7 August 2024 . The Word: “print”.
Richard
Print. The word was a command. It turned a huge mechanical and organizational machine from static immobility into a huge engine of movement which turned hundreds of man-hours of research and writing into a thing we take for granted – a printed newspaper. And it didn’t stop there either – the printed paper had to be packed, distributed, displayed and sold.
Journalists searched for items of interest. These items ranged from current affairs – what the government was doing across the whole spectrum of political activity – law and order, economic affairs, national and local government, education, defence, health – no area of running the country on a minute-to-minute basis was untouched. Journalists wrote of goings-on – what they saw, what they heard, what angle they were briefed to push.
Other writers delved into the arts, reading and reviewing books, plays, film, theatre, concerts, records – to provide opinions to their readers with views on just about every area touched by the generic term “the arts”, for their opinions.
Photographers created images to add colour and meaning to the written word – to add depth and a wider dimension to the written word.
The advertising department worked with companies wanting to promote their products by creating visions of desire – whether that desire was necessary or imaginary – creating want whether that want existed or was created, they turned want into need..
All of these activities came together under an editorial organisation which filtered the masses of journalistic input, culling some, amplifying others, and changing content to fit the propaganda the paper’s owners wished to push.
The output all came together in the print process. The words were type-cast onto aluminum plates which went on the print rollers. These were created by the page-setters who controlled the physical layout of the pages. Then the huge rolls of paper, weighing several tons, were mounted and the paper fed through the rollers and the black and coloured ink tanks mounted. Finally the press was “tested” – to make sure when the paper passed the rollers it all worked as it should. When all was ready – no changes so the stop press was cut off – the system was ready to go and the production command was given – PRINT
Frances
Print, dam you, Colin hit the button for the tenth time. Stabbing the symbol until his finger hurt, he decided to try a different approach.
He was not very computer literate but would never admit it so while he thought there must be something he could do to make the dam machine work, he had no clue as to what it could be.
He really needed to produce this report as it was already three weeks overdue and it’s absence had just come to his bosses attention. He had not been at all impressed, Colin sighed, his boss was seldom impressed with anything he did.
Colin was about to wander down the inviting path of self-pity when there was a gentle knock on his door. ‘Come in’ he called out nervously, he hardly ever had anyone come to his office. He stared at the door, his body tensed as if ready for flight. Her heady perfume misted across his office; Coilin gulped his facing starting to turn red.
The vision slowly sashayed over to his desk.
‘Good morning’ she purred, his mouth open and a squeak exited. He was lost, flustered and delirious. It was his vision, his crush his unrequited desire. He knew he was behaving like a pubescent boy. He just couldn’t help it She smiled gently at Colin, knowing well the turmoil she was causing. She perched on the edge of his desk and swung her shapely legs. He would never know if it was intentional, but her toe caught the printers lead and flipped out the plug.
Maybe I dreaming Colin wondered. Maybe I dead and this is my own version of heaven. It was all he had ever dreamed of, longed for.
Her next comment bought him rapidly back to reality. ‘ I just popped in the see if you had that report ready by chance?’. Colin flushed and muttered that it was ready. He so didn’t want to admit his pathic failure to produce a hard copy.
As she came round to his side of the desk she bent down and reinserted the plug. She then leaned down, her head close to his as she started at the screen. ‘Well’, she said, “it looks very good, she smiled ‘well done Colin!’ She knows my name Colin’s head spun, good grief man pull yourself together. Her hand moved slowly, Colin trembled, mesmerised by her red nails as they skimmed over the keyboard then pressed print.
8 August 2024. The Word: “powderpuff”.
Richard.
Powderpuff. Where is it? She was due to be made up for the screen test. The makeup was very complicated and she needed the part, desperately. She had been out of work for two months and was living on debt from her credit card which was just about maxed out. Added to which if she didn’t pay this month’s rent she would likely be turned out of her flat.
