Scottish Furniture Annual Charity Dinner
The champagne bar at Glasgow Central overlooks the concourse. Nursing a Baileys with ice (a large one) I mused how I first stood on that concourse 30 years previous. What journey since.
It was the 83rd Scottish Furniture Trades Benevolent Association Annual Dinner. The cream of Scottish industry, Black Tie and Cocktail Dress, James Bond and Ursula Undress. If there had been a look-a-like competition, which would have been lots more fun than the Bingo, Angela and I would have won hands down.
Angela? Angela is my rock. Whenever life gets complicated I listen to her. What I understand soothes me. What I don’t understand, which is quite a lot, I believe without question. And she hugs me to her bosom as often as I can reasonably ask. It’s her fine mind I adore the most (though it’s close).
I rail at these furniture events as misogynistic, small-minded and unrepresentative of the industry. And I go to be proven correct. One speaker spoke in depth about various characters and events associated with his sport. Which sounds odd until you realise the sport is football and the audience Glaswegian.
He reminded me of my mother who loved to tell long stories involving scores of inter-related people you had never heard of. The stories were always shockingly boring. Her ability to remember it all, awe-inspiring.
The second speaker did again take me back to my childhood. The Scottish caricature of droll bluster with a pretension of inner wisdom and worldliness. Chick Murray circa 1980. Or was it Chick Young? (Nah, Chick Young, he was in the last speech).
He reminded me of my father who also at times pretended, as only a Scot living a lifetime in South Lanarkshire could do. It saddened me to think the speaker had exercised the logic of a broken foreign language record in his duties at the Sheriff Court for 90 years (he was at least that old). But it comforted me to know some things in the Scottish Psyche are immutable.
So on refection, over my double Baileys with ice, this 30 year journey returned me back to the spot I started. Nothing changed.
So what of the future? Is not the journey anticipated more rewarding than the destination arrived?
After dinner our team debunked to The Corinthian for a symposia or two. Being allowed out of my artists garret, I was anxious to get to know everyone better. Unfortunately several had fallen by the wayside. Unfortunately some we wished had fallen just wouldn’t.
It struck me it was the girls who were the smartest, the wittiest and of course the best looking in this business. How then can it be possible a whole industry is run by old men in suits?
Sharon in her Greco-Roman wear had delivered an outstanding Grace at dinner. Not one word forgotten or misplaced. A Classic. Lynn had the foresight to bring a whole tin of pre-rolled cigarettes (what guy forgoes the pleasure of smoking a rolley the minute it’s made eh?). And Lisa, never having ridden a turbo-trainer until that night (we are back at my artists garret now), reached new heights that turbo was never imagined for.
That turbo will be worth a lot of money one day. I’m going to commission a blue plaque.
Let me assure you these girls are hot. And they are mine.
Conclusion: the future is just fine.
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