit up and beg district nurse bicycle, complete with basket, Sturmey Archer gears and dodgy brakes. In his later years, at the risk of being denounced as a capitalist, Dad purchased a Morris Minor Traveller, even going as far as to add an external sun visor, radio and whitewall tyres. I remember the adding of the extras being a moral dilemma that he agonised over for days.
I never learnt to drive, although I did buy a second hand Lambretta a couple of years back. This, I thought was the perfect statement to combine retro styling with consideration for the environment. It broke down after two days, and then the wheels got nicked. Now I just use Dad’s old bike. Kevin says this lacks style, and refuses to acknowledge me when I ride it into The Dog and Duck car park on Wednesdays for our quiz nights, but always mellows after his second pint at the bar. Usually brought by me. As is the first.
Needless to say, Kev’s ‘specialist subject’ for quizzing is films and television. We usually team up with Marlene (specialist subject medieval French history), and Bianca (specialist subjects Roxy Music and food and drink. (Mainly drink.) I always think Marlene’s choice is a strange subject for a girl working in Tesco, but as we have only ever had two questions on her specialist topic, it’s difficult to judge. I seem to recall that when those questions were given, we got them both wrong. I think they were questions about French kings. Marlene said she always got Louis confused with Henri. (I thought they were all called Louis.) Bianca said Marlene’s confusion was a perfectly justified as apparently her late grandmother was French, and had dementia.
Tonight is quiz night.
Little Alf, the publican, is checking the questions and blowing into the microphone. ‘One,two, three, testing,’ he keeps repeating in officious tone.
‘You just gotta watch the late night movie tonight,’ says Marlene to no one in particular, as we settle at our table.
‘Wot’s it baht then?’ mumbles Bianca, through a mouthful of pork crackling.
‘Called The Skyscraper of Desire . Baht an architeck. Wotsisname’s in it.’
‘Course it’s about a bloody architect,’ snarls Kevin. ‘It’s always about a bloody architect.’
‘Is that wotsisname wiv the spiky hair?’ Bianca asks Marlene. ‘Oi, watch it!’ Bianca shouts as one of the competitors from the adjoining table jolts her elbow, causing her to spill half her vodka down her pink tee shirt. This has disastrous results on the sequins on the front of the garment that proclaim Free Love .
‘Nah. It’s the one wot’s shacked up with you know... wot’s her name with the thick lips, false boobs and lotsa big teeth,’ replies Marlene.
‘Oh, ‘er. She gets on my tits,’ says Bianca with disdain, as she dabs said tits with a paper handkerchief to clean up the vodka.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention. Please take your seats,’ announces Little Alf. ‘ The Dog and Duck’s Wednesday quiz is about to start.’
‘Do you realise,’ mutters Kevin as he consults his Filofax, ‘that after tonight’s bloody film, forty nine bloody percent of lead bloody characters this year will have been bloody architects.’
This is one of Kevin’s usual diatribes. He then usually confirms his findings by jabbing a finger at his Filofax (the contents of which are sacred), and goes on to point out that anybody who is anybody uses this particular, or a similar, personal filing system. (In later years however, he would denounce them as being antiquated, when singing the praises of personal electronic devices.)
Personally, I have never got on with Filofaxes, or any personal filing systems, and as a technophobe I have a morbid fear of computers and electronic equipment. All right, so the millennium is approaching, and everyone’s going technology crazy, but I still prefer to make notes on the back of an old envelope with a pencil stub.
Kevin drones on about, ‘...how computers will change the face of the commercial world in the 2000’s’, and the impact it will have on us all. ‘Especially architects and their designs,’ he says pointedly.
Thankfully, after her mishap, Bianca is too busy re-arranging the curling sequins on her left breast to pay attention to Kevin’s prattling and break into her usual cackle about ‘erections’,’high rise’ and ‘cantilevers’, although she never was exactly sure what the last of these was. Bianca now has bigger considerations on her mind. Missing sequins now mean that her Free Love tee shirt is now proclaiming F ee Love .
***
Later that evening I set out for home on Old Betsy. (Old Betsy was Dad’s nickname for his district nurse bike). The journey looks as though it could be even more hazardous than usual. Betsy’s front tyre is completely flat, and the combination of no front light, six pints and numerous drains and manhole covers has raised my voice an octave, and probably worked my fillings loose.
The other complication is curry. It’s not that I’m a curry addict, (as Kevin would have you believe) but I haven’t had a decent meal for a couple of days, I am absolutely starving, and the choices are limited. Realising that I will need sustaining through The Skyscraper of Desire , I stop at The Taj Mahal . This is The Taj Mahal without air conditioning, not to be confused with the other Taj Mahal further down the road, that is, the one with the hand painted sign announcing [sic] luxurey acomidation and air connditining. The one ‘without’ is where the last-order brigade collect their culinary delights after closing time.
The staff at The Taj ‘without’ seem to have a particular aversion to The Dog and Duck clientele, which is strange, because they are just about their only clientele. I usually get particularly surly treatment, because, I suspect, I also frequent The Taj ‘with’. I patronise the latter simply because it is situated in the parade of shops below Bernstein and Partners, my employers. Our entrance door having The Taj ‘with’ on one side, and the local bookie on the other.
The fact that the two Taj proprietors are cousins does not appear to improve matters. I order a Vindaloo. In fact there is only Vindaloo to be ordered. It’s handed over with what I was sure were conspiratorial glances between the servers, and no they will not take my credit card.
Next stop, the offie for a pack of Special Brew . Pack it all into Betsy’s basket (watch the hole in the middle), and away. Well, sort of. The curry keeps gravitating towards the hole in the basket, and steadying it with one hand after six pints requires some considerable effort. When the flat front tyre hits a particularly deep grating, the impact, combined with the force of gravity was not something to be resisted. Retrieving the curry from the gutter, I hold the food container in one hand (in the manner of an Olympic torch), damaged side up, and steer Old Betsy with the other. Somehow, I make it to Elm Avenue, balancing the battered package.
By the light of the one remaining street light that still works, I ponder how unjustified is the reputation of these between-the-wars semis. In reality, they are a true architectural statement of our social history. Had there been a full moon, or adequate street lighting, I might have philosophised on this furt