is your lost baby so don't despair he lived he just was born but as somebody else. He grew up in the UK and was part of something called punk rock even though Betty Friedan "dissed" it no offense to her respectfully I don't think she really understood. He is possibly among the UK's best acts, ever. He loves to make cake. Literally. even if it was purposeless perhaps (does it have to have a purpose? that's a contradiction in terms.....a rhetorical question? no.....) the reason d'etre of "beatnikery" is that .....how can I say it politely? People were tired of living, walking around and speaking like they have a spiked dildo up their ass like in the movies and stage. Women and young girls realized that not only does washing the floor and even having children, love them though they do, not make their existence it's not exactly what it's cracked up to be. That they were lied to by seemingly omniscient teachers and authority figures in general and lied to also by the beaded long haired hippie men who were willing to take tear gas and even bullets defending disenfranchised racial groups but still expected their "old ladies" to "shut up" when "he was talking." Not to mention "free love" was translated into THEIR free love.....or to put it crudely, "free pussy." IOW their pussies were now free. For them.
a trailer machinery outside girl hired as a temp to type and file.....she needed money and was grateful for anything, or made to feel. never mind that this was, to put it plainly, shitwork but she was getting paid and was now a certified functional working person in the world. on three hours' sleep she walked into the trailer that was hastily dumped in the middle of gravel and loose, cracked cement and dirt .....no need for heels here.....three hours' sleep. twenty minutes late because she had turned on the wrong street and couldn't read the addresses.
the other girl had warned her about the "boss" that he was a creep and a vicious screaming tyrant. her heart went out to this girl who was his target and victim. He had given her a handwritten note and asked her to type it. His handwriting was small and jagged and hard to read but he was on the phone so she couldn't ask him what he was saying or say she couldn't read his writing. her eyes and mind began to fog over. Fatigue and confusion began to glaze over her eyeballs. She typed absentmindedly, what she thought he had written. Memos and jargon trade language.....industry talk that was Sanskrit to anyone except those in it. Never mind that it was in her language......but it made no sense. "In December with the clear schedule....." straining her eyes to read his writing. She printed it out and gave it to him to fax wire to the other contractors. Silence. About half hour. Then him.....thundering and terrifying yelling, "WHAT IS THIS? WHAT DID YOU TYPE?"
"Oh, sorry.......oh God, sorry......I thought that is what you wrote....."
considering it all he was relatively forgiving saying only that she needed to clarify with him before sending it out or "I look like a moron....."
What he meant to write was, "In accordance with the contract schedule we will......" what would be going and what dates. A memo.
He must have, in all his state of mind, not been able to help seeing how funny it was. "Is she on drugs?" he had yelled at the agency who sent her. "What kind of....."
something, there had to be some way of getting money other than these jobs which had become unbearable. lack of sleep and her back hurting so badly she could barely get out of bed and she was not yet thirty years old.