My friend R. has bought a fish van and become one of those mobile purveyors of fresh seafood you see in rural Australian towns throughout the hinterland. R is even fonder of bad puns than I am, and there were lots of suggestions for a witty business name (my personal choice would have been The Road Less Trevallyd), although in the event, the business remains named after the previous owner.
In my head I saw the waiting at the docks as the sunrise painted the sky extraordinary colours; the gentle swell of the waves slapping on a dock made of nothing as crude as concrete, and possibly cobbled together from stones and mud. On more turbulent mornings I envisaged small but hardy storm-tossed boats landing with their riggings askew (I’m not entirely sure what an askew rigging would look like, but in my head that sounded sufficiently nautical).
It turns out that what actually happens is this:
You turn up the first time without any reading material, and sit behind some kind of breeze-block wall. The fish-dealer is late. Your curious friend texts you ‘Are you meeting the trawler?’ You text back ‘By trawler you mean parking behind the warehouse, don’t you?’
Subsequent meetings on the dock see you reading, with relish, the 2014 Ned Kelly award winner. Or doing paperwork. R. maintains that the paperwork was done in a sailor dive bar drinking rum with some feminist pirates, but I have my doubts.
It’s an election year. Unfortunately, you’ll hear almost as much about ‘small business’ as about that other mythical entity ‘the family’.
The upside of an election year is that you all get to be bored by my thoughts again. I won’t even insult you by asking you to follow me on twitter.