Birthday Cake o'clock

A few times a week, something like this appears in my email inbox at work.

 

"As I'm leaving on Friday, I've left some afternoon cakes and biscuits in the kitchen for everyone as a thank you"

 

or

 

"Normally a round of M&S's finest would serve to celebrate my birthday, however since Mike stepped up the bar with his huge cake offering last week, I've gone one better. Find lots of home baked cakes in the usual place"

 

As such, I've come to understand that not only do the people in this office bring in their own birthday cakes for everyone to enjoy, thus saving the embarrassment of an awkward group 'happy birthday' gathering around desks and a 'ooh, she only ever turns up for the cake' type discussion, they're competitive about it as well. Fantastico.

 

With the kitchen being pretty close to my desk I've also noticed a pattern in the minutes following a kitchen cake drop. Suddenly, all these people emerge clutching coffee cups and glasses or suddenly needing the toilet (conviniently situated next to the kitchen) - like a mass migration of sugar hungry children to a newsagent - and then their faces (not faeces, now there's a typo I was tempted to keep) sort of drop as they realise that everyone else has had the same idea and that they're now going to have to stand and make small talk for a few minutes before they can amble back to their desk. I love it when they try and act all surprised about finding the rows of cakes lined up too, like with a 'ooh, well, seeing as they're here' type comment before grabbing a slice and a napkin. I know your game. There's no fooling me, you gannets.

 

See, it's all about having the laid back approach to cake grabbing. From my superior vantage point, I can sit back and watch the first eager wave of people and even though the cake calls to me, I sit it out. Then when the rush dies down and everyone's run out of polite conversation and taken their polite amounts of cake (one slice, not two!), that's when I wonder on over.

 

And ohhhh yeah, I reap the rewards. Today I had one fondant fancy and two cookies - which social conventions would never have let me get away with in a crowded setting - and I didn't even have to style it out in two journeys; pretending to forget my water or something. The area was empty, so I just strolled on in and claimed my prize.

 

And best of all, my birthday's already been. Timing is everything in this game.

An hour at Annabel's

“Won’t Annabel mind us all turning up at hers?” asked my boyfriend on hearing the location of the after-party of his mother’s 50th birthday in Mayfair, which 40 of us were currently heading down the road towards.

It wasn’t until we reached a stairwell with two doormen outside, both dressed in green suits and hats, that he realized that Annabel’s was not his sister’s friend’s house, but actually an exclusive members' club in nearby Berkeley Square.

From 6:30pm I’d eaten only canapés and drunk champagne; so although things were already beginning to get a little bit hazy, there are parts of our short visit to Annabel’s that remain very clear indeed.

Annabel’s is one of those places where unless you’ve got a bloody good reason, you’re not getting in. And by reason, I mean either membership, status or money. And lots of it. Preferably all of the above, actually. We were in there because a favour had been pulled and even though they knew we were coming and there was plenty of room for our party, in true snotty club fashion, the staff were being difficult and rude. Eventually we were allowed down the opulently lit corridor where suited, balding men stood sipping whisky in bars either side, eyeing the females in our group. We went into the main room, an area packed with dark brown mahogany tables full of more suited, mostly unattractive middle aged men and their invariably blond, significantly more attractive partners, and I quickly realized exactly what sort of a place this was going to be. Very, very expensive.

As I followed some people down the middle of the low lit room, between the tables where people were tucking into food and wine on china plates and crystal glasses, I came to the empty dancefloor; an area about 5 ft by 5 ft with stars above and below, and little alcoves and sofas around the edge. Realising it wasn’t dancey dancey time yet, I headed back, passing about 4 waiters who glared at me as I walked past; not returning my polite smiles in their direction. The women at the tables were equally stony faced, looking me up and down when I met their eyes.

I felt out of place.

My boyfriend ordered some drinks, as we’d decided that even though it was bound to be pricey, this was undoubtedly a once in a lifetime place, so we’d have a drink then see what happened. After a minute, he turned around. “Guys, I think I might need some help with these drinks”; and he didn’t mean carrying them. A round of five drinks came to over £70.

