Moreish

January 28, 2017 at 11:50 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments
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cook-and-more

Swipe right?

One of my least satisfying copywriting clients was my father.

He craved female beauty, company and utility.

Especially after my mother’s death.

In his mid-70s, he asked me to write a personal ad for the local rag.

I wasn’t keen, as I knew that the brief, product, market and customer would be difficult – if not impossible.

Then again, as he’d refused to read any of my fiction, I was curious to see what it would look like.

He wanted a woman who was much slimmer, younger, better dressed and more attractive than he.

She had to be sufficiently educated to appreciate and applaud (but neither exceed nor challenge) his gargantuan knowledge and wit.

She also needed a specific sense of humour.

His.

To convey this mandatory criterion, he insisted the ad include the line:

‘Must love Cook and Moore.’

By this he meant the comedy duo of which he was a fan.

I tried to explain that such a rigorous standard could severely curtail replies, but he was adamant.

And so the ad ran.

On my next visit, I asked how he’d fared.

He said that only one female – ‘of limited intellect and heavy Eastern European extraction’ – had phoned with a riposte:

‘I am cook.

What is “more”?’


This blog runs on (instant) coffee.

Any sum appertaining thereto would be much appreciated and long recalled.


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Mother load

May 18, 2015 at 10:51 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 9 Comments
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On reflection, life seems largely composed of small fragments.

Some pack more punch than others …

I was visiting a packing and sending place.

It was hot out and not much better in, as an open loading bay countered the office air conditioning.

After a while, a flushed woman emerged from a corral of half-wrapped plasma screens.

Her smile was drawn.

To her right, a baby inched off a foam mat.

From another room came toddler talk, followed by a clattering sound.

‘What are you doing, Jason?’

‘Jason?’

CRASH!!!

The woman dashed to the noise.

She returned to the counter with an apology.

I asked for a quote to send my package.

She rifled back and forth through a price book that looked as worn as she did.

Finally, with what seemed great mental effort, she calculated the fee.

I chose to buy cardboard tubing and post it myself.

As the woman cut the tubing to size, she nudged the baby back onto the mat and glanced to her left for Jason.

He emerged from her right and confronted me with a large, whippy, metal tape measure.

The woman disarmed him and shepherded him back with the tube before laying it on the counter.

‘Five dollars, thanks.’

‘No worries; could I have a receipt please?’

‘Sure.’

As she took out an old-fashioned receipt book, the phone rang: a customer inquiry.

She put the prospect on hold, fished for carbon paper and failed to find a blank receipt.

She fossicked in a drawer for another book with such mounting despair that I told her not to worry.

But she pressed on, scribbling out the details of a cancelled receipt and writing mine.

I apologised for taking up so much of her time for a measly five bucks.

She nodded her thanks and returned to the phone, but the prospect had hung up.

Jason vanished.

The baby crawled.

The plasma screens beckoned.

And the hot wind slammed the front door behind me.

Brought to you by The Feisty Empire.

 

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