Over the past 10 years my wife has gone from being annoyed by how underemployed I was to being irritated by how unavailable I am. If there was an interim period when my work-life balance met her requirements, I don’t recall her mentioning it.
For this reason, I am unable to draw much satisfaction from reminding my wife that I’m a busy man, but it doesn’t stop me trying.
“I need you to take the oven out of its slot,” she says. I know better than to ask why, but apparently the question is implied by my expression.
“Because,” she says, “you need to measure the hole so I can order a new oven that fits.”
“OK,” I say. “But there’s no way I can do it today. I’ve got two pieces to write, and a phone interview at lunchtime, and then I’m off to…” I realise my mistake too late.
“To what?” she says.
“To film a music video,” I say. One of her eyebrows rises slowly. Her rule regarding this topic is simple: I am allowed to be in a band, as long as I never try to talk to her about being in a band.
“That’s not work,” she says.
“Yes, it is!” I say. “I’m contractually obliged.”
This is not a good thing to say, even if it could be true: I did sign a contract with the label that released our CD, the terms of which specified certain promotional duties, and which I didn’t read very carefully. But I don’t wish to prompt my wife to ring them up and ask if there’s a clause in the contract expressly preventing me from doing anything around the house ever.
“Anyway,” I say quietly, “I can’t not go.”
The video is being shot in a pub in Richmond with a little riser at one end, where we are told to set up. The pub is dotted with customers who I soon realise are actually extras hired from an agency that specialises in odd-looking people of a certain age. The director identifies them only by their primary distinguishing features. “Where is the Hairy Man?” he shouts. “Beard with Glasses, to the front please!”
It becomes clear that the odd-looking people are, in most cases, also odd-behaving: eccentricity is being cultivated on many levels. But who am I to judge? I’m a 51-year-old man with a banjo round his neck, miming to a playback while the Hairy Man capers in front of me.
“Let’s bring in the Mums!” shouts the director. Three elderly women are shooed into the room. “Banjo Man, move a foot to the left please! My left!”
The playback starts up again. The director shouts. I look out over the little crowd and see the scene for what it is: a bunch of old people being ordered to do mildly humiliating things by a small number of young people, some of whom are filming us for others to laugh at later. It’s like a care-home scandal set to music.
Because we’re in the background of every scene, the band are obliged to remain on stage the whole time. It’s like a four-hour gig where you play only one song. I arrive home knackered, and late. My wife is lying on the sofa, watching TV.
“How was it?” she says.
“Weird,” I say. “Sort of like a care-home scandal set…”
“Eh!” she says, holding up a hand and then pointing at the screen. “I’m watching this.” She waves me towards the kitchen, as if to say, “Your supper is in the oven.” But I know that can’t be true: the oven is still in its slot, still broken.
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