After a while at the cramped bar area, we headed back down to the dance floor and joined the 20 or so others in our group who were dancing in front of the two grumpiest DJs I have ever seen; their job seemed to be to supervise the dance floor rather than entertain it, but nevertheless everyone was having a laugh and trying not to spill their equally expensive drinks.

It’s worth mentioning at this point that I was itching to take some photos; especially as it became more apparent that most of the other women in there were Russian high class call girls who were none too subtle in their dress sense or intentions. However, it was then I realised why there were never any photos of the A-list celebrity shenanigans that you read about in the gossip papers, as signs on the way in warned that anyone taking photographs would be removed from the club.

Whether it was the champagne or the surroundings, the next day it all seemed a bit surreal. A few of us had ended up leaving after about an hour because we fancied another drink but couldn’t afford one, so we left and, on the advice of the only friendly staff member I’d met, the green-clad doorman, we went over the road to Babble where the same round of drinks cost a much more welcoming £17.50.

Annabel's was a strange place. Maybe you have to be super rich, impossibly famous or a £500 a year member to understand the appeal and afford a smile from the staff, and since I am neither of those, it's hard for me to comprehend the lure of a darkened room that charges £30 for a glass of whisky, £5000 for a bottle of champagne, or £15 for a gin and tonic.

They say you can always judge a place by the state of the toilets, so here it goes: Small, dim, unfriendly, but perfectly furnished; and a great place to piss your money away.

Your blog on my blog blog blog again

Decided to do it again. Weekly thing? Who knows - here are the posts I haven't been able to comment on this week...

 

First up, announcement. Londonlass is back! It's strange how you can recognise a writing style, as soon as I found the Mouldy Old Tartlet's new pad I knew it was her. I bloody love this blog. Bring on the embarrassing stories of bodily smells and poop, and the tales of the now not so fledgling relationship with Furry Chipster (I'll take bets on that being his real name). Woop woop! So even though I would like to keep it all to myself, bah: http://mouldy-old-tartlet.blogspot.com/

 

I swear this spider that Rol found in his bath (bloody massive great big thing, size of a badger apparently) has since migrated across to NW London. His identical twin was last seen scuttling across my bathroom ceiling at 22:00 hours last night. I resisted the 'dad' call. ("DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD, There's  HUUUUUUGGGGGEEEEE spider in the battthhroooooom.") and instead decided to let him rest there for the night. The spider, not my dad. Well, and my dad actually, although only the spider slept in the bathroom.  http://rolhirst.blogspot.com/2008/09/huaaarrrrghhh.html

 

Congrats to Blue Soup for passing her motorbike test. At least I think she passed. I can only read the first like 5 lines of her blog in the feed reader, so I'm having to wing it a bit and hope there was no bad news at the end. Living on the edge, me. Also, sending good luck your way for whatever it is that's happening on Tuesday...  http://bluesoup.wordpress.com/2008/09/23/bumps-and-rips/

 

Loving the comments on David Blaine's latest effo...actually, can you call it an effort? Is there any effort involved in hanging upside down for 40 minutes out of every hour? Unbearable Banishment is quite the fan, I congratulate you for going to see the "spectacle" and not throwing something heavy at him the minute he touched terrafirma (for the eighth time that day.) and Surviving Myself, it's a wonder you don't have crowds surrounding your office with daily magical acts like that.

 

Cynical scribble, on the subject of confusing taps - the water, not the dancing sort - Topshop oxford circus used to have pretty confusing taps. There was a circular basin that had a pedal going round it which you had to press down with your feet to get water out. It was quite amusing to watch people try and work it out, but they got rid of them eventually. Probably worried about the amount of people who just give up trying to wash and don't bother. Yuck.http://cynicalscribble.wordpress.com/2008/09/25/taps/

 

 IT Girl's jokey spoof email reminds me of an equally spoof one that does the rounds once a year or so, the one that warns girls about a bloke who hides under your car when you get out for petrol and cuts your ankles or something. What a load of crap. Do these stories ever have a basis? http://itgirlelle.blogspot.com/2008/09/subject-fwd-scam.html

 

Pawpads - your husband is a private investigator? Please, please, please show him how to blog. http://pawpads.co.uk/bloglog/?p=678

 

To fwenge: two words : DO IT. http://ihatetheearth.blogspot.com/2008/09/bastard-bloody-london.html

