Imagine we meet at a party. Not long into conversation you ask me what I do. I simply say, “I’m a designer.” Before you have the chance to ask me what type of designer I am, our mutual friend, the host, taps me on the elbow.
“Can I borrow you a moment?”
They make their apologies and usher me away. You’re rather relieved, actually, since the sort of person who proudly pronounces themselves “a designer” is probably a bit of a self-regarding bore. Nonetheless, you’re left briefly wondering what I actually do to pay the bills. Perhaps he makes designer egg cups? Sews postmodernist swimwear? Builds helicopter missile systems? He could have meant anything.
By the end of the party we’re not reacquainted, but in a conversation with our mutual ...