Night thoughts

This is indigestion, not insomnia (a big, heavy, garlicy-cheesy meal eaten too late), so it's OK to be blogging.

On working for friends

I've been advising Famous Sculptor on computer-related matters since we met. It came to about twenty-five hours in the last few weeks: a computer for his daughter and one for himself, installing DSL, moving his data from the old computer onto the new one, teaching them the basics of the new systems. We never actually discussed my fees, because I am still such a lousy businessman that I am embarrassed by talking in numbers, so what comes next is to a large extent my own fault. On the one occasion when we did mention money, I suggested that we agree on a piece of art as payment, and FS seemed to agree in principle. This morning, when returning a box of CDs, he made a counteroffer of 100 Euros (which I was fool and coward enough to accept). I would have earned more working at McDonalds.

I have also been advising Princess on computer-related matters since we met. It came to about twenty-five hours in the last few weeks: a new printer, adding functionality to an address database that her partner bodged together, showing her how to select invitees for a coming exhibition opening and printing address labels for them. We too never actually discussed my fees, because it's never seemed necessary: she never consumes a whole day of my time, and she always compensates by inviting me to dinner or the cinema. On Saturday evening, as we finished printing the labels, she showed me a not-yet-bound-up package of artworks: two mounted (framed) photos in a quite large format, the rest of a series of which I already have the first item. She asked, do I really like that first photo, and would I like to have the companion pieces? Because she thinks that they belong together and would like to give them to me as a little "thank-you."

I find it amusing (as the better alternative to finding it insulting and demeaning) that the poor starving working artist, who really does live by selling her art, gave away two quite valuable pieces; whereas the husband of a very rich woman whose income pays all their expenses and whose family provides their several holiday homes, would not part with one of his works.

On failure and luck

The first exam that I ever failed, was the entrance paper for Cambridge University where I had thought to study read architecture. God alone knows why I applied, I cannot now remember that I ever seriously thought about what it might be like to study in such a place; I assume that I simply chose it from a list of universities in England.

The paper had four or five short written questions, none of them actually about architecture, for the answering of which we were given three hours' time.

The questions had simple factual answers which could all have been stated in ten minutes on a single sheet of paper; so obviously the exam was not about these questions. What was it about, what did they really want to know? I hadn't the faintest idea. I blathered about "scientific method" and "significant digits," and went home after an hour or so. Presumably, the paper was about knowing the difference between "studying" and "reading" a subject, in the way that the Ivy League weeds out non-male non-white non-Christians (unless they are athletes).

In retrospect, I can only fall to my knees and thank God for letting me fail the entrance exam, I would have been even more lost at sea in that environment than I was in London. I would either have gone mad, become an alcoholic, or dropped out and joined the nascent British computer industry which Clive Sinclair was then inventing at the other end of town. In any case, I would have been utterly miserable for as many years as it took me to gather the courage to make the change. No loss there.

Power corrupts

I hate to say this, but: G is turning into a Boss. He expects us to have finished a particular piece of work, but will not assign time for us to do it. So just how does he imagine it will get done? Does he think we will jemmy open a window and break into the office to work for free on the weekend? A further example is a photocopied sixty page extract from the planning regulations for buildings of the type that we are working on, which we were all given with the instruction to read them at home. Meaning: in our own time and not at his expense. Yeah, right.

That little conversation about "professional responsibility" and "no pay for overtime hours" will be coming up any day now.