The Pictures

How hard can it be?! I mean, dad ... Come-on! Make it right this time!

Dad took some pictures of the living room. Apparently, the Chinese government wants to see how the living room looks like... The thing is, the pictures submited were too dark - the nice lady at the agency couldn't see the couch enough. So dad took some more pictures with all the light on this time. Flash here, flash there - flash everywhere ... Then, the pictures were magicaly transfered to the screen machine with buttons but dad still looked upset : "still too dark", he said! The pictures were then tranfered again to another machine with buttons, but this one has more screens. Sitting in front of it, he displayed all the pictures and started saying strange words like "Gamma correction" and "contrast", "brightness", "mummmpff", "pfffffff - too dark - nehhhh" and some other words I'm not allowed to say.

Today, mom will take the little plastic thing that I'm not allowed to touch and bring it to the shop to print the pictures and deliver them to the agency. Hopefully, it will do.

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It did not do!! The pictures on the plastic thing were no good. It could not be printed. Mom called Dad and told him that he'll have to snap the living room aaaagain... They started arguing about not beeing able to print on some machines and beeing able on others and the plastic thing having some booboo's on it ... Mum told him that she did her best but the machine could not read the plastic thing or somthin'. Daddy realy wanted to send the pictures today ... So he kind of lost it! He left work without saying bye to anyone, ran to Bureau en Gros, bought a photo machine that makes pictures just like at the shop, went home and re-snaped the living room with the light of day comming through the opened blinds. Print - go - com'on!

Perfect, he said! The pictures were perfect.

Then, he jumed in his car, drove like a maniac to the agency or where he thought the agency was, could not find it because he forgot to read the address right. Called 411 to get the right adress but they don't have it, they have no clue what Enfant du Monde is; no address, no number, nothing. He drove back home faster than before going through red lights and stops, ran in the house, got the address on the internet and confirmed with the agency that it is realy on H-Bourassa West not East. Right! Ok! 'Jumped back in the car, drove back to Montreal like there's no tomorrow dodging other cars and people crossing the street, u-turning where I don't think it's allowed and parked in a spin using the lever thing between the seats... Woooof!

My daddy is officialy crazy.