On our way to Athens in the summer, me and the then boyfriend were doing the whole 'check the seat pocket in front' thing on the plane when we scored ourselves a 32gig, limited edition U2 iPod which had been left there from a previous flight. Feeling bad about keeping it but not trusting the young Easyjet cabin crew to do the right thing, we decided to keep it and, noting the name of the iPod and the photos stored on it, try and track the owner down on the internet / facebook when we got back home.
After a few days of trying to locate the iPod's owner, who unfortunately had the most common name in the history of Europe (think Italy's answer to John Smith), we gave up and reluctantly and kept it. It wasn't something we did suddenly or without thought. Both of us, particularly the boyfriend, would much rather have found it's rightful owner, as iPod's are so personal that listening to a whole catalogue of someone Else's music just feels strange. Besides, I already had one - but after a few weeks I decided to ditch my battery failing iPod mini and make use of our new find.
Then a few weeks later, in the middle of the 2 week break, I was hurrying along at Baker Street station when my music stopped and my earphones were hanging down unplugged. I thought they'd snagged so I kept going, patting my pocket to check for the rectangular shape of the music player. When I got on my train and realised that the rectangular shape I'd felt was actually my Oyster card, I jumped up and went back to the point it happened - but of course there was nothing there. Boyfriend and our joint iPod gone in one week. Great.
Because of the suddenness and the crowded space, and the fact I'd stupidly had the tell tale white lead running clearly into my open coat pocket, I assumed it had been pick pocketed. I was annoyed to lose the time I'd spent putting my photos, music and films onto it, but ultimately, it wasn't mine to begin with so I put it down to karma and thought, alright, time for someone else to have a go. Win some, lose some, c'est la vie.
A few more weeks passed, heartbreak earned me a new iPod Touch and then on Friday morning last week, a letter arrived.
Hi Jo,
Have you lost an iPod recently? If so, call me on 0xxxx xxx xxx to describe it and I'll pop it in the post. I found it on a train from Baker Street a few weeks ago and forgot I had it until I saw it at the bottom of my bag this morning. I hope you've not shelled out for a new one just yet. Apologies for the delay. Cheers, Jim.
I was mightily confused and surprised for a while, but then remembered that I'd thought to change the name of the iPod when I started using it. I'd called it Jo [surname], my house number and postcode. That way, I reasoned, if I do lose it and it's not stolen by some absolute skank, someone might be kind enough to track me down.
I called the guy the next day, confirmed it was mine and thanked him for his honesty. He's putting it in the post on Monday - wouldn't accept money for postage - and later, he sent me a text to ask if I wanted it recorded delivery.
He added a post script. "PS. I'm not sure you should be allowed an iPod with your taste in music :o)"
It turns out that given the means to do it, most people won't ignore a chance to do the right thing and get lost property back to it's owner. So get on it: give your iPod a name, house number and postcode: yours.
And happily, Prince: The Greatest Hits should be back in my clammy little paws on Tuesday.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Friday, 28 November 2008
Back in the game?
My first Christmas party of the season kicked off last night, some bash in Whitehall (yes, we did walk there via 10 Downing Street and yes, we did sing "Gordon Brown, texture like sun" as we went past) courtesy of the company who handle all our travel bookings at work. Cue 500 staff from different companies spread over 2 rooms, with a free bar and, most importantly, toilets with chaise lounges and separate dressing tables for you to touch up your make up. Schweeet.
Then the lights went down (as did copious amounts of fizzy stuff, deffo not champs, and white wine) and we got down to cheesey Dave's mobile disco until the unearthly time of 11pm. Yes people, 11pm. Hardcore. That's probably a good thing considering the 5 of us from my company had gone to the pub after work to kill time before the thing started, and the only food on offer were meagre canapes which people swooped on like vultures as soon as they emerged.
And after a huge amount of goading, more fizzy stuff and a lot of drunken convincing, I did my own swoop on an unsuspecting male by tapping him on the shoulder, pointing to an old bird dancing nearby and asking "Is she with you?". Oh yeah, I've got all the lines.
