The Knox Centre, Thursday morning.
We’ve been there before. Old faces, young gestures, new ideas, ancient rituals, the whole bamboozle. Meet, greet, someone’s drama does the rounds then all too soon Tom’s calling order and another meeting evolves from the soup; slipping down the Film Noir rabbit hole.
Bad habits and the smell of honeysuckle brought George’s introduction of Grant, who knew perhaps too much about wills and trusts. I wondered then if anybody had ever closed the door on a meeting in his office and never re-emerged.
Just because it was there, Garry sought the safety of the lectern. His discomfort had hard men in the audience tugging at their collars.
Maybe it was just the romantic in me, but prison bar shadows appeared to cut across Jacquie as she channeled Celia Lashlie’s life and its effect upon her own.
Jill Forgie, entrenched in mystery spoke too easily of Jesse’s objectives. A dame who knows all the answers before the questions, signals it’s time to ease safety-catches off.
Jesse led us through the shadows of international intrigue with the goods on Putin, Trump an’ Bolton et al.
Just about the time she had a pigeon in a parrot shop and nuclear conflagration was imminent, I made out a coffee joint down the edge of the wall and hailed Paul for a long black.
As I was contemplating an emergence from the mists of lawlessness, Joel led us back into shadowlands, the dark side, behind the mask, in a review of Robert Greene’s ‘The Laws of Human Nature.’
Following those depths of the psyche, the problems of Grant, Jacquie and Jesse didn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
George delivered like a man who sleeps well and doesn't owe too much money.
Victor presented his evaluation like somebody had taken the lid off life to let him see the works.
Then soon I was again confronted by Jill in shades and was swept like a fool into a vertigo vortex, clinging to my chair while a lightbulb swung hypnotically and I was ready to confess all.
Then suddenly it was over and Johanna was setting scenes of serene understanding, before summoning the usual suspects to perform their deeds of darkness.
These table topics dredged further through psyches with Paul’s Shadowlands being General Evaluator Marg’s pick as the best of the wild bunch.
Depressed at the flickering fluorescence and difficulties of hauling myself back to technicolour, I was ready to leave this gumshoe life and throw myself into the meaningless of a Mike Meyers or Adam Sandler. Suddenly the door swung open and once again a dame had my attention.
Gemma had the time and I got the numbers needed to show the boss.
Sporting her a.k.a the Johnson followed shortly. She was having no more of this, pulled her gat and we headed out the door.
The plane has left the ground, we are on it with no regrets, not now, not tomorrow, nor for the rest of our lives. We’ll always have Knox.
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