Once Upon a Time in the Sixties by Peter Maddick

Author:Peter Maddick [MADDICK, PETER]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9568476-7-6
Publisher: Bookline & Thinker
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

The reception area of Goodwin Advertising is more a waiting room with four metal-framed chairs along the wall and a low coffee table scattered with well-thumbed, out-of-date magazines. The area also doubles as the agency switchboard. A frumpy middle-aged lady wearing a pair of large spectacles and too much make-up appears to have the job of receptionist and switchboard operator.

“G’day. Who are you after, then?” She asks as she picks up a telephone hand-set. “Good morning, Goodwin Advertising. Just a minute…I’m putting you through now…”

A metal-ended telephone cord is plugged into its appropriate slot.

“Where did you say you’re from? Oh London, that’s nice. How’s Princess Margaret these days?”

She plugs me into another slot. “There’s a young man from London come to visit Terry. Oh, I see. Shall I ask him to call by another time then?”

I don’t like the sound of this.

”Oh, to wait. Yes I’ll suggest that.”

The receptionist turns her flamboyantly framed spectacles on me. ‘’He’s a little delayed, but he is aware that you’re here.”

I take a seat. Most of the magazines are back copies of Australian Woman’s Weekly with a British Royal on the front cover, except for one with a famous female Aussie Olympic swimmer. I pick up a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald only to read that Mick and Marianne Faithfull are due in Australia, as…“Mr. Jagger” will be playing the part of Ned Kelly in a new British film about the legendary outlaw. The article goes on to say how inappropriate it is for a pommy pop singer to take such an important role and asks why an Aussie actor isn’t cast in the part. Reading further, I find that Mr. Jagger and his girlfriend have an “unfortunate reputation”. I guess that the police authorities will be watching them carefully.

Ten minutes pass…then twenty…then half-an-hour and still no sign of Terry, as the receptionist likes to call the managing director. I sit in my best dark blue suit with a light pin-stripe with a Burberry trench-coat neatly folded by my side and know that the vibes aren’t quite right in Goodwin Advertising. It’s now 12:40, forty minutes after the agreed meeting time. I’m not exactly David Ogilvy, the Brit ad man who took Madison Avenue by storm, but this is poor treatment.

It’s a relief when a wiry looking guy wearing a fashionable suit with broad lapels and flared trousers appears in reception.

“G’day, mate.” He greets me with an extended hand but no apology. “Paul isn’t it? Fancy a beer?”

I correct him on the name and add quick details about the London office and the job.

Terry looks puzzled. “Well let’s discuss all that over a jar or two, sport. Tell you what, there’s a beaut little diner round the corner. I know you poms don’t get to eat much meat so how about I shout you a steak?”

We down a couple of swift schooners in the bar of a business restaurant and Terry, with all the skill of a seasoned ad man, manages to avoid discussing my job.

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