 

Reluctant Blogger on Pre Murderous Tension - Strange things happen around that time of the month. I often find myself crying at the most stupid things, like a not particularly sad scene of eastenders or an episode of Jeremy Kyle which usually I'd laugh at or just ignore completely. I also notice that I get irritated very very quickly by the simplest things; very unlike me, as you can imagine. http://thefugitiveblogger.blogspot.com/2008/09/pms-blues.html

 

mjohnson I'd like to commission a portrait of Hamster Sellotape Teeth, please http://mgfgtg.blog.co.uk/2008/09/25/monkey-bell-head-s-friends-4780418

 

Girl with the Mask - before you move out, tell your parents to use duct tape instead. http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/AMaskToHideBehind/~3/403093187/other-brands-are-available.html

 

 

Leaving work at 3pm today and starting the weekend off early, as tonight is party time up in a Mayfair hotel for the boyfriend's mum's birthday. New dress, old shoes, and best of all - I hear rumours of a huge chocolate cake, so definitely not one to be missed. Have a good weekend all.

 

To the beautiful, handsome, gorgeous, lovely...

This is my favourite bit of my free evening paper. I'm not sure what it is about this tiny little column that appears near the back pages, but I always wish there was a bigger section for it.

It's like a list of missed opportunities, and in those two sentences you can imagine these people at opposite ends of the tube, catching each other's eye, neither of them having the guts to say hello and both of them regretting it afterwards.

Then I always wonder if anyone ever gets in touch, recognising a description of themselves after seeing an ad like this. I remember a few months ago, a bloke launched an appeal in a free London paper looking for a girl he'd met at and then lost at a festival. She saw his appeal in the paper and got in touch and a few days later there was a spread of them reunited.

I always kind of hope that the same happens for the people on the lovestruck pages, because regret is almost worse than rejection; isn't it?

When.... time.....goes....slooowwwlllyyyyyy

The good news is I'm still enjoying my job. Enjoying in the sense that I'm busy most of the day and when I'm not, the time seems to whizz by anyway. In fact the only times that don't seem to whizz by is the half hour before it's socially acceptable to stop for lunch. i.e., 12:00,  the half hour before the approved time to go home, ie. 5pm and, as I recently found out, during compulsory health and safety inductions.

 

At 3pm on Monday, me and about 20 other very bored new recruits and graduates were herded into a meeting room on the ground floor and barked at by an equally bored woman whose job, I can only assume, was to give stupid advice on serious things. She said things like "If you see a fire, the most important thing is that you are safe. Only attempt to extinguish it if it is small and you are confident" Hmmm, ok. But then: "If it's a big fire, you must activate the nearest fire alarm, then find a phone and call reception to tell them your name, the location and any other details regarding the fire".

 

I'm like hang on toots, if I discover a fire, I've then got to trot off and instead of yelling 'FIRE! FIRE! EVERYONE OUT!' and making a run for it, I've got to hunt through thick smoke to locate a 2"x2" red box on a wall...somewhere. Then I've got to find a phone, try and remember the number for reception (it's not 0 like other companies, they have their own 5 digit extension. So I'd have to ring 0, speak to the company operators in the Birmingham office then get them to transfer me to back to the London office reception), and inform them that the reason there are really loud sirens and people leaving the building in droves is because there's a fire, which is orange, hot, and currently burning my face.

 

It got better. When it came to the disabled persons advice, we were informed that this part of the induction didn't really apply at the moment, because there were no disabled people in this office. "Apart", she went on, "from Barry on the ground floor. Barry's got epilepsy" which in itself is definitely not a laughing matter. The most boring woman in the world then proceeded to explain how you could tell if he was having or about to have a fit; which to my surprise didn't mean he'd be on the floor convulsing or something, no no. You see, if you go up to talk to Barry, you'll know if he's having a fit because he'll just be staring straight ahead, twitching and not responding to anything you say, in which case you should alert someone and call an ambulance. Fair enough. "But sometimes" she continued without a hint of amusement in her voice, for she was utterly serious, "You'll go up to him and he won't be saying anything or responding to you, but he's not having a fit. So just be aware."

