Jarkko Lehmus Diary

A Bucket Full Of Shite, A Fan And A Welcome Holiday

Being an Equity rep is such a joy especially when you're a numbnut who just can't keep his mouth shut. I think that if there are issues that are affecting the working environment they should be discussed about and sorted out in an efficient and professional manner. I'm sure it's not too much to ask and it can be done without throwing the toys out of the pram? Think again...

Let's just say that there have been a few wires crossed and I've copped a face-full of venom for no good reason. Ain't life grand. In my imaginary world people working for the same company would try their best to get along and to do whatever they can to find solutions to the problems they are facing and to try to make the company grow and prosper. Unfortunately in the real world people have their own agendas mostly dictated by their insecurities, egos, political allegiances or simply just by their job-description.

I think it was Douglas Adams whose analysis of the human race went along the lines of: "...we nail people to the cross just for suggesting that we could be nice to each other..." He also said that cricket was deeply evil...

Anyway...

I do my best to keep the various aspects of business and personal life separate. I'm not always very good at it, but I try. I'd hope that people much older and cleverer than I am would be even better at it. As I said in one of the earlier postings, I've given myself two years in this job. Let's see if I can last that long. If my career in the company will be sacrificed, then so be it, but in the process of professional suicide I'll do my best to lay the foundations for a respectful and professional relationship between the management and the dancers and, as a cherry on top, try to squeeze out an injury prevention and treatment structure. How diplomatic can I be and still get something done?

Dancing is regarded as a silent form of communication. Dancers are regarded as hard workers that have almost superhuman ability of eating shit that they have cultivated, especially in the case of ballet dancers, ever since they entered into formal training where they are invariably told: "You're never good enough and you should keep your mouth shut and work harder." (Unless you're in Russia or China where you just get beaten until you either emerge as a demi-god or limp away as a cripple.) All dancers of any credibility work hard, but what happens when they decide to open their mouths? A talking, opinionated dancer? Preposterous!!!

Enough of the ranting and raving already. Sorry guys. Just needed to let off some steam. I'm sure there's a few people out there who can relate to this on some level, though. Essentially it's just about people, their egos and skills and willingness to solve problems. Things that we all encounter on a daily basis.

After this kind of rollercoaster you would normally find me in a drunken numbness, but this time I'm all flushed with adrenaline after a track evening on the Knockhill racing circuit. I just had to make sure the bike is in full working order and that there is absolutely no life left in the old tyres, so I can happily put new hoops on the red beast and head for the twisty bits of the Continent for a good three weeks.

Right in the middle of the storm is the eye of the storm: the place where all is calm while the whole world around is being ripped apart. In some ways my birthday was something like that. Or possibly a bit of both. A very civilised storm or a rather chaotic eye of the storm. Since I had decided to stop aging at 25 the sixth time of turning 25 was going to be a big one. I had grand plans that all got blown away gradually, but in a process of distillation I ended up with a very nice dinner with my various friends all sitting around the same table and getting to know each other. A few drinks and a bit of burlesque later the party inevitably migrated to my humble abode where most things were done and the rest was talked about. The taste of mescal at 5am was the last thing I remember before waking up at 10.30am next to a beautiful woman, donning my prince outfit bought from the recent Scottish Ballet costume sale where over a hundred productions and at least as many memories were sold to new, loving homes. My memories were abundant compared to some of my fellow warriors one of whom was found fast asleep in his boxer shorts hugging a rug in my bathroom at 8.09am. I found him on my couch fully clothed, but still totally out of it at 10.45am. Apparently he woke up when someone flushed, but nobody knows what really happened. It's the great mystery of the night...

8.09am ©

After serving a champagne breakfast and lunch to my guests they felt necessary to crawl back home only to be replaced by a few more of my friends who very kindly gifted me a smoking jacket, a shirt, cuff links, a cravat and a hankie. I was compelled to transform from a prince into Sir Jarkko, the Lord of Crosshill for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately no-one gifted me any trousers...

The daddy of all of the Sunday outfits. ©

On that note I will love you and leave you for I still have some packing to do. Before leaving the country I intend to have a gourmet lunch at the Taste of Edinburgh Festival on the Meadows, but when the time comes to catch the ferry you can rest assured for I will take my camera and my horned helmet with me and document the whole debacle. Until the next time...

Posted by Jarkko at June 9, 2007 03:27 AM