“I just pitched a story about 24 hours in the life of a Victorian antique chair. It’s kind of like James Joyce’s Ulysses…but through the eyes of quality furniture. As if the furniture…wait for it…has feelings.”
“Sounds a-mazing,” drawled Tristan as the waitress lay down their lunch plates with a simple nod as if to underline a simple job done for apparently simplistic people. “What was the feedback?”
“They l-o-v-e it. Said my descriptive powers were a-mazing and that the sad finale in the auction room rendered them paralysed with emotion, plum-sized lumps in their throats. They apparently wept when it was discovered the chair was a 1970s reproduction and therefore worthless.”
“You mean despite its furnitureal hubris the 'antique chair' had no memory that it was a fake? Sounds confusing so it’s a powerful concept,” replied Tristan, successfully digging out a brown avocado stone with his fork.
“So how’s the love life this week? What was her name…Shona? Sharia?”
“Shindip, she’s Indian, even though I stated a preference for Caucasians at the dating agency, but they said they didn’t have that as a category so it was a racial lucky dip. It was hard work really. I felt like I was at a job interview when all I ever wanted was a temporary position.”
“I bet,” guffawed Hugo demolishing the Mozzarella first, out of respect for the buffalo who had grudgingly created it with a squat and a grunt. “Women in their late twenties become even more single-minded in their search for a mate…especially when they can get 50% of every damn thing. I should know. I wish my ex had got half of that herpes.”
“In-deed…so I tried to ditch and run.”
“Ah, what did you tell her you did for a ‘fake’ living?”
“Orange boiler suits.”
“Orange boiler suits? You said that?"
“As soon as I thought it wasn’t going anywhere. I told her I made them for the US in Guantanamo. Disturbingly, she seemed impressed.”
“What did she say?”
“Sounds profitable. You must be making a bomb. I told her we don’t joke about that…especially as our Business Development Manager looks like Richard Reid and wears Size 12 shoes. I told him, 'shave the beard or you’ll be cavity searched at every airport on the globe', but he thinks the chin fur makes him look distinguished. Well, let me tell you, no-one looks dignified with a gloved hand wiggling up their arse. Anyway, I'm taking her to the NFT next week.”