 

Probably the most comprehensively rubbish medical diagnosis I've ever been given, but there you go: If he's ignoring you, he could be having a fit -OR- he just might not feel like chatting. Either way, don't take offense, he's got epilepsy. Please god don't give this woman a job with NHS Direct.

 

Next up was a man whose job was to tell us about CMS. Or MSC. Or SCM. Some management system anyway, the name escapes me as by this point I was pretty much comatose from listening to Mrs Gareth Keenan explaining how to pick up a box (we didn't have a demonstration, but we did get a leaflet on how to do it. Step by step. Seriously, come on love, we've all seen this episode of The Office). The man spoke...very.....slowly.....which.....as....you.......can...........................imagine..... allowed for....... all..... sorts ...... of...... interesting ..... quips. He then did that really embarrassing thing of asking 'Any questions?' at the end, then when no one had any, the guilt trip came:

 

 'No one? Come on, humour me, prove to me that you've at least been listening'

(silence)

 'Anyone?'

(silence)

 'No?'

(silence)

'Well, if you do have any questions it's my job to answer......them, I sit on the ground....floor, so come and see.... me.......... whenever.'

(silence. foot tapping. silence) 

'I suppose.... you can all go..... now.' and with that, the herd stampedes out of the room.

 

Believe me when I say that the hour long health and safety induction was 3 hours well spent.

Hypothetically speaking...

Say you were signing up to a gym membership which cost you £41.40 per week. It's expensive, but because you're a chubby little scamp in need of some exercise, you plump up the cash. 

 

Early morning and evening, the gym is packed to the rafters with sweaty people and you have to wait a while to get on the machines, which often stop the minute you get on them for no apparent reason. What's more, they soon bring in a system where instead of paying a weekly or monthly membership, you can pay as you go. They practically force this system upon you, claiming it's cheaper and a better deal because once you've used a certain amount of machines, it's free for the rest of the day.

 

After a while you start to question the pricing tariffs, which seem to vary by time of day and how far you travel on the machines. You decide to find out if paying to use the machines separately is actually cheaper for you than the full, normal membership. You call the helpline, only to find that the person on the other end of the phone is actually as confused as you are when it comes to the tariffs, daily cap rates and how much your exercise costs per day.

 

On the phone you specify the information they need to work out your daily rate, and in response you can hear the rustling of paper, the flipping of pages and the 'errr, ummm' of someone who doesn't actually know the answer. It doesn't fill you with confidence.

 

When the answer comes, punctuated with 'Err, oh actually, hang on...forget I said that, it's actually...' followed by more page turning and eventually: 'err, well, it's capped at £11.40 before 9.30, but because you're using the gym after that time as well, it then goes down, so your daily cap is actually £6.50, plus £3 for the session before 9.30, so that's...altogether...ooh wait, err, no yep that's right, I think, oh no, wait actually...', more page turning, a bit less clarity and hey presto, you are officially none the wiser.

 

One conclusion you may come to is that if that same system was applied to tube travel – say they called it "Oyster" - there would be a lot of very confused people out there, possibly paying more than they need to for their daily travel and just topping up when told. You'd thank god that you have the option to cancel the membership and find a different gym, instead of pouring money every week into a membership card that neither you or the people behind it understand the pricing behind.

 

Then you'd probably jack in the gym membership and buy a bike.

 

Humph.

 

Anyone else understand the Oyster card pricing system? Anyone? No? No? Never mind.

A weekend at the spa

As I mentioned briefly on Friday, as a belated birthday present from my mum, me and the boyfriend were treated to a weekend at a health spa. Off we sped down to Surrey on Saturday morning after securing a good deal with the reservations team. "Well, thing is," I'd told the guy on the phone earlier in the week, "I love the sound of this place, but it's my mum who's paying, and I'm not sure she'll really go for £465 per person. I was thinking, well, considerably less than that...and anything else you could chuck in to sway her, it's mine and my boyfriend's birthdays you see..."

 

So having been downgraded in price and upgraded to a suite, including use of a VIP treatment room so we could have our complimentary massages at the same time, the weekend was set. The grounds were beautiful, the room was huge, as was the bathroom and nice smelling freebies dotted around the bathroom were plentiful. We chilled, played tennis, swam outside and in, even a spot of croquet on the lawn (I won). Finally, at 12pm on Sunday, it was time for our massage.