She floundered in the dressing room – her screen test clothes were all over the place, stockings, skirt, tee shirt and cardigan – all in different colours. She had to set her hair to fit in with the part but before she could do that she needed to make up her face. She rummaged in her bag for the make-up items – the white foundation, the bright red for her cheeks and the blue for her eyes but she couldn’t do anything unless she could put the foundation on first. “Twenty minutes” the voice shouted through the door. Panic rose – she couldn’t find her makeup items anywhere. The makeup was there but when were the puffs to put the damned makeup on. She scrabbled through her clothes bag, she was sure she put them all in in the pockets but she couldn’t find them. It was that argument she had with Peter earlier in the morning before she left for the film studio, right in the middle of packing, it was over total trivialities and irrelevant ideas. He was always doing that nowadays. Maybe it was getting time to part ways. Well she couldn’t pay her part of the rent any way so maybe that would be a good excuse to part company especially as the relationship was getting a bit fractious.
Her panic level rose. Time moved on and she hadn’t even started getting dressed. She pulled the dress tights out of her bag and shoved one foot in then the other. RIP – her heel went through the tights and tore a huge hole in them. Oh no, that really scuppers the test, I can’t go on with torn tights and no makeup she thought. She sat in front of the mirror. A tear welled up and dripped down her cheek. It’s about time I gave all this up she thought looking at her disheveled face’s reflection looking back at her. To hell with all this, I’ll make a mess of the test anyway despite all the work she had put into learning the part, the lines, the action.
“Ten Minutes” came the voice from the other side of the door. “To hell with it” she said to herself. She put her shoes on and went outside gingerly walking to the studio. “Yes – can I help you?” said the anonymous voice at the door. “I need to see the director” she replied. “Ok – straight on – he’s in the green chair.” She walked through the door into the dimly lit set. She should have been up next but no action was evident. The director’s chair was empty so she looked around but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She saw someone official looking and who seemed to be in charge. She asked if the director was about. “He had to go out for an hour – are you on for a screentest?” “Yes, I should have been on next but have to cry off I’m afraid.” “Oh don’t do that. The director has gone a tear a step off the agency as he has rejected all the actors they sent him, you are the only one left and he liked you submission so you must go on.” “But I don’t have my makeup ready – I can’t do the test.” “Of course you must. By the way a gentleman called Pete left this for you, he said you left it on the table at home and he thought you would need it.” The lady handed over a brown envelope. She opened the envelope – inside was her powderpuff.
Frances
Powderpuff pranced onto the stage. Momentary blinded by the lights. Trying to adjust her eyes to the combination of the stage lights and the darkness of the theatre.
The music was very loud, and she pranced across the stage. She could see other dancers waiting in the wings, she longed for them to join her. Back and forth she pirouetted round and round, she felt sick. She never wanted to be a dancer, never wanted to go on the stage and never wated to be the centre of attention.
She hated the stupid puffball outfit that she had been squeezed into her little pot belly stretching the material to the limit. Sweat ran down her face, it was a nightmare.
At last, the other dances filled the stage and the audience cheered. Proud parents dabbed their eyes as untalented children bumped into each other, forgetting the routine and generally caused mayhem.
Powderpuff watched her teacher Mrs Green mouthing and gesturing in vain as the children ran rouge on the stage. She looked back at the carnage and exited stage left.
It was soothingly quiet backstage, she found some desugared biscuits and grasped a handful, stuffing as many as possible into her mouth. She could still hear the music and spitting out a spray of crumbs she started to sing along. Then unbidden she found herself starting to dance. Bending and swaying to the music she was lost in the moment forgetting the scene she had left behind.
Un-aware the door opened and silently her teacher entered the room. She stood watching as this rather plump little figure spun and twirled, it was enchanting.
‘Powderpuff’ she whispered; the dancing continued unaware of her presence. “Powderpuff ‘ she called with more urgency. Two large eyes met hers, fear crept into the gaze. ‘Please help’ Mrs Green pleaded. “Please would you go back on stage and finish the show?’
Powderpuff looked perplexed, she had finished her part in the performance. Mrs Green took her hand. “Please” Mrs Green pleaded as she led the small child back towards the stage. She nodded to the small orchestra, immediately struck up a beautiful tune. Powderpuff shuddered as the music swirled around her the rhythm pulsing in harmony with her heartbeat. Mrs Green stepped onto the stage gesturing to the remaining children to move to the back. “Please put your hands together for Powderpuff!’
10 August 24. The Word: “haven’t”
Richard
“Haven’t.” “Yes you have!” retorted the professor. “You copied all of this from the paper by William, the concept and ideas aren’t yours – you have simply plagiarised all his work.”
