purist
noun
1. a person who insists on absolute adherence to traditional rules or structures, especially in language or style
I sat in my room at my desk eating oreo cookies and ice cream while finishing my English assignment due at the end of the term. Been there, done it before. My memory isn't so great that I remember what I wrote over eight years word for word, but I know enough and remember enough to get a the bones of the assignment written down.
I also wrote a one page overview for my Business Studies group assignment as well. I decided to give a comparison of local small business enterprise and its development over the decades, since the local Small Business Co-op was founded eighty years ago and has records of all of its members in this city since then. I didn't want to do something like a slide show or play or anything like that, but was stuck on how to go about presenting it.
I took a break and while I was changing out of my school clothes, I found a few nightgowns that I'd borrowed off my mum hanging up freshly laundered in my wardrobe. And that gave me an idea.
What if I compare the development of small businesses and entrepreneur endeavours as outlined in the Small Business Co-op and present it as if I'm selling nightgowns from across the decades. I could arrange eight to ten olden day travel boxes or suitcases that open up with a standing manikin, each with their own nightgown on display. I could pretend that I am selling them, like a door to door salesman, fancy suit, hat and all.
I could make like the nightgowns are my product, and when describing the different aspects of the gowns - what I am really describing is the small business progress and elements that are unique to each era. Talking about the support, and the robustness, the new forward thinking, until what we have today is a sexier, slimline version of what we had from yesteryear.
I could also talk about how sometimes fashion always come back around again and use a nightgown that looks much like something from a by-gone era that has been rehashed, redeveloped and regurgitated. Oh, this should be so much fun.
I spend the next half hour writing down all my idea, drawing the travel trunks and their mechanism for opening and the spring-loaded manikins. Then I spend time looking online for designs for each of my nightgowns, looking at each era and what made them stand out for that age. I fell in love with some of my designs, wondering if I should get them made in my size so I can keep copies of them for my own use. Yes, I like that idea too.
At one point Grant turned up for games, but I gave him a sappy excuse about how you couldn't play Mass Effect on palm devices and how the computer I was working on was actually broken. While I was actually working on it.
He laughed, then mocked me, calling me a techno purist.
"But its just not RPG on a cell phone. Its like the PG without the R."
"You make it sound to rude."
"Hey, I'm working here. Don't hate the terrible insta excuse. I got homework, OK?"
"OK, OK. But you're still a purist." And he left me to it.
A few minutes later he arrived back in my room with Ms Palmers who has arrived in time for dinner.
"That time already? But I'm still designing thing here. Can we turn back the clock a bit and give me another twenty minutes?"
"Mr Overmeyer has just arrived home for dinner as well. I think it would be best not to keep the business mogul waiting." Grant spoke in a solemn voice. Patricia nodded in agreement.
"OK, OK. I miss my Jac-Jac anyway. I feel like I haven't seen him for days and days." I mumble as we walk out of my room and down the hall to the lift.
"Sometimes I forget she's just 17." Grant complained and Patricia grunted.
"Feels like yesterday we were buying her a new car." Patricia said that, in her dry quiet voice and both Grant and I started cracking up.
Dinner was a yummy French onion soup and freshly baked flat bread. The main course was a veal confit, with baby potatoes, blanched cherry tomatoes and asparagus spears. Normally I hate eating asparagus, just not a flavour I have ever managed to repeat, but the chef in the mansion's main kitchen is a god. Just wow. Managed to make asparagus taste amazing.
Dessert was Crème brûlée, with a sweet dessert wine that us adult – and almost adults – were able to enjoy.
I sat back in my tall chesterfield dining chair and held onto my food baby. Satisfied just doesn't cut it.
"I don't think Ill have a problem gaining weight if this is our usual dinner fare."
"Yummooo! So yummy mummy. Can I have some more cream buulee, Daddy?" Jack is sitting on his high chair patting his daddy's arm, waiting for him to hand over his serving of the delicious dessert.
"Sorry, sport. You've already had yours and your mothers. Any more and we'll have to roll you up the stairs."
"Hee hee hee. So funny."
"Thank you for a lovely meal, Mr and Mrs Overmeyer. It was excellent." Patricia thanked my parental units for the meal.
"You are welcome. Now, lets have that chat, starting about what happened with Lily and Eyva after school today." Wallace didn't really let his inner dragon out, but leaning back with his arms across the table, you could see he was top boss in the room. What he demanded, he got.
"How about you all take it to the office, of the outdoor patio and let the kitchen staff in here to clear the table. I need to put the rugrat to bed, so say good night everyone."
"Night night. Wuv yous all." Jac-jac blew everyone kisses as his mum took him to bed. "Can I have creem buuleee for breakfast tomorrow, Mummy?" He asked in the cutest voice. His one he uses to sweet talk people into giving him what he wants. "Not for breakfast tomorrow."
"Ah, OK. For lunch then. I can take to kindy?" His voice echoed back down the hall from the stairs.
"Killed me with cuteness, right there." I mumbled.