 

After a few minutes, a petite blond woman emerged in the waiting area. "Joanna and Boyfriend?" she called. Smiling, we got up and walked towards her. It was at that point that a large, hairy man also appeared. "Boyfriend? I'm Pete. If you'd like to follow me". Now if I could describe the look that passed over the boyfriend's face at that moment, I would say imagine that wide eyed look of someone who just came home and discovered their cat had morphed into a massive, hairy lion. Then imagine the lion attempts to engage you in polite, pseudo manly conversation, skirting around the fact that those hairy paws are about to be oiled up and rubbed all over your back.

 

As soon as the two therapists left us in the treatment room to undress, the boyfriend shot me a worried look. "How come you get her and I get a big hairy fat man?" and then, "He said get undressed. Do I have to get naked?"

 

And with that, the therapists were back in the room ready to begin the half hour assault on our back, neck and shoulder muscles. I couldn't help but grin into my headrest when my boyfriend's masseuse told him to 'just say if the pressure's too hard'. Needless to say, in the interests of asserting his masculinity, my boyfriend chose not to speak up and when we were left alone again half an hour later, delivered his verdict.

 

"It, err, kind of hurt." he said, rolling his shoulders

"So why didn't you say something like he told you to?"

"Well I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was a big hairy fat man, I was half naked, things were already a bit awkward. Anyway, it was fine until he put his whole arm across my back and I could feel all the hairs"

 

Mmm, nice. Talk about putting the treat into treatment...

Why, London, why?

London's got this big old reputation as being some fast paced city where everything moves at 100mph.

 

So why can't it bloody hurry up in the morning?

 

What's with waiting for a bus that's 20 minutes late, only for two to come along within seconds of each other? Yes, I'm looking at YOU, C3 to Kensington Tescos this morning. Then of course because it's so late, there are near on 20 people at every stop waiting to get on. Do the drivers co ordinate themselves so that one goes ahead dropping off while the other drops back and picks up? Of course not, they just trundle on together in a big, inefficient, red double-decker relay through London.  

 

Then I get to Earls Court station and I just think why can't people just walk in a straight line? Why do they have to weave in and out, and then stop, cut in front and then change their mind about what ticket gate they're going to go through? Why don't they check their Oyster card for cash before they try and go through the gates? Why are tourists allowed on the train between 8-9:30am? Why is it more expensive for the daily commuters at this time? Why can't you buy 5 day travel cards?

 

At Leicester Square, Northern line platform: Why do people insist on crowding down at the far ends of the train, when the whole point of being at the far end of the platform is because the carriage is meant to be less crowded? (it never is, because everyone else has the same idea).  So if there are already 15 people waiting at the end of the platform, why not think to yourself 'Well, there are already a lot of people standing there, I'll move futher up to where there's less so that this lot, who have been waiting longer, have a chance of getting on' so that you don't get trains that are absolutely jam packed at either end, and near empty in the middle?

 

And OH - cut a cliché why don't you Jo, but why can't people wait for everyone to get off before getting on? So simple! And if it's packed, and there's another train in 1 minute, why do people insist on crowding onto the first one that comes and making window stickers of themselves? Moreover, why did those stupid women on the tube yesterday insist on blocking everyone's route off the train because they were too busy trying to bag a newly emptied seat? This just in Londoners! When you practically run for a seat on the morning tube, pushing past people as you go, you tend to look like an absolute tit. Especially when everyone gets off at the next stop anyway.

 

And, on a separate but equally annoying note regarding speed and common sense: who is the bloke at a sports club in Wandsworth who puts on his gay little web-handed gloves and go-faster swimming cap, stretches like he's bloody Duncan Goodhew, then hops in the slow lane to swim at full speed front crawl before getting annoyed about the slow swimmers holding him up? It's a slow lane. Don't try and overtake, see someone coming the other way then slam your hands onto the water in frustration when you can't. Duck under the rope and join the other people who measure their swimming capabilities by the amount of water on the poolside when they're finished. Splash-alot-magoo.

 

That'll do for now.

