March 20th, 2009
The discovery that my design client Ignacious Spore had been using Twitter had jolted me out of my force ten apathy towards the micro blogging site.
Spore had already sent me on a wild goose chase involving the worst logo in the world, Jack Daniels, and the raven-haired minx Fifi LaFlamme (who was now a best-selling author after her self-help book ‘Help Yourself To Drink’ had gone top ten).
His nefarious activities began with a request that I analyse the religious symbology of his ‘IS’ monogram, in the mistaken belief that I was a certain Harvard professor. This column had become increasingly silly ever since.
But the fact that the slippery nutjob could have been posting 140-character clues on the utterly pointless typing-based me-fest that is Twitter was just too intriguing to pass up.
My path was clear. I clicked ‘follow.’
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February 11th, 2009
It occurred to me that LaFlamme and I might have stumbled onto something that would become one of the greatest mysteries of all time. But then I thought we probably hadn’t, and went back to darning my socks.
Certainly the encrypted message that turned out to spell Jack Daniels had so far led to nothing but giddiness, and I had failed to find a connection between it and the worst logo in the world, as my client Ignacious Spore had requested.
“We need help. Professional help,” said LaFlamme with determination.
“Yes, you’re right,” I replied enthusiastically. “I know a professor of religious symbology who could help us get to the bottom of this.”
“Actually I was thinking of Rehab. But your idea’s good too.”
There was no doubt about it. With LaFlamme, life had thrown me a curve ball.
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February 9th, 2009
Despite being awash with Jack Daniels, it was several hours before LaFlamme and I realised it was actually the solution to our problem. That is to say, ‘Jack Daniels’ was the solution to the anagram ‘Jackal dines’ that my dubious client Ignacious Spore had left whilst dropping dead in my doorway.
By this time LaFlamme’s ‘liquid inspiration’ had left us very heavily inspired, and we failed to notice that Spore was nowhere to be found. He was a slippery character alright, but he would have had to slip across the landing and down four flights of stairs, something dead clients can’t normally do.
“Maybe he was just having a lie down,” LaFlamme said helpfully.
“He walked up four flights of stairs with a cryptic message just to have a lie down? Wouldn’t it have been easier to stay home in bed?”
“Spirited away?” she suggested, with only a hint of silliness. In our current inspired state this began to sound quite likely, at least more likely than my slipping down the stairs explanation. But something didn’t fit.
And if he didn’t slide out the door and he wasn’t spirited away, that only left one conclusion - I had no idea what was going on.
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February 6th, 2009
I always thought anagrams, like jigsaws, were for people who had never discovered laziness. Why would I waste precious loafing hours trying to fix something that was deliberately broken to keep you people and your overactive lobes happy?
This particular anagram, ‘Jackal dines,’ was perplexing in the extreme. I didn’t want to get into it but once again LaFlamme had skilfully manipulated my free will. Now I was compelled to consume large quantities of bourbon and decipher my client’s cryptic note.
Thoughts of ravenous jackals raced through my fevered mind. I say ‘raced’ but ‘wandered pointlessly’ would be more apt. These jackals were in no hurry. The only thing that ever raced through my mind was bewilderment.
Suddenly LaFlamme stirred. “I hate to say this but… Jack Daniels,” she declared.
“No, no more for me thanks.”
“No, Dumbo, Jack Daniels is the answer!” I thought for a moment she was about to burst into song. And I wasn’t sure I liked her tone.
“It’s MISTER Dumbo if you don’t mind,” I corrected her.
“You can be Emperor Dumbo if you like,” she replied. “Don’t you see? It’s been staring us in the face. Literally.”
She hovered the JD bottle before me, as if practising hypnosis, and slowly it began to sink in. But LaFlamme needed no practise. I’d been hypnotised for years.
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February 3rd, 2009
LaFlamme continued to analyse my client Spore’s cryptic note - ‘Jackals dine’ - for it’s anagrammatic possibilities, with increasingly silly results. With Spore himself still unconscious or even dead in the doorway, this could have been viewed as negligent. But I decided in Spore’s case it was ok.
“Perhaps we need a drop of liquid inspiration,” she suggested, and I visibly winced. LaFlamme had administered this type of inspiration to me before with devastating results.
“I’m not sure I can handle being inspired right now,” I protested, feebly - I knew it was a lost cause.
“Nonsense,” said LaFlamme and poured two massive belters of bourbon. Why she didn’t just get a funnel and inspire me to death was beyond me.
