I wore a dark blue shirt to work today.
Thought I looked respectable enough.
But when Typhoid Mildred saw me, she shook her head.
According to Mildred, the original Mr. Hamish always wore a white shirt and a simple black tie.
Mr. Hamish didn’t need to wear flashy blue colours and “prance about like a sherry drinking, nancy-boy.”
Mr. Hamish was a man of substance. He was a leader. He was a man who understood windows and doors.
I would hope so. It’s not like they’re complicated subjects. They open. They close. You walk through one and look through the other.
Mildred sure was fond of old Mr. Hamish. She talked about his solid chin, good posture and Scottish work ethic.
She has a picture of him on her desk.
She told me that when Mr. Hamish died they opened a door in Heaven.
A Hamish door, no doubt.
She said “Half of the men in business today are weak chinned, shiftless layabouts. And the other half are bloody preening peacocks.”
I’m not sure which camp she’s placed me in. My guess is both.
The original Mr. Hamish died 20 years ago and his sons sold the business before they could get him in the ground.
But she didn’t mention that.
So tomorrow, I wear a white shirt. For Mildred. And for the original Mr. Hamish.
What the Hell. I’ve got lots of white shirts.