Ahhhhhh! Earthquake! (again)

"It's like a massive earthquake"

Is the quote flying around today's papers and news reports following the meltdown of the Lehman Brothers bank, which, by the way, I understand hardly anything about. Ask the boyfriend. Financial stuff, billions of quid, stocks, shares? Don't get it. I understand the basics, that it's folded and is filing for bankruptcy, and that is about the extent of my knowledge on the subject.

But I do know one thing.

Thousands of very rich bankers losing their jobs is not like a "massive earthquake". Or, actually, let's use the full quote:

"It is terrible. Death. It's like a massive earthquake," she said. She being a city trader whose manager, we are assured, is processing her expenses as we speak. Oh, the injustice. Oh, the tragedy! Oh, the death! Oh, can you process my expenses?

So, not really an deadly earthquake situation really. That is, unless yesterday's temporary refuge for victims; the injured, crippled, dying and dead, was the Slug and Lettuce pub in Canary Wharf.

I mean god, the last time something happened on this scale must have been, well, then!

Sensationalism in the media, ohhh how I love it.

Charlie says 'NO!' to technology!

My sister came home from a pub crawl last weekend without her handbag. Stolen from a pub in Borough High Street, the local lynch mob got away with her house keys, wallet, phone, dad's digital camera and consequently, a whooollle load of drunk pouting photos. And that's a shame, because aren't they fun to look through. Ahem.

Anyway. The household insurance covered most of the belongings, including the camera, which was upgraded to a newer model (hurray for theft!) which arrived on Friday afternoon. You know how dads get when they've got a new piece of gadgetry to spend hours messing about with and trying to impress the female (aka, unimpressed) members of the family. All excited he was!

Charlie, however, not so much. Charlie says that Canon is just not the way forward, that if he could have chosen a new digital camera, he would have gone for the next mega pixel up with better zoom capabilities. Better still, Charlie suggested finding the little rascals who stole it and chewing up their most recently 'acquired' mobile phone! See how they like it!

Then he demonstrated exactly how he'd chew on a theiving chav's mobile phone...



...whilst at the same time ensuring that it is entirely theif-proof. ie. broken and unable to turn on.

Good stuff.

Altogether now: MY NAME IS JOANNA. NOT JOANNE.

Oh come on now, you love the updates on the endless variations of my name, they make your day almost as much as they make mine. Last week at the magazine I got not one, not two, but three variations on my surname within the space of a day. It was immense - imagine my excitement! If there's one thing that receptionists will always struggle with, it's a double barrelled surname. So onto first names, AGAIN. The other day, when I posted about the whole not knowing how to remember peoples name thing, Robbie said (of the HR admin woman who has my name):

"Perhaps she will understand the difference between a JoannE and a JoannA."

In response, may I bring to your attention Exhibit 'E', the post-it note stuck on my induction pack.



Annnnd Exhibit, err, E...the phone call I just received.

HR Woman: Hey, this is whoever in HR. Would you prefer your ID and email account to be set up as Jo, Joanne or Mowgli Sue? (I may have made up the last one)
Me: Well, my name's Joanna, so I think I'll probably have it as that.
HR Woman: Ok, no problems. Bye!

See? See how it doesn't matter to other people? Then I'm thinking that perhaps I didn't put enough emphasis on the 'a', and I might have just agreed to have my email address for the next few months as Joanne.blah-blah@woopdedoop.com

And for those thinking that my other choice, Jo.blah-blah@woopdedoop.com, would have been an infinitely better choice, you're wrong. That pesky little 'e' gets everywhere, even onto the end of 'Jo' so that I become a boy. And on the phone, 'Jo' magically morphs like a defunct power ranger into Jane, or Jay, or, worse still, JOAN...which automatically makes me 65 years old.

Ahh, the troubles I face every day. You have noooo idea.

I remember it well...

About ten years after a disaster or important historical event, people love to do that thing where they say 'Ooh, I remember what I was doing ten years ago today when that news broke. I was sitting in my chair watching the news with my little hamster Gerry, and we were talking about the weather. It was a rainy day, which gave Gerry the feeling that something bad was going to happen. Then as soon as he finished his little hamster sentence proclaiming the effects of the weather on life and humanity, an alert came on the telly to say that John F Kennedy had been shot.'

