The Dirty Yellow Project
by Chris Reynolds
Yellow" project was done in December 2015 - January 2016 while I was
Reynolds 3 January 2016
When you realise you've been at work for weeks and just doing your personal projects instead
of following-through with the agreed bit of work, it's disconcerting,
one day, to find that all the paperwork for your official duties has
gone, vanished in a tidy-up by your colleagues, who were reorganising
the office and didn't know what was important and what was not.
ask them to move
the seating because you have to access these particular shelves. Yet
the notebook is gone. The reference books
are not to be seen, and even your memory of what you were meant to be doing is insufficient
to recreate the limited amount of work you have done.
The only thing to do is to leave - to move out of that job and try to get another one.
dirty yellow #1
dirty yellow #2
Still Working on the Building
Reynolds Dec 23 2015
were still working on the building. My friend's new in-laws lived there. They all
hurried on upstairs laughing and I was left to close the big front
door behind me. I tried several times to close that big door but it
didn't fit properly. I tried to slam it shut - making an incredible
amount of noise - until eventually it fitted into place.
Newly-known cousins were everywhere. There was Terry; tall, thin and moody looking,
George; bonny, jovial, and wearing a padded onesie but with something
unmistakably criminal about him, and a group of others, with Alan,
who sat in a line of chairs over there with the women and stared at
us new arrivals.
bed was near
George's. I was slightly afraid he'd steal my clothes and so I put
them on the other side. In the morning I couldn't find my socks - but
that was my fault as somehow I'd got them tangled up among the
couldn't use all of
the big house as they were still working on the rooms upstairs.
Lacefit and the Boiler Room
Reynolds 24 January 2016
phones were still
going in the boiler room and one of my friends was sadly having to
wipe one of his ticks off the board as his contact cancelled on him.
My job in the film room meant I didn't have to man the phones but the
desperate air of those who did permeated the building. One of the
girls had got a piece in the Evening Standard complaining about the
car lift on the roof, all about how it gave her vertigo and scares.
The boss said it was 7.30 and time to go home, anxiety about our
results clearly visible beneath his joviality. I found my coat had
been moved to the stock room with a lot of the others which delayed
me a bit. My buddy and I looked back at the building and the car lift
as we went out. The car lift didn't look so bad. He explained to me
that the girl couldn't have sold just a story describing the old
car-lift. She'd had to add the anxiety angle to make it sell.
opened the outer door
and noticed that it had a green abstract design of squares, credited
to Brian Eno. I was late for my usual train so I walked up the hill.
This was not an exactly familiar part of the town, but then I saw a
Central Line station in the gardens nearby. Home again now and the
dirty yellow face
Reynolds 20, 21 December 2015
met someone I knew
who seemed to have some idea of what was going on. We went to his
house but he no longer had the key. He suggested we hide in the hotel
next door as the danger was very great now. I began losing confidence
in him. I went into one of the hotel rooms and lay down beneath one
of the beds to hide. “What good will that do?” he demanded. “Got
any better ideas?” I said.
My dodgy friend took me to a secret Post
Office. He'd found his house keys again. I asked him to explain what
was happening but he told me not to ask him questions. I suspected
he'd had his keys all the time. The Post Office was a lady in a
chair. One of the chair arms dropped down to reveal two compartments.
“Put any secret mail in this one and urgent mail in the other,”
she said. My friend put his secret mail in the first and some other
letters in the other. Then the woman opened some flaps at the back of
the compartments and put all the mail into an ordinary
battered-looking carrier-bag - for easier smuggling across the city.
Reynolds' Mauretania Comics