You may well think that this blog is dead. But it's not: it's merely resting. Just waiting for the right moment to return with a vengeance. Although that might not be for some time yet. I'll keep you posted though – you can be sure of that.
But meanwhile life goes on. And it might surprise you that I've been having some very interesting chats with designer friends. Virtual friends that I've met on here: albeit friends that I've never met. Perhaps one day I will.
Anyway, one of those chats involved my giving some advice. I'm always happy to do that, if you ask me nicely. But I don't force it down people's throats. God forbid that I should ever turn into one of those "you don't want to do it like that, you want to do it like this" fellows. There's enough of them already. Particularly among designers (or, should I say, a certain type of designer). I'm sure you've met them, too.
But back to the advice, which was this: when you first become self-employed (and if you're a designer, you almost certainly will, one day, become self-employed) the best advice that I can give you is to always follow your first instinct. That's about the people you meet and the work that you'll be asked to take on. That is, if it feels right go for it; but if it doesn't, proceed with caution.
It was advice that was given to me on my very first day as a solo artist. And it's always stood me in good stead throughout my career. I'd like to say that it never failed me, but that wouldn't quite be correct. Sometimes something happens, something that you couldn't have foreseen. Something that is beyond your control, and which spirals towards disaster.
So let me take you back to 1984. A time when you might well find me listening to:
I was working in Covent Garden (OK: on the fringes of) at workplace number 6. Alongside some very talented and like-minded folk. Good times and happy days. The office had two secretaries: for it was a job share (yes, we were ahead of the times). Now the afternoon secretary did a morning shift at an architectural practice based in Chelsea, and come early 1984 they were in need of a freelance graphic designer to help them out on a particular project. Would I be interested? Damn right I'd be interested.
So arrangements were made and an appointement set: I would meet one of the partners who would sound me out and tell me all about their requirements. The date: 28 March 1984.
But this was the Thatcher era, remember. Turbulent times. And on 28 March 1984 there was a London Transport strike. So, no tube trains and virtually no buses anywhere in London. But I was lucky, I managed to hail a cab in Shaftesbury Avenue that delivered me straight to Chelsea for my 2pm appointment.
And so I met one of the partners, Peter N. A nice chap, and we had a lovely chat. Mostly about the narrow boat that he'd bought and fully restored somewhere in the Midlands. We seemed to get on well and the job was outlined to me: designing the display panels for a new UNESCO-funded museum in the Middle East. Fantastic, I thought. So it was a yes from me, and a yes from Peter N. Terms were discussed and agreed, and we arranged that I should start work in two or three weeks time. We'd keep in touch by phone and arrange the exact date once other team members had been consulted.
And so it was that I found myself back on the streets of Chelsea. Mid-afternoon on the day of a transport strike. Not a free cab to be found anywhere. And to top it off, it had started raining.
What a long and miserable trudge back to Covent Garden that was, I can tell you. And I should have realised that that was the omen. But I didn't.
I don't know about you, but I've begun to notice that brown cars are beginning to make their presence known on the highways and byways. Well, I say brown, but more usually the colour might better be described as sludge. In various shades of, depending upon the manufacturer.
Now each to their own and all that. And I admit men do reach a certain age (let's just say that it's when we're past our procreational best) when we answer the call of corduroy in just such a colour. In trousers mostly, although the designers amongst us would prefer to go the whole hog and we hanker after a suit. Preferably from Old Town.
But to choose to have your car that colour – that's altogether on another scale, isn't it? Now I know from recent experience that manufacturers only offer a very limited range of colour options these days, and that not all of us want the liability of pristine white or the anonymity of silver. But it completely mystefies me why anyone should go into a car showroom and think "that model would look so much better if it were the colour of diarrhea".
So, if you should be so tempted, I'm here to remind you that brown cars (and all shades thereof) were a bad idea the first time round:
It's Friday afternoon, right? I've stopped blogging on Fridays because my visitor stats tell me that come Friday afternoon you've all sloped off to the pub, or your house in the country, or whatever else you get up to when the weekend beckons. Whatever, you all seem to stop stopping by over here.
So where to start? With Bowie, of course. And my favourite Bowie track.
What a f***ing enormous mistake that was: in my head it was his finest hour. And I should have left it there. Safe in my memory. Playing in my head - the perfect funk fusion. But, oh no, I had to search it out on YouTube.
And then the next thing popped up in my newsreader: