difficult situation for any bloke to extricate himself from.'
'And you in a managerial role, of course.'
'And me in a managerial role. "God, Dot," I said, or something like that. I wasn't exactly keeping a diary of events at the time.'
'She should have been doing that, surely?'
'How do you mean?'
'Diarising events: it's a secretarial job.'
'Gotcha. "I've always like you, Col." The imitated voice now achieved a register of near-strangulation. ‘ ''You should have given me some sort of sign." ’
'And what did you say?'
'What did I say? Aaarghhh. Or something like that. You don't always choose your words all that fastidiously on these occasions, let's be honest. I suppose I might have expressed some surprise at this sudden turn of events, but by now ... ' Colin halted and took a deep drink of his beer.
'Things were going from bad to worse, eh?'
'I think, looking back on it with the benefit of hindsight, I might have pointed out to Dotty that we were obviously lurching from one extreme to another, in terms of staff relations, but she'd have had a bit of a problem answering by then.'
'Oh? Why's that then?'
'Because her mouth was full.'
'Ah. Point of no return now reached, by the sound of it. ’
'Not what you'd call a practical staff assessment moment.'
'Sounds like she was assessing your staff practically enough. ’
'It was all over in a couple of minutes – I mean, it hadn't been planned. Or at least, I don't think it had. The secretary handed me a Kleenex tissue, and left, saying she might do a bit more filing on the Monday, if she felt like it; but on the other hand, she might not. And that was the first time I'd looked through the window. On the roof top opposite there's these two blokes in yellow helmets. They gave me the thumbs-up sign and a big cheer. ’
'Weekend workers, one and all, I suppose. Sense of solidarity. ’
'Trouble is, they went round blabbing about it, didn't they?
Finally the boss got to hear. Most put out, he was. Said I was turning his offices into a brothel. So I ended up getting the sack.'
'And now your wife's left you as well.'
'And now my fucking wife's left me as well.'
'Might have been easier to just to go shopping that Saturday,
Col.'
'That's what I'll do next time. Definitely.'
'Supermarkets have been getting more user-friendly.'
Owen had now finished his beer. Another hole had been filled in his mind, and he left.
The Convenience of Women
Henry Allardyce was considering Picasso and his women. It was twelve o'clock and Henry wished that it were already one, because then he could pour himself a glass of wine. But rules were rules. No wine before one. Picasso's imagination and his art fed upon women, that was for sure. His style changed irrevocably every time a new one arrived and an old one departed.
There was Fernande Olivier, whose slow heavy-fleshed carnality he celebrated asleep and awake, drawing her making love or merely existing inside the ruinous state of domesticity to which their life together soon reduced them. Even Picasso's friends were shocked at the shambles they inhabited, and some of those friends lived in sufficiently insalubrious rat-holes themselves. When she started to become ill he told his friends she'd turned into a machine for suffering. To make Picasso jealous, she beckoned others between the sheets. It worked: it did make him jealous. Sadly it also made him hate her.
Little Eva he obviously loved, and she managed to die of the malignant growths inside her before he was provided with a single serious chance to change his mind.
Olga, the Russian ballet virgin, was the first one he had to marry to possess. Even in the portraits he painted of her, many in the style of Ingres, you can see what she was: an effigy of proprietorial self-importance. She actually managed to turn Picasso into a stiff, self-preening bourgeois, though fortunately not for ever.
Dora Maar, that chameleon soul who was greatly gifted herself, let her
'And you in a managerial role, of course.'
'And me in a managerial role. "God, Dot," I said, or something like that. I wasn't exactly keeping a diary of events at the time.'
'She should have been doing that, surely?'
'How do you mean?'
'Diarising events: it's a secretarial job.'
'Gotcha. "I've always like you, Col." The imitated voice now achieved a register of near-strangulation. ‘ ''You should have given me some sort of sign." ’
'And what did you say?'
'What did I say? Aaarghhh. Or something like that. You don't always choose your words all that fastidiously on these occasions, let's be honest. I suppose I might have expressed some surprise at this sudden turn of events, but by now ... ' Colin halted and took a deep drink of his beer.
'Things were going from bad to worse, eh?'
'I think, looking back on it with the benefit of hindsight, I might have pointed out to Dotty that we were obviously lurching from one extreme to another, in terms of staff relations, but she'd have had a bit of a problem answering by then.'
'Oh? Why's that then?'
'Because her mouth was full.'
'Ah. Point of no return now reached, by the sound of it. ’
'Not what you'd call a practical staff assessment moment.'
'Sounds like she was assessing your staff practically enough. ’
'It was all over in a couple of minutes – I mean, it hadn't been planned. Or at least, I don't think it had. The secretary handed me a Kleenex tissue, and left, saying she might do a bit more filing on the Monday, if she felt like it; but on the other hand, she might not. And that was the first time I'd looked through the window. On the roof top opposite there's these two blokes in yellow helmets. They gave me the thumbs-up sign and a big cheer. ’
'Weekend workers, one and all, I suppose. Sense of solidarity. ’
'Trouble is, they went round blabbing about it, didn't they?
Finally the boss got to hear. Most put out, he was. Said I was turning his offices into a brothel. So I ended up getting the sack.'
'And now your wife's left you as well.'
'And now my fucking wife's left me as well.'
'Might have been easier to just to go shopping that Saturday,
Col.'
'That's what I'll do next time. Definitely.'
'Supermarkets have been getting more user-friendly.'
Owen had now finished his beer. Another hole had been filled in his mind, and he left.
The Convenience of Women
Henry Allardyce was considering Picasso and his women. It was twelve o'clock and Henry wished that it were already one, because then he could pour himself a glass of wine. But rules were rules. No wine before one. Picasso's imagination and his art fed upon women, that was for sure. His style changed irrevocably every time a new one arrived and an old one departed.
There was Fernande Olivier, whose slow heavy-fleshed carnality he celebrated asleep and awake, drawing her making love or merely existing inside the ruinous state of domesticity to which their life together soon reduced them. Even Picasso's friends were shocked at the shambles they inhabited, and some of those friends lived in sufficiently insalubrious rat-holes themselves. When she started to become ill he told his friends she'd turned into a machine for suffering. To make Picasso jealous, she beckoned others between the sheets. It worked: it did make him jealous. Sadly it also made him hate her.
Little Eva he obviously loved, and she managed to die of the malignant growths inside her before he was provided with a single serious chance to change his mind.
Olga, the Russian ballet virgin, was the first one he had to marry to possess. Even in the portraits he painted of her, many in the style of Ingres, you can see what she was: an effigy of proprietorial self-importance. She actually managed to turn Picasso into a stiff, self-preening bourgeois, though fortunately not for ever.
Dora Maar, that chameleon soul who was greatly gifted herself, let her
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