CdP
1 October 2012
Most recently there were three days in Sussex. With no time to go before her MA course started, C had no home, no belongings, no idea. But those three dayswere enough to locate a room, shift her piles of junk from L’s stepfather’shouse in Chichester, find her a battered old bike and point her in the rightdirection. Not that she couldn’t have done all that for herself. But it’sgood to feel useful. Occasionally.
Before that, it was Sicily. Four days. That was our summer holiday. I hate goingplaces in summer, so we waited until September. But it’s good to breathsea air every now and then. We don’t get much ozone, here in land-lockedUmbria. Except the air of Sicily (and we were by the sea) was rain-laden formost of the time that we were there. Which is, in one way, a shame. Then again,it doesn’t really matter what the weather’s like in Sicily. It’salways just too fascinating.
And then – home, work, rush, organisation, people. Come to think of it,September always goes by in a blur. That’s just the way it is. Suddenlyyou realise that it’s dark at seven thirty in the evening, then seven,then... Why do evenings close in so fast? Before we know it the clocks will begoing back, and the whole world will become cold and gloomy.
Being in Sussex is always odd, and all the more so this time because Clara wasgoing ‘back’. Not that she has ever really spent any time in thatpart of the world. It’s me who was there but that makes me feel there’sa kind of family stake in the place.
It’s strange to be in Brighton, seeing the same kind of hippies with thesame kind of dungarees and multi-coloured hair, despite passing decades. Thecity – the little I saw of it – was looking bustly though, in itsalternative way. I’m told the smart side has returned too after years ofdecline, though I can’t say I had a chance, in the general rush, to verifythis.
And it’s strange to be in Streat too, where everything looks much the sameand people seem to sail serenely on to startling ages looking not at all theworse for wear. Or did they always look so old when we were children that thepassing years don’t seem to have caused too much havoc. Presumably it isthey who find me startlingly changed.
Back here, the garden is looking oddly summery finally, and there’s thatusual autumn flurry – a fairly minor one – of people looking forgarden help.
Besides projects with Peter Curzon, I’ve had three requests. One is a cookingschool near Lake Trasimeno, and one a terrace in Rome: both small, both at thefeeling-the-water stage. It’s terribly difficult, this initial shadow boxing.How much time to spend, how much detail to give? After all, these things maycome to nothing. Then there’s that nail-biting pitching of proposals andprices. I try to be objective, of course, and keep my standards and costs up.But there’s always that niggling doubt: will I scare this particular customeraway if I tell them that much? Could I shave something off here and do somethingless than what I’d want in order not to loose that trade? Should I pressthe button on this message containing an estimate which might result in thatpotential client fleeing and never coming back to me again? Peter is so muchbetter at that than I am. He asks impossible figures and people, impressed, sayyes. Mind you, his clientele tends, on the whole, to be very well heeled – moreso than mine, I fear.
Except for the third. This is the most touch-and-go of all: a large project infantastic Val d’Orcia. So far, I haven’t even managed to convincethe potential client that I’m worth taking a punt on. Mind you, so farthe potential client hasn’t even bought a property. For the time beingI’ve come up with a report on one of the places on his might-buy list.It went down well. We shall see. I’ve never had anyone demanding referencesand proofs before. Most peculiar… in this business, though normal practicein just about any other, I suppose.
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