What was simply meant to be an exercise in reaffirming to myself that I am still visible to attractive members of the opposite sex (I say attractive, from what I remember he'd caught my eye early on but let's call him the best of a pretty horrendous bunch) has had actual consequences. Namely texts. Two. Both from him. None from me. One to the tune of "Hello gorgeous, did you have a good night" which I ignored (quite rightly) and then an even more unexpected follow up, "wow texting you twice with no reply what a loser!did you have a good night?"
What to do, what to do.
Remembering his name might be a good start.
Finding out his actual age might be another.
Then again, what's the point? I clearly can't be arsed with it.
Number swapping I can handle. Any more than that? Nah. Not yet.
Then the lights went down (as did copious amounts of fizzy stuff, deffo not champs, and white wine) and we got down to cheesey Dave's mobile disco until the unearthly time of 11pm. Yes people, 11pm. Hardcore. That's probably a good thing considering the 5 of us from my company had gone to the pub after work to kill time before the thing started, and the only food on offer were meagre canapes which people swooped on like vultures as soon as they emerged.
And after a huge amount of goading, more fizzy stuff and a lot of drunken convincing, I did my own swoop on an unsuspecting male by tapping him on the shoulder, pointing to an old bird dancing nearby and asking "Is she with you?". Oh yeah, I've got all the lines.
What was simply meant to be an exercise in reaffirming to myself that I am still visible to attractive members of the opposite sex (I say attractive, from what I remember he'd caught my eye early on but let's call him the best of a pretty horrendous bunch) has had actual consequences. Namely texts. Two. Both from him. None from me. One to the tune of "Hello gorgeous, did you have a good night" which I ignored (quite rightly) and then an even more unexpected follow up, "wow texting you twice with no reply what a loser!did you have a good night?"
What to do, what to do.
Remembering his name might be a good start.
Finding out his actual age might be another.
Then again, what's the point? I clearly can't be arsed with it.
Number swapping I can handle. Any more than that? Nah. Not yet.
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
I almost forgot! Charlie says "NO!" to crocodile...
Just thought I'd let you know that at the weekend, Charlie took a very firm, definite, animal rights stance on a matter close to his heart (and teeth, and now stomach)
And said "NO!"
...to mum's Cartier watch.
...to mum's Cartier watch.
Eek.
edit: as seen here earlier with STICK (right).
edit: as seen here earlier with STICK (right).
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Ming mong tube stories
I just thought I'd log this complaint about a girl who I saw on my tube carriage yesterday morning. I don't think it's really the sort of thing that TFL would do anything about, and screaming 'OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO RANK' in someones face first thing isn't really a productive way to start the day (too much hate).
I'm always quite interested in what other members of the public do when they think no one's watching. Like when you're in at traffic jam at night; it's amazing how many people sit there picking their noses thinking that because it's dark, no one can see in. Or thinking no one will be watching, even if it's daylight. Like the bloke I saw opposite me on the tube a few weeks ago with his finger rriiiighhtt up his hooter, having a good old root around. Then my favourite thing is to let them know that I've seen them. So with nose picker, I fought revulsion and carried on staring, until he got that 'someone's staring at me' feeling and looked up. I held his gaze, wrinkled my nose and there. Job done.
Yesterday a girl got on at the stop after me, she was maybe 17 or 18. Anyway - she's standing in front of me and she's got her fingers in her mouth. At first I thought she was biting her nails or something, but she just seemed to be holding them there. Like her index and forefinger right in her mouth - as if she was literally holding her tongue. So I'm watching her and wondering what exactly she's going to do with them once she takes them out. Wipe on the jacket? Air dry? The possibilities are endless.
Nope. Straight back on the hand rail.
Yep...the dirty hand rail where everyone elses dirty hands go, including one which has just been in someone's mouth.
Better still, a few minutes later and the same hand is back in her mouth again.
BLEURGGGHHH.
That'll teach me not to forget my book.