 

or something like that

 

Anyway, seeing as today is September 11th, the seventh anniversary of (in case you've been living under a very large rock without a TV, radio, or paper) the day the two World Trade Centre buildings came down in New York after a terrorist attack, I thought I'd share my first reactions to it.

 

I was really rather confused, shocked and baffled. But for quite the wrong reasons.

 

At this point I should mention that before the latest new arc style Wembley stadium was built, it had quite a different look about it. It's always been a bit of an important landmark in my neck of the woods and was known, in addition to Wembley Stadium, as the 'twin towers', which were knocked down in 2003. Do you see where this is going?

 

So we're all in the common room at sixth form, and this news flash comes on the TV with TWIN TOWERS HIT BY PLANE and everyone's glued to the screen watching the events unfold, going 'Oh my god, the twin towers are falling down, this is a tragedy, so many people are dying'. Now, I like to think I wasn't the only one in NW London who immediately, and for a good period of time (well, 10 – 20 minutes, tops) was worrying about the fate of two concrete blocks which mark the place I'd seen Michael Jackson in concert 4 years previously.

 

See, I knew what and where the World Trade Centre was, but hadn't heard it referred to as the Twin Towers, because they, according to me, were in Wembley. For some reason I didn't know there were two World Trade Centres either, because my mum had only been up the one when she was in NY; so I was really quite confused. It took a while for me to click that this worldwide disaster, on every news channel internationally, wasn't happening 20 minutes away in the London suburb of Wembley, but in New York, you know, that massive important city in America.

 

Which is why if anyone ever asks me what I was doing when I heard the news on September 11^th 2001 (which they never will, because no one really cares where you were, notice how it's always you who has to offer that information forward?) I always skip that part of the story and go straight to the bit after I realised that in America, the Twin Towers = World Trade Centre and this really was actually quite serious.

 

Who's with me?

 

 

 

...err...I'm seeing a lot of tumbleweed lately.

Introductions are easier by email

Now you know I'm all for the whole face to face talking thing, don't let the blogging thing fool you...I'm all for direct communication. When my phone rings it makes me all happy and stuff, just seeing that little name flash flash flash on the screen makes me all warm inside. Like Mmmm, someone wants to talk to meeee, they want to hear my sparkley little voice, I wonder...what quirky way can I answer their call today? Same when the doorbell rings, as long as it's not the god squad or an ambassador for tea towels and double glazing.

The best thing about being a newly employed person is that people want to talk to you, they come shuffling up to your desk and instead of saying 'Where are the padded envelopes', they ask your name, how you're getting on, all those pleasantly nice sort of things. They also tend to tell you who they are, which is wonderful great splendida, especially when they say something like 'So if you need any help, can't find this or that, or blah blah blah...just give me a shout!'

Then off they toddle all nice and secure in the fact they've brought their proverbial chocolate cake to the new office neighbour and you're like wooo yeah, strike one, I've got myself a buddy!

A buddy called....

And that's where it all goes a bit hazy for me, really. I cannot remember anyone's name, it's like the split second they tell me, it's gone again. Before they've even walked away, I've filed it away with long division, algebra, the periodic table and my 4, 6, 8, 9 and 12 times table (yeah whatever; so I don't know my times tables. I do English, not maths) in the Bah. Who knows? part of my brain.

Yesterday after I got the job, the woman who I'd been sat talking to for half an hour told me that when I came in the next day, I should ask for her at reception and she'd come down and get me. What I should have done really was ask for her name again, but instead I opted for Plan B; hope that she says it again, and when she didn't, Plan C, try and remember it. I couldn't. Typically, instead of ringing her and asking, I went a roundabout way and after a bit of panicking and general arrghhh, who do I ask forrrr-ing, I discovered the name of my contact.

It was Jo.

So there's that, and the fact I'm going to offend someone soon. The other day I was walking down a road near Oxford Street and someone called my name. It was a colleague from the broadcasting company who I hadn't seen since May, but had got along with quite well while I was there. We chatted for a while, and I was about to explain to my boyfriend 'Oh, Mary now works on that other TV show' by way of polite introduction, when, in the nick of time, I realised that her name wasn't Mary. I'd worked with this woman for 4 months not all that long ago, yet her name evaded me for a good 10 minutes until I checked my phone contacts and clicked who it was.

