Carte Blanche

**RING RING**

**RING RING**

The noise jolts my brain into life, my eyes sticky with sleep. The room slowly comes into focus. Where the fuck am I?


**RING RING**
**RING RING**

The cloud of confusion clears when I spot the Avid - I've fallen asleep at fucking work again after a late night loading the rushes from the latest block.

**RING RING**
**RING RING**

Shit the phone.......

"Hello, Alan here...."

"Alan, its Peter. Where the fuck are my rushes!!!"

Alan. Thats me. You might remember me? Anyway, I work in a post production house in Soho. Peter Blanche is the editor of the film I'm the assistant on. He's in his late fifties, old school, living off past glories and gets work from all his old chums he met at film school back in the day. Dresses in the manner of Mulligan and O'Hare with a similar beard and parting thing going on. Basically hes a massive cunthammer.

"Sorry Pete, they arrived at 11 o'clock last night and I got them loaded, just haven't got them on your Avid yet."

"I couldn't give a flying fuck what time they turned up Alan, your my assistant and its your job to make sure my material is ready for me first thing in the morning, my time is far more important than your measly little life. And my name isn't Pete, its PETER. If you want to survive in this industry my boy you better show more respect to your seniors. Now hurry up and get me my fucking rushes and bring me a latte while your at it".

**KADUNK**

So this is my life. My measly life. Sat in front of a Avid for 14 hours a day bowing to every whim of Pete Blanche, ubercunt. Well its not all shit anyway. I can blog and maybe save some poor graduate from following the same path as me. Still interested? Stay tuned and I'll be back with more. Milk and fucking two.