The Architect's Conversion

By Will Collins

Reginald Pratt is an architect who lives an extremely bland existence
in the London suburbs with his mother and his cat. Reginald's
philosophy on architecture in particular and life in general, has been influenced by his late father, also an architect. Being mollycoddled by
Mum, and theorising about low cost social housing and architecture for
the people is no longer an option when Reginald loses his job, and is possibly about to lose his accommodation. His career abruptly changes
direction, and through a series of bizarre circumstances he finds
himself unintentionally jettisoned into the glitzy lifestyle of the French Riviera. For Reginald, life will never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Nov 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781782344872

Book preview

1988.

Dedication

To the Guv and SJC for their support and encouragement on this and all my projects.

Chapter One

If at first you don’t succeed,

failure may be your style.

Quentin Crisp

Apart from their immediate interest in the movie they may be watching, few people take much interest in the careers of the protagonists in popular entertainment, let alone creating rating tables, spread sheets and graphs to prove a point.

I’m told that law enforcement officers and private investigators are well represented as typical heroes, as are medical personnel, lawyers and journalists.

But whose careers are most often selected by the script-writer as providing the lucrative, glamorous and sexually intriguing lifestyles required to captivate an envious audience?

Architects, apparently.

At least, that’s what Kevin says.

This frustrates Kevin on two counts. Firstly, because he isn’t an architect. Secondly, because I am. The reality is that Kevin’s job in a plumbing accessory store is considerably more glitzy than my current path on my chosen career. I say chosen, but really it was inevitable.

My late Dad was an architect, but a far cry from one of the stereotyped heroes of Kevin’s imagination. Dad was more corduroy and suede, with a strong sense of his social duty as an architect to help create the brave new post-war world. I don’t think his position in the minor works division of The Ministry of Public Building and Works did much to contribute to this, but this was compensated by his other contributions to the bar of the local working men’s club, where ‘Archie’ as he was known, was often on his anti fascist soapbox expounding his views on the state’s obligation to provide housing and similar social facilities.

In Kevin’s fantasy world the architect hero has an Aston Martin (or at the very least a Jaguar), but in Dad’s world the reality was a sit up and beg district nurse bicycle, complete with basket, Sturmey Archer gears and dodgy brakes. In his later years, at the risk of being denounced as a capitalist, Dad purchased a Morris Minor Traveller, even going as far as to add an external sun visor, radio and whitewall tyres. I remember the adding of the extras being a moral dilemma that he agonised over for days.

I never learnt to drive, although I did buy a second hand Lambretta a couple of years back. This, I thought was the perfect statement to combine retro styling with consideration for the environment. It broke down after two days, and then the wheels got nicked. Now I just use Dad’s old bike. Kevin says this lacks style, and refuses to acknowledge me when I ride it into The Dog and Duck car park on Wednesdays for our quiz nights, but always mellows after his second pint at the bar. Usually brought by me. As is the first.

Needless to say, Kev’s ‘specialist subject’ for quizzing is films and television. We usually team up with Marlene (specialist subject medieval French history), and Bianca (specialist subjects Roxy Music and food and drink. (Mainly drink.) I always think Marlene’s choice is a strange subject for a girl working in Tesco, but as we have only ever had two questions on her specialist topic, it’s difficult to judge. I seem to recall that when those questions were given, we got them both wrong. I think they were questions about French kings. Marlene said she always got Louis confused with Henri. (I thought they were all called Louis.) Bianca said Marlene’s confusion was a perfectly justified as apparently her late grandmother was French, and had dementia.

Tonight is quiz night.

Little Alf, the publican, is checking the questions and blowing into the microphone. ‘One,two, three, testing,’ he keeps repeating in officious tone.

‘You just gotta watch the late night movie tonight,’ says Marlene to no one in particular, as we settle at our table.

‘Wot’s it baht then?’ mumbles Bianca, through a mouthful of pork crackling.

‘Called The Skyscraper of Desire. Baht an architeck. Wotsisname’s in it.’

‘Course it’s about a bloody architect,’ snarls Kevin. ‘It’s always about a bloody architect.’

‘Is that wotsisname wiv the spiky hair?’ Bianca asks Marlene. ‘Oi, watch it!’ Bianca shouts as one of the competitors from the adjoining table jolts her elbow, causing her to spill half her vodka down her pink tee shirt. This has disastrous results on the sequins on the front of the garment that proclaim Free Love.

‘Nah. It’s the one wot’s shacked up with you know... wot’s her name with the thick lips, false boobs and lotsa big teeth,’ replies Marlene.

‘Oh, ‘er. She gets on my tits,’ says Bianca with disdain, as she dabs said tits with a paper handkerchief to clean up the vodka.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention. Please take your seats,’ announces Little Alf. ‘The Dog and Duck’s Wednesday quiz is about to start.’

