Friday morning
I arrive to find a truck parked at the side of the building unloading 125 boxes of The White Tiger that have to be transported up two flights of stairs, carried into the boardroom and unpacked, ready for signing. We had the lift door jammed open but rapid calculations meant that we could only take about 20 boxes at a time without exceeding the weight limit (and even then there was a sharp intake of breath by whoever was travelling with them as it shuddered slowly upwards like a nonagenarian climbing the Empire State Building. So, by the time I had taken off my coat I was one of a small conveyor belt of women (oh yes, women - most of whom, though not me, probably weigh less that a box of books) because the men, who of course are those with doors that close, were all in Frankfurt swanning around receiving (admittedly well deserved) laurels and congratulations while we gals and Tom, the Contracts Manager, toted the bale, carried the hod, passed boxes from hand to hand then ran up two flights of stairs and did it all again, yomping through the office carrying cartons two at a time.
I don’t mind a bit of physical activity but that morning I had been involved in a little altercation with my eldest daughter meaning that I could not get into my wardrobe which is in her bedroom (small house, not enough closets) and which resulted, mid argument, in my snatching a skirt from her bed and wearing that to work instead of – say – one that actually fitted me. As an expression of spite it was somewhat ineffective as it turned round and bit me in the bum. I hadn’t realised quite the brevity of the hemline or the dearth of material around the hips. Not the ideal outfit for bending and stretching.
The next stage was opening the boxes, unpacking the books, turning them to the title page (all the better for signing) and then returning the empty boxes to a wall at the side of the room to be repacked and sent off again.
Aravind was coming in mid-way through the afternoon to begin the mammoth task of signing them, but in the meantime, most of my morning, along with two willing helpers, was spent unpacking. Glamorous? My my, indeed it was. 44 empty boxes later, I skipped home the other side of lunchtime leaving the others to see to the actual signing which went on into the early evening. By that time I was snugly tucked up at home with a daughter who, not only was still angry with me after our disagreement in the morning, but livid that I had stretched her skirt. Yet another thing to add to my shortcomings:
'How could you go out looking like that? On the bus?' She yelled. 'I had my coat on,' I protested. But not only have I failed on the mother front but I’ve also fallen down badly on the ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ question.
By Monday, Aravind has left the building, no doubt with his signing arm in a sling, and the conquering heroes have returned from Frankfurt. MD brought us some German biscuits, Ubereditor a warmly bestowed wide smile, and Mr T three thousand business cards to add to his contacts. Though that gift was for me and me alone.
Into every high life a little low must fall.
Roll on Thursday and Graham Rawle’s The Wizard of Oz launch at his Studio. I’m clicking my heels just thinking about it.
‘There’s no place like Home. There’s no place like Home. There’s no place like…’
Actually, wait a cotton pickin’ minute, there is a bloody place like home – it’s called Broadmoor Maximum Security Prison where you are not allowed to go out in the evening and cheer alcoholically when your Company’s author wins the Man Booker, you're pants at parenting, your ex-husband gets to leave but you don't, and furthermore you can’t even get into your own wardrobe so are forced to wear doll's clothes just from the privilege of going to work.
Who the heck wants to go home?
What's so great about Kansas anyway.