I take it I'm not alone here. I need some tips. What are the best ways to remember people's names without rushing off to find a pen and scribbling it on your arm as soon as they tell you?

Employed

Today I got a job. It's not what I want to do, in fact quite the opposite; it's something I definitely didn't want to do, but needs must. Those needs being my burgeoning shoe collection and the need to pay my own way, fund some more work experience, and eventually, move away from the land of "Dinner's Ready".

To be fair though, the job doesn't sound too bad. I'll be busy, the office is friendly, and my boss sounds like he needs a bit of help and gentle bullying, which I'm fine with. Yes, I'm back to being a PA (albeit temporarily, three to four months) but crucially, essentially, most IMPORTANTLY...people make their own dinner at this international company. Yeah! That's right, stick your microwaveable dinners up your bum bum, broadcasting company and presenters! The only time I've ever really hated being a PA was at my last job, when my bosses room was completely set apart from my desk, making it pretty hard to complete the 'personal' bit of the job title. Otherwise, it's always been a job I could do, and err, one I'm happy to do when the hourly rate is right. Which now it definitely is.

I need to see this as a money making opportunity. It's not a career choice. It's just money. Then I can go back to the magazine, get more work experience, and get a proper job in something I want to do.

So why do I feel like I've just gone backwards?

Longest sentence in the world

Ready? One minute, the subject is birthday. GO!

Highlights included getting my hair curled in Selfridges about 10 mins before closing...err, except as soon as the girl realised we weren't going to buy the £150 'infra red' (wordever) straighteners, she kind of lost interest a bit... and that was after the boyfriend and I went for a nice Lebanese meal at Levant which is a bloody nice place to eat....after a day at work, where despite having only been there for 4 days they got me CAKE...(yes, when all else fails, tell the other work experience girl it's your birthday, bound to spread the word)....and a card....and a goody bag when I left yesterday....which is now sitting in Charing Cross station because boyfriend, I and a load of mates went out on the town...namely to Gordon's which is a great place to drink if it's not British monsoon season...followed by some queue jumping outside a very cool club underneath London Bridge station...where we found a mystical forest, an old piano, theatre screens, a band, dark tunnels, dolls faces on the wall, a kissing box, a toy dog on a lead, dark corners and lots of alcohol.

Random, eh.

ps.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP DEDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP

Oh fa gads sake. I need to get better promotion for next year

Mum: You've got a letter here (pointing at a stiff, bright pink rectangular envelope on the side)
Me: I know, I saw.
Mum: What is it?
Me: Urrr...Hmm, I wonder.
Mum: Eh?
Me: [At this point I realised she was seriously baffled] What do you think it is?
Mum: I don't know.
Me: Let's think. What day is it tomorrow?
Mum: [largely blank expression]
Me: I don't know...could it be...a birthday card?

Mum's don't like it when they're caught on the hop. It goes against everything that they're meant to be; reliable, organised, aware of the date and it's significance: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Jo's Birthday. So when my mum's blank expression quickly turned into a look of horror as she uttered 'Oh god, it's not your birthday tomorrow already is it? God, Nige, we haven't got any cards! I forgot the cards! I didn't realise it was so soon!', attempting to implicate my dad in the whole saga, I realised that whilst everyone else knows what day Thursday is, my parents do not.

2 hours to go, all, to hours to go.

And you know this won't be the last you hear of it.

You'll never guess what Thursday is

I love the way that each and every year, I refuse to give my friends (or, more accurately, 248 people, maybe 7 of which I would consider actual, "hows your day been, love" friends) an excuse for not remembering International Jo Day.

My main dilemma this week is how to get maximum word of birthday coverage around the office where I'm laying my cloak of wisdom and service-gratis this week, when I don't really know anyone or have reason to drop it into a casual conversation. Maybe I'll just buy a badge. "Oh whoopsy! Must have forgotton to take it off!". Hmmm. Realistically, I'll probably have to start laying the ground work on Wednesday, maybe Tuesday afternoon...give it time for the news to get to the person who would buy cake, for example.

Probably the office skivvy.

Oh, balls. That's me.