‘Do you realise,’ mutters Kevin as he consults his Filofax, ‘that after tonight’s bloody film, forty nine bloody percent of lead bloody characters this year will have been bloody architects.’

This is one of Kevin’s usual diatribes. He then usually confirms his findings by jabbing a finger at his Filofax (the contents of which are sacred), and goes on to point out that anybody who is anybody uses this particular, or a similar, personal filing system. (In later years however, he would denounce them as being antiquated, when singing the praises of personal electronic devices.)

Personally, I have never got on with Filofaxes, or any personal filing systems, and as a technophobe I have a morbid fear of computers and electronic equipment. All right, so the millennium is approaching, and everyone’s going technology crazy, but I still prefer to make notes on the back of an old envelope with a pencil stub.

Kevin drones on about, ‘...how computers will change the face of the commercial world in the 2000’s’, and the impact it will have on us all. ‘Especially architects and their designs,’ he says pointedly.

Thankfully, after her mishap, Bianca is too busy re-arranging the curling sequins on her left breast to pay attention to Kevin’s prattling and break into her usual cackle about ‘erections’,’high rise’ and ‘cantilevers’, although she never was exactly sure what the last of these was. Bianca now has bigger considerations on her mind. Missing sequins now mean that her Free Love tee shirt is now proclaiming F ee Love.

***

Later that evening I set out for home on Old Betsy. (Old Betsy was Dad’s nickname for his district nurse bike). The journey looks as though it could be even more hazardous than usual. Betsy’s front tyre is completely flat, and the combination of no front light, six pints and numerous drains and manhole covers has raised my voice an octave, and probably worked my fillings loose.

The other complication is curry. It’s not that I’m a curry addict, (as Kevin would have you believe) but I haven’t had a decent meal for a couple of days, I am absolutely starving, and the choices are limited. Realising that I will need sustaining through The Skyscraper of Desire, I stop at The Taj Mahal. This is The Taj Mahal without air conditioning, not to be confused with the other Taj Mahal further down the road, that is, the one with the hand painted sign announcing [sic]luxurey acomidation and air connditining. The one ‘without’ is where the last-order brigade collect their culinary delights after closing time.

The staff at The Taj ‘without’ seem to have a particular aversion to The Dog and Duck clientele, which is strange, because they are just about their only clientele. I usually get particularly surly treatment, because, I suspect, I also frequent The Taj ‘with’. I patronise the latter simply because it is situated in the parade of shops below Bernstein and Partners, my employers. Our entrance door having The Taj ‘with’ on one side, and the local bookie on the other.

The fact that the two Taj proprietors are cousins does not appear to improve matters. I order a Vindaloo. In fact there is only Vindaloo to be ordered. It’s handed over with what I was sure were conspiratorial glances between the servers, and no they will not take my credit card.

Next stop, the offie for a pack of Special Brew. Pack it all into Betsy’s basket (watch the hole in the middle), and away. Well, sort of. The curry keeps gravitating towards the hole in the basket, and steadying it with one hand after six pints requires some considerable effort. When the flat front tyre hits a particularly deep grating, the impact, combined with the force of gravity was not something to be resisted. Retrieving the curry from the gutter, I hold the food container in one hand (in the manner of an Olympic torch), damaged side up, and steer Old Betsy with the other. Somehow, I make it to Elm Avenue, balancing the battered package.

By the light of the one remaining street light that still works, I ponder how unjustified is the reputation of these between-the-wars semis. In reality, they are a true architectural statement of our social history. Had there been a full moon, or adequate street lighting, I might have philosophised on this further. As I look down the street, taking in the night time panorama of suburban England, I experience another sensation. I am aware that tepid curry is dripping through the cardboard container, and running into my sleeve. Waking from my reverie, I fumble for my keys, then try to get the right key in the right keyhole.

As I trip over the front door threshold, I hear movement from Mum’s bedroom. She shouts down the stairs, ‘Keep the noise down, and don’t you leave that bloody Betsy in the hall. I’ll only have more mess to clean up in the morning!’

I wonder if she was referring to the Vindaloo mess dripping onto her swirly floral carpet, or the oil mess on Betsy’s chain. Couldn’t be the oil mess on the chain. I never oil it.

So. Into the living room. Telly on. Settle in the armchair, but first I have to move a plate and cutlery used for yesterday’s pizza. Convenient though, because they will do nicely for the curry. Transfer the Vinderloo to yesterday’s pizza plate. Open can of Special Brew. Attack Vindaloo.

Sod it. Elvis is watching. He’s smelt the curry. Elvis is the largest, most rotund, greediest cat you can possibly imagine. Morbidly obese, he looks like a cross between The Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland and something out of a Garfield cartoon. And he adores curry. Elvis curls up at my feet, eyeing the curry and meowing. He would dearly like to climb up on to the armchair, but that would require a certain amount of effort and agility beyond his capabilities.

Here come the credits for Skyscraper of Desire. Elvis moves closer. Typical movie opening. Lantern-jawed hero in snazzy wine bar with two impossibly good looking scantily dressed women draped over him.