I'm always quite interested in what other members of the public do when they think no one's watching. Like when you're in at traffic jam at night; it's amazing how many people sit there picking their noses thinking that because it's dark, no one can see in. Or thinking no one will be watching, even if it's daylight. Like the bloke I saw opposite me on the tube a few weeks ago with his finger rriiiighhtt up his hooter, having a good old root around. Then my favourite thing is to let them know that I've seen them. So with nose picker, I fought revulsion and carried on staring, until he got that 'someone's staring at me' feeling and looked up. I held his gaze, wrinkled my nose and there. Job done.
Yesterday a girl got on at the stop after me, she was maybe 17 or 18. Anyway - she's standing in front of me and she's got her fingers in her mouth. At first I thought she was biting her nails or something, but she just seemed to be holding them there. Like her index and forefinger right in her mouth - as if she was literally holding her tongue. So I'm watching her and wondering what exactly she's going to do with them once she takes them out. Wipe on the jacket? Air dry? The possibilities are endless.
Nope. Straight back on the hand rail.
Yep...the dirty hand rail where everyone elses dirty hands go, including one which has just been in someone's mouth.
Better still, a few minutes later and the same hand is back in her mouth again.
BLEURGGGHHH.
That'll teach me not to forget my book.
Monday, 24 November 2008
One of those days...
I am currently the worst PA in the world.
Actually scratch that, there are probably PAs who are worse than me.
But I'm doing a pretty good job of making a lot of stupid little mistakes (well, two recently) which are doing nothing to endear me to my boss.
Last week, I was given a list. Some names were highlighted in bright yellow. After being handed the list, I was given very clear "repeat-back-to-me-so-I-know-you've-got-it" instructions for who to send invitations for this important event out to. ONLY, he repeated, ONLY the ones in yellow. The ones in yellow were then given black ticks next to their name - just to be ultra clear. Just yellow. Got it?
I sent the invites out. Then on Friday, me and my boss were going through the responses, at which point he noticed a rogue name and questioned why this guy had been sent an invitation. Sure enough there he was, on the initial list - un-highlighted, no yellow, no tick. I have no idea how I managed to include him. Strike one.
This afternoon, my boss is currently on his way up North for a meeting. Or, at least, he would be on his way to a meeting if I'd put the correct train time in his diary. I'd booked him seats on the train, put the information in his diary, given him the tickets - yet for some unexplainable reason I'd put the times for the one after on his blackberry. As a result, he can get on the train, but has no reserved seat - the thing he was very clear about needing. Again, I have no idea how I messed up. He was not happy.
These things might seem quite minor, it's just I hate it when I get things wrong. Particularly when someone relies on me to run their schedule and make sure they're in the right place at the right time. I hate making mistakes and I hate it even more when half the time I'm sitting here with nothing to do, then when I am given something to do, I can't get it right.
It makes me feel like a right thicky. Mrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm so annoyed at myself.
Saturday, 22 November 2008
They're clearly made up by the work experience person, but still...
...horoscopes sometimes just ring true.
I'm quite cynical about the whole starsign thingie. Like when you read your horoscope in the paper, and go 'Oh my god, spot on! That's just like my situation!', clearly chances are if you looked at the one next to it you'd be able to apply that to your life in some way too.
Nevertheless, like the wistful sucker I am, I read them if only to entertain myself for 5 seconds.
Of all the papers and magazines I trawl through each month, it's The London Paper which has got it bang on the nose the last few weeks. Which is strange, because what with it being a free paper n all, you'd think it'd be a load of (excuse my French), Bollocks. And it probably is.
However, so close to the mark they are on a day to day basis, I've started cutting them out and sticking them in my diary. Take one from the middle of the two week break, "If you're feeling a little emotional about certain aspects of life at the moment, let it out. And don't worry about having to tell close friends that you've been chopping onions, because they understand more than you might think". General? Yes. Relevant? Very.
Last night, as I got the tube home feeling happy about the day I'd just had, the commentary on Jo's life continued.
"A parting of the ways with another isn't always a positive thing - but one particular ending in your life just now is going to bring you more freedom and happiness than you currently realise. Yes, Virgo, it really is. Whatever's drawn to a close, a new door is about to open in the most unexpected of places"
Given all that