The fact that I handed my paper in two weeks before William did made no difference. The professor didn’t like me and was determined to fail me. For a long time I concluded he was out of his depth and that I knew more about the subject than he did only aggravated the relationship between us. Looking back I probably shouldn’t have questioned his conclusions in his first seminar. Or maybe it was more the way I did it. I suppose saying in front of fifty pupils, my contemporaries, that his calculations were wrong and his assumptions were unfounded and unreliable wasn’t the way to build a relationship. But when there was such a glaring error in his argument, and he was supposedly the leading authority on the matter, I couldn’t let such a claim go unchallenged. Then to have my work compared to William’s, that was the last straw. William had the brainpower of a slug and was about as quick on the uptake as one, and was about as weak. His work reminded me of the unattributed quote “His manuscript was both good and original – unfortunately that which was good was not original and that which was original was not good.” That fact the Professor chose William’s work as an example to compare with mine with was a double insult.
So what next? I sat opposite the Professor. He had his superior look on, almost like an inquisitive lawyer looking down his nose through his spectacles. How I wanted to reach across his desk and punch him in the face.
Fortunately I held back and held my temper. I decided to take the initiative. “So what do you want me to do?” I asked. This threw him. I think he was expecting me to cave in but he hadn’t his thought beyond his desire to get back at me.
“You can apologize for your appalling behaviour at the first lecture for starters” he grunted. “But why? You were incorrect and in the lecture I explained why and I proposed an alternative to your idea.” That riled him even more, he couldn’t cope with being challenged. “We must agree to disagree.” I said. “No, you must retract your statement and correct your idea. And you must not rewrite the laws of physics.”
I replied. “I haven’t”
Frances
‘Haven’t ever tried this before!’ Colin mused. He started at the plate of food placed before him. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to! The offering on his plate looked, umm, strange he thought, an odd colour and just so weirdly different. He had absolutely no idea what it was!
He looked up and smiled at the hostess Dahlia. She was telling the assembled guests how she had come up with the idea for the dish. She was very confident and very pleased with herself Colin mused. She continued at a pace, scattering her ramblings with names of chefs, even Colin had heard of some of them. He found it hard to believe that any of them would lay claim to this monstrosity. Not even Heston at his most experimental Colin thought, would have considered the combination and colouring which lay before them
He could hardly hear what was being said as the dread of the moment when he had to lift up his cutlery was too much of a distraction.
Colin took a deep breath, ‘Oh,’ he shuddered, that was a mistake! He thought he really should try and concentrate on what Dahlia was saying as it was he decided, important to know just what was in this dish. Or was it? Half glancing down he pondered. Maybe it was better to dine in ignorance!
Sweat began to ran down his back, he dabbed at his forehead with the napkin.
Why oh why did I accept the invitation he wondered? He hardly knew the couple! He worked in the same department as Peter but had only spoken on rare occasions and had certainly never socialised with him. Indeed, Peter was not included in the select conclave that had evolved in the department, and he had never showed any particular wish to fraternise!
He looked around the table and wondered who the rest of the group were, how did they know Peter and his wife. His eyes travelled from one guest to another and halfway though he concluded that they, like himself appeared very uncomfortable Some glanced in horror at the congealing portion in front of them while other studiously looked away.
The moment could not delayed any longer. The hostess sang out ‘bon appetite!’
Colin glanced at Peter. He was looking down at his plate, as he reluctantly picked up his fork, feeling Colin’s eyes upon his he up and gave him a brave smile as he plunged his fork into the shapeless mass. It squirmed away some escaping onto the pristine tablecloth. This immediately incurred a bitter reprimand from his wife.
They all tried to eat it, some poked out an exploratory tongue, some retched, a clatter of a fork signalled surrender. As the smell and the appearance of the portion on his trembling fork reached Colin scenes, he thought he was going to be sick! Daliha’s eyes swept the table and with a self-congratulatory smile popped a fulsome fork fill into her mouth. She instantly regretted it. She stood up, napkin pressed to her mouth and ran out of the room. Peter with a look of relief threw down his knife and fork and with whispered apologies followed his wife.
There were murmurs around the table, Colin’s summations was correct, they were all surprised at the invitation, and many like Colin were not at all sure why they had accepted! One guest muttered darkly, fork still poised as he tried to identify just what they had been invited to consume, “Just don’t shallow’ The instruction was greeted with a chorus of, ‘I haven’t!’
