Adrian, a sprightly, short, sixty year old, is a stickler about his appearance; he thinks of himself as dapper favouring open-necked pastel coloured sea island cotton shirts, Paisley patterned cravats, double-breasted, shiny buttoned blazers, cavalry twill trousers and brown suede shoes that he calls brothel creepers. His coiffure is of particular concern to him; his hair is thick, curly white and in need of constant care – his wife thinks he looks like a senile golden retriever; she is not fond of him, or he of her. He was once a potter and is now the Principal of the School of Art.
His daily timetable is meticulously kept. He enters his office at precisely 10.00 am and makes himself a cafetiere of coffee that he drinks black with a teaspoon of Fortnum and Mason’s multi coloured granulated sugar. Thereafter he deals with correspondence from the local authority and meets his deputy, Richard Whiteheath, for mutual bullshit and ego polishing. At 12.00 he walks across the road to the Manhattan Bar where he quaffs his first G&T of the day.
But, today, after three handsome G&Ts, there’s no more time to dally with the barmaid, the delightful big bosomed Brenda, as he blows her a kiss and sets forth for the hairdressing salon on the top floor of Binns for his bi-weekly haircut.
In the office in the basement of the School of Art the telephone rings. Sam, the caretaker, answers the phone, Yes, oh … has he? … Again? …Okay, give us ten mins and we’ll be right over.
His assistant, young Jack, laughs, Again?
Sam sighs, Again. You, lad, pop up to the staff room and let ‘em know, will you?
Ten minutes later, those staff who aren’t still in the pub, are assembled on the top floor, in the conservatory where plants are grown and stored for students to draw. Five male staff stand on the wooden shelves, amidst the plants, to get a better view through the windows of the adjacent empty plot of land that acts as a temporary car park.
There they are! Ray shouts.
Sam, Jack and Adrian wait at the Pelican crossing, although Adrian is unaware of this delay – he is asleep on the stretcher that Sam and Jack carry.
Slowly they weave their way through the parked cars to raucous cheering of the staff in the conservatory.
Minutes later Adrian is laid on the chaise longue in his office where he will slumber until wakened by Sam and told to drive home.
The wood and canvas stretcher stands in the corner of Sam’s subterranean office – ready for future us.
In the staff room, Alan, a new member of staff, expresses his surprise at what he’s just seen.
Just think of it as performance art, Ray comforts.
It’s no way to run an art school, Alan objects.
He doesn’t, Ray replies, We do.
I’m enjoying the stories Phil. This reflects several people I have met 🙂
They are getting less and less in art schools – thankfully (?).
Nigel, I should also have said, Thank you, I’m pleased. Go well, Phil
I re-read ‘Stretcher ‘quite regularly, still laugh out loud. Who has not known such characters,and the pompous delusion of senior management.
‘Exposure.’ Hauntingly telling of the price journalists always face – at home or abroad sadly – and as the norm now it seems, especially in the USA. Sensuous poetry with purpose. Having read most of your books, it is as fine as anything you have written, Phil Cosker.
Thank you John, that’s most appreciated. Fantastic! Go well, Phil
Than you, John. I’m very appreciative of your fantastic responses. Go well, Phil