Elvis moves even closer, rubbing against my legs.

Hispanic waitress with pelmet for a skirt and provocative cleavage serves cocktails, smiling suggestively at all three of her customers.

Same old stuff. Seen all this before. Boring. I can actually watch this while I read latest Socialist Architect. (Great article entitled Should Capitalist Governments be Forced to Research Technology for Converting Waste Paper into Roofing Tiles?)

Another can of Special Brew. Elvis nuzzles my feet. Not sure about this Vindaloo.

Hero leaves wine bar with the two impossibly good looking women and Hispanic waitress.

Socialist Architect claims: Capitalist governments clearly irresponsible, and announces that Tin Cans Can Also be Used For Gutters.

Architect hero and harem climb into a Bentley and make for villa overlooking the ocean. (The one with ten foot perimeter wall, security gates, Olympic size pool, jetty and helipad.)

Zzzzz.

Woken by a frantic scratching. The third can of Special Brew has spilt in my lap, and the remains of the Vindaloo have been attacked. Even Elvis can’t finish this off, and is now desperate to get out.

The architect hero and entourage are by the pool, and have got their kit off. (Kevin was to say later this is where the movie really kicked in.) I open the door for Elvis. Can hear Mum snoring upstairs. Elvis gets stuck in kitchen cat-flap. I put my boot up his backside to assist his exit. Then, suddenly, a twinge in my stomach. The twinge becomes a sharp pain, and my guts feel like a roller coaster. I realise why Elvis needed his dash for freedom, and I just make the downstairs loo. Seated on the pan with my head in my hands, I am reminded of the real Elvis in his final moments.

Vindaloo indaloo as Kevin would say.

***

I stumble upstairs, and somehow find my way to bed. Eventually I fall into a fitful and troubled sleep. In my disturbed dreams, I am pursued by Ambrosia, the buck toothed girl from the ironmongers.

Ambrosia, who lives just a couple of doors away always seems to make a point of leaving for work the same time as me, and trying to strike up a conversation. I suspect Mum has been giving her the ‘If only Reginald could find a nice girl like you’ line.

I am completely naked. (In my dream that is, not when I leave for work.) Ambrosia chases me around the loft in Elm Avenue, which was boarded out to take Dad’s train set. (‘It’s not a train set, it’s a model railway. An accurate representation of our transport history, with all the social implications,’ Dad used to say, when Mum would accuse him of locking himself away for hours to play trains)

Ambrosia is gaining ground, and in my panic I trip over platform three, and land in front of the express to Portsmouth. Ambrosia advances, grinning demonically. She produces a gigantic tube of super-glue from her ample bosom, and quick as a flash, sticks my hands to the floor. (For the last few days, there has been a promotional display on Ambrosia’s counter: Superglue. Two for the price of one. Offer ends soon) I open my mouth to scream, but she has also stuck my lips together. ‘Now,’ says Ambrosia, standing over me, wielding the tube ‘What else can we stick with this?’

Chapter Two

Style is trendy and fleeting.

Bad taste is timeless.

Anon

It’s bad enough having your eyelids superglued together. It’s quite another when it feels as though sand was inserted before the lids were stuck down. I think the same superglue has been used to stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

‘Think you might need this,’ says Mum severely, thumping down a mug of strong tea on the bedside table.

‘And these!’ emphatically banging down a packet of paracetamol beside the mug.

My tongue won’t move. ‘Aahh, fangoo.’ The eyes remain glued shut.

‘And what’s that mess on the carpet in the hall?’

‘Elvish.’

‘NOT Elvis, Reginald. He spent the night stuck in the cat-flap trying to get back into the kitchen.’

‘Uuhhish.’

One eye can now be forced partially open. Through a dense haze, I can just about see Mum standing in the doorway, arms folded. Not a good sign. Usually Elvis waddles into my bedroom and tries to struggle onto the bed. Any possibility of food or a slurp of my tea would justify the effort. This morning however, a wary Elvis is keeping his distance, regarding me with suspicion from behind Mum’s legs.

‘You, Reginald Pratt, need to get yourself sorted!’

Mum is now raising her voice even more, and jabbing a finger in my direction. She’s starting to come into blurry focus, but the noise seems deafening. Elvis is backing off.

‘Forty-one years old next week, and look at the state of you. What would your father have said?’

He’d be quite pleased actually, was the unspoken reply that seeped into my addled brain.

With a loud grunt of disdain Mum slams the door and thumps down the stairs, with Elvis waddling after her.

The sound of the door slamming pierces my head like a ton of shrapnel. I gave one final ‘Uughh,’ and retreat under the duvet.

***

An hour and a half later, and the superglue like substance has turned to a thick sludge. My tongue, which has now detached itself from the roof of my mouth feels and probably looks like the offending carpet in the hall. My head emerges from the duvet cocoon, Mum’s