One aspect of my job I’ve never minded too much is the whole meeting-clients-outside-the-office gig. This is, of course, because I get to leave the office, the meeting is an inconvenient necessity. On occasion, the meeting will turn out to be enjoyable, especially if I get on with the client and they pay for a long, fine lunch… sadly, these two elements rarely combine, when lunch does happen it’s more inclined to be some dismal oriental fusion presided over by some have-a-go fatty who is unable to speak without spraying bits of egg-fried ballsack all over my face.
Yesterday’s meeting was lunchless but I was keen to meet the client, a very, very upmarket jeweller, as it was a good chance to re-establish a contract that would help business and keep me solvent until next month.
I arrived dead on time mid afternoon and entered the premises, it was ludicrously opulent, sort of gaff that makes you feel completely worthless despite knowing full well that on all levels that is utterly wrong. I felt my teenage class-war-self screaming pathetically through the window. Is this what I had become? I was about to lick the boots of vanity and greed, I was about to willingly bow down, unfurl my fucking tongue and slurp at the feet of the filthy, dirty rich.
After meeting the client, short, female, heels (shit) and her assistant who didn’t utter a single word from the beginning of the meeting until the end, I was taken through 3 heavy security doors to a large boardroom surrounded by vast oil paintings depicting what I think was 18th century diamond trading. Yuck. The meeting began; I spoke, then questions, answers, so on and so forth, fake smiles, insincere gestures until I was bored sick. I failed to secure any deal making the entire experience as useful as a third armpit and wasting my time in the process. Go me.
But all was not lost, it was 4pm and I was free. I wandered through the West End before deciding to head up to The Proud Gallery in Camden for a photographic exhibition featuring the early days of AC/DC on whose bandwagon every bugger seemed to have boarded of late. I needed something to confront the malaise imposed upon me by the meeting and the fucking job that involves my having to eat shit. Sadly most of Camden is full of pseudo ‘punk’ cunts and by the time I’d dawdled up there it was shut and so I failed to achieve anything save further disappointment. I shot an espresso and, feeling better, went to Old Street to meet IC for a drink in a pub we share an affection. We had dinner in a Hackney, a splendid low-key affair that saw to the ills of the day whilst simultaneously reminding me which was is up, marvellous.