SPA night plus stranger
She got into the 73 when it was still saying 'Route terminates Here', over and over again, sitting in it's docking bay at Victoria Station. The doors were wide open for stragglers to step off or fresh ones to climb in.
She was one of the latter, having just bid goodbye to two tipsy friends after a long evening at the Phoenix behind Cardinal Place. There had been musty recollections of unshared times in a shared place - a college of Architecture if you please - where they'd all learnt their drawing, their filthy abuses and their carnal knowledge. Staggered learning, in separate batches of at least five years each. The work problem had been on her mind all night more or less - how to put together a decent fieldwork team and how to pay them, given that her company was the most staid, rule-keeping, unimaginative-to-the-core consultancy ever. While the best fieldwork teams tend to be scruffy, alternative, illegal and unempolyed (unemployable).
Maybe put an ad on jobs.ac.uk. And call all vocational colleges within 10 minutes of the site. Maybe run away and never set foot in this country again. Maybe convince clients that filedwork is dumb.
"How do I get to Oxford Circus" he asked the old drunk couple on the bench outside. "Get on this bus" they helpfully exhaled. He did. On the dark bus, with only one passenger yet, he came and said something to her. She didn't know the east european language he spoke, and had been prepared half exasperated but also kicked (the total colonial), to explain patiently how he would know to get off at Oxford Circus. "English??" she asked, almost sharply. "You're byuthiful", he told her. "Thanks" blushing. Get on with it.... "Goodnight" That's all. "Goodnight". Right.
Well maybe she could call such and such PhD friend and ask her for advice on fieldwork teams. The boss may be out tomorrow. Always easier to get things done in his absence.
Hang on! Man, that was Romantic...
She was one of the latter, having just bid goodbye to two tipsy friends after a long evening at the Phoenix behind Cardinal Place. There had been musty recollections of unshared times in a shared place - a college of Architecture if you please - where they'd all learnt their drawing, their filthy abuses and their carnal knowledge. Staggered learning, in separate batches of at least five years each. The work problem had been on her mind all night more or less - how to put together a decent fieldwork team and how to pay them, given that her company was the most staid, rule-keeping, unimaginative-to-the-core consultancy ever. While the best fieldwork teams tend to be scruffy, alternative, illegal and unempolyed (unemployable).
Maybe put an ad on jobs.ac.uk. And call all vocational colleges within 10 minutes of the site. Maybe run away and never set foot in this country again. Maybe convince clients that filedwork is dumb.
"How do I get to Oxford Circus" he asked the old drunk couple on the bench outside. "Get on this bus" they helpfully exhaled. He did. On the dark bus, with only one passenger yet, he came and said something to her. She didn't know the east european language he spoke, and had been prepared half exasperated but also kicked (the total colonial), to explain patiently how he would know to get off at Oxford Circus. "English??" she asked, almost sharply. "You're byuthiful", he told her. "Thanks" blushing. Get on with it.... "Goodnight" That's all. "Goodnight". Right.
Well maybe she could call such and such PhD friend and ask her for advice on fieldwork teams. The boss may be out tomorrow. Always easier to get things done in his absence.
Hang on! Man, that was Romantic...
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