The David Bowie music celebration aside, the new year has not been a happy one for this co-founder of impoverished Pastis Communications.
After the annus horribilis of 2020, I really, truly didn’t need a letter from the managing agent saying my landlord – whom I’ve never met – wants me out so he can sell the flat to raise some money. I’ve been given six months’ notice but there’s nothing decent on Rightmove at the mo. Perhaps I should join the Londoners’ exodus to the Covid-free countryside, where no one would notice if I exercised seven miles from home.
Pastis Communications is not exactly a bundle of joy either. Just before Christmas, Sophie and I had been all but appointed by a couple of guys with an IPO plan for a portfolio they had exclusivity over. It sounded a good idea: a load of distressed retail properties where the income, such as it was, would enable a dividend to be paid, while planning consent was obtained for a redevelopment/repositioning/re-something-else.
But Soph rang me up this morning to say they’d been turned down by every broker in town for the IPO. So tomorrow morning we’re going to spend two hours together on FaceTime while we work, trying to replicate that office feel.
New year? Same as the old year.