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February 1st, 2009
Despite LaFlamme’s confident assurance that my unconscious client’s cryptic message - ‘Jackals dine’ - was an anagram, she didn’t appear to know of what.
Crosswords were never my forte and after thirty minutes putting pen to paper, all I could come up with was ‘Jackal dines.’
“It’s just as well you’re pretty,” said LaFlamme, making a hollow knocking sound against the top of my head. “Better leave the thinking to me.”
I happily relinquished the task as I feared any further brainstrain would surely lead to a hernia of the head.
It gave me time to reflect on the events leading up to this moment, the unusual sequence of mishaps and misadventures that left me in this confused state. But without reviewing previous posts I’m not that sure what they were.
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January 27th, 2009
Spore lay unconscious on the floor having stumbled in seconds earlier, clutching a slip of paper. I tried to determine whether he was still breathing. I may not like my clients but I don’t want them dead. It’s bad for business.
LaFlamme wrenched the piece of paper from his fingers and read it aloud.
“Jackals dine,” she said mysteriously. We both stared at each other blankly across Spore’s gangly frame.
“Jackals dine? What the hell does that mean?” I asked.
“I might have missed all the other anagrams in this story, but I’m not about to miss this one,” LaFlamme replied confidently.
I had no idea what she meant, but at least the story was back on track.
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January 25th, 2009
“You should have stuck with the Da Vinci Code,” said LaFlamme in her best I-told-you-so voice. “Then it wouldn’t have taken you a month to write this next instalment.”
I had to agree that the book had been the source of some of my finest jests and that having abandoned it during a particularly silly passage, what I was now missing was real comedic inspiration.
I tried watching the movie but despite being equally feeble I realised it was no match for the book’s poor character development and shallow plotting, and again my interest tapered off midway.
“How can such a large book be so insubstantial?” I asked LaFlamme, as if she knew all the answers. Generally she did know all the answers, at least ones that would satisfy a dullard like me. This time was no exception.
“That’s part of the skill. If you can prattle on for ages about cornerstones and priories and make people think it’s important, you’ve cracked it.”
“I suppose so,” I conceded. I always think if I have to endure a 300-page tome it better explain the meaning of life at the very least.
“Let’s try and kick-start this baby,” LaFlamme offered, and sat down to type in her inimitable floor-shaking manner.
‘Suddenly there is a knock at the door,’ she began, ‘and the client Ignacious Spore stumbles in and collapses on the floor, a slip of paper clutched in his outstretched hand.’
“That’s quite good,” I said, although I suspected it was from the Maltese Falcon. At least Dashiell Hammett was worth ripping off.
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December 23rd, 2008
“Why would my client want to kill me?” I asked LaFlamme. “I’m not that bad a designer.”
It was often hard to gauge what the raven-haired minx was thinking behind the wraparounds, but I never had long to wait for an opinion.
“Spore has you heavily insured,” she replied a little coyly. “You’re worth more dead than alive to him.”
“Insured? How can my client have insured me without my knowledge?” I demanded, confident now that I could get this whole case to unravel like one of the Admiral’s bobbly cardigans. “Shouldn’t I have some say in that?”
“Clients have all kinds of rights these days,” she said matter-of-factly. “They need to protect their investments. It’s standard procedure now.” She paused to take a full-throated blast from the troublesome red, tamed now in her hands. “In fact the underwriters treat it like pet insurance.”
It was hard not to feel humiliated by the notion that my life could have been quoted for alongside the family budgie’s. But there it was.
“Don’t worry, Spore didn’t insure your talent,” LaFlamme added.
“That’s a pity, because he could have claimed last week when it deserted me.” I paused and then spun around to face her. “So what did he insure?”
LaFlamme looked up. “Your soul,” she said.
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December 22nd, 2008
- LaFlamme’s take on murder.
“Murder?” I asked LaFlamme. “Who’s dead?”
“That’s not important,” she replied.
“You’re telling me my design client is framing me for murder but it doesn’t matter whose?” Ordinarily I’d have thought that the subject of any murder might be a critical point but LaFlamme disagreed.
“There’s no death,” she stated plainly.
“Murder without death?” I fired back. “That’s even more unusual.” I often begin these conversations with a quest for knowledge and end them settling for a quiet life.
“We both know Spore’s a slippery character,” LaFlamme continued, now in full flow. “He gave you the world’s worst logo knowing you could never work with it. Nobody could. He figured the case would drive you crazy and then he could pin a murder on you.”
“But whose murder?” I persisted.
“Yours.”
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