Broom (11)

BROOM (11)

Well, it's the end of the week.

I can hardly speak.

It's not just my vocal chords; I tell you, I'm asking the Lord how his potentially wonderful creation resulted - post-industrially - in such a spectacular abomination. . .

I'm exhausted and depleted; I'm feeling quite defeated.

And, it has to be said that despite their unfriendliness (their evident uncleanliness - their total lack of female-ness) the women on my team (for all their confrontational prowess) seem to have it right.

They have an innate kind of existential insight that I think I might lacking.

I so desperately want their backing: their endorsement and support. (I think I need them more than I ought.)

The one with the Hoola-Hoop asked me the other day: is it for love or for art that you generally pray?

I had to say I never pray, but she's made me nervous.

Should I be praying?

Broom (10)

BROOM (10)

I began to defrost the mini-bar (discard the old cheese and the mouldy jam jar). The refrigerator was stinking, but, it's still got me thinking . . .

This is what I'm currently pondering:

The girl from Exotica loves the thought of the one with the Hoola-Hoop's mobile institute . . .

I mean, how is that for a team?

I confess, these young women exceed all my dreams. Yes, they moan and they snipe (don't use feminine wipes) but I feel like a cat with the cream. (I'm so happy I think I might scream.)

The fly in the ointment - my one disappointment - is the artist who runs for the train. I am tired of her old refrain. Yes, of course, we regret British Rail was disabled but that shouldn't determine how her days are timetabled.

Get a Student Rail-Card and cheap tickets aren't hard to acquire, to purchase or buy. (So, right now, I am asking 'just why' the artist can't make a nine-forty-five start; why the artist can't leave after three. Why the artist is always quite testy and tart; why the artist seems not to like me.

All I want is a happy family; a convivial community.

Broom (9)

BROOM (9)

I was emptying the bins and recycling things, when the girl from Havana observed:

'I think it's so cute, this mobile institute. Can I come along, too?' she purred. (I noticed my teeth felt all furred.) 'Because, you'll need a spare driver, a spare pair of hands and I'm never more happy than when traversing new lands. I'm, for certain, a victim of wanderlust. Come, let's do it together: Monte Carlo or bust.'

She punched me rather heartily on my left upper arm. Christ, these ethnologists have no idea of the harm that they cause.

I think it's Havana (but, it could be Savannah); whatever, our girl is a veritable trooper. I looked at her briefly, and said:

'I believe that you're very well read.'

She said: 'I'm a professional researcher (you're envious, I betcha). I do what I want when I will. There ain't nothing surpasses free-will. But, you gotta be tough, abrasive and gruff, and, you're better off on the pill.

'Yes, children will just cramp you style,' she said with a feline-fanged smile.

Broom (8)

BROOM (8)

If we fail to attract the numbers required, we'll all be redundant: released, or, retired. 

The one with the hoola-hoop rocked on her hips, she crumpled her forehead and chewed on her lips. 'I could do with not yet being fired (even though I'm despondent and tired.)

'You see, though I've always been partial to German rye-bread, I subscribe to the Bible when all's done and said. I believe in a doctrine, when all's said and done; I can't live by yeast-products alone.'

I rubbed my hands with antiseptic gel and raised an eyebrow as if to say, well?

She replied, 'I need butter and jam, or some well-cured ham. I need goats' cheese and Marmite and all. I need fish from a tin, some olives in brine. And, of course, Waitrose's own falafel. 

'I live by myself - all alone. You must see that I need an income.' 

'Then, tell me, how should we recruit?'

She thought for a while: 'a mobile institute?'

'Just what do you mean by that? '

She said, 'being sedentary turns you to fat. I suggest that we get up and go: a pedagogical sort of road show. 

'We'll sow the seeds of passion for photography; revive the cult of heliography. What we need is a bus or a van. (We can hire a driver: a man.) We'll travel the ends of the earth (a car seat will do for a berth.) Yes, I see it quite clear. (You're excited, my dear.) We must get on the road very soon, with a kitted-up mobile darkroom; like Fenton devised (oh, they'll be so surprised). Indeed, with our pop-up facilities, we'll rival all the universities.

'Believe me, we'll always recruit from our peripatetic (empathetic) institute.'

Broom (7)

BROOM (7)

I was cleaning my keyboard with a feminine wipe when the one with the hoola-hoop started to snipe (again).

She said:

'Well, we took ourselves off on an Easy Jet flight. We walked through the day; slept rough every night. (A porch on the first day, a woodshed the second: by the third night a wooden play-house kind of beckoned. So, we swept it clean with a broom and, despite being cramped, we had just enough room to sleep like proverbial logs. We were, after all, tired as dogs.)

'We traversed eighty miles in just over three days. Up mountains, down valleys: I remain quite amazed that we never felt mardy or hungry or sad. Yet, one day in the work-place and I'm feeling quite bad.

'My stomach is cramping, my face is all flushed. (By the way, there are crumbs where you've polished and brushed.) My face is all flushed and my sinuses ache. My sense of well-being is always at stake in this place.

'Tell me, why should this be?

'Is this normal, or, particular to me?'

Broom (6)

BROOM (6)

The other, she said, as she hoola-hooped:

'The problem, dear Broom, is that we've all been duped. I can't help but thinking our raison-d'etre's sinking; we were promised a lie - that's the truth. Our professional life is a spoof.'

I was cleaning the windows with Windolene. (The desktops, already, gave off a good sheen - thanks to beeswax and elbow-grease. Such hard work: I took off my fleece.)

She continued:

'You see, I had an epiphany. We were bagging some routes, my boyfriend and me. The sun was shining, the grit was dry. As we belayed some classics I thought I might cry. I was happy enough to die.'

She stared out the window and sighed.

'And, as for the future, I don't give a toss. (I've experienced too much and suffered such loss.) I have nothing I wish for, and no expectation. But, when I'm out with my partner my only sensation is something akin to a sense of elation.

'I'm afraid I need nothing more. As a consequence, work seems like a bore.'

Broom (5)

BROOM (5)

As I de-scaled the kettle and washed up the cups, I spotted our girl in Havana (on reflection, perhaps, it's Savannah?)

Whatever.

I spied her curled up in the corner, as I rinsed out those filthy mugs.

You see, our girl from Exotica doesn't like teaching. So, she's convinced our superiors her skill is researching. You'll rarely see her around. For the most part, she's outward bound. But, her ethics are sketchy, her strategy crude. (Rationale, let me say, is verging on crude.)

She uses old cameras to spectacular ends (to aesthetize difference with an old, plastic lens). Now, doc-phot has recently taken a bashing (and, it has to be said, I endorse all that thrashing).

But, I have to admit that I found it astounding when she said she shot subjects in their natural surroundings.  It's something to do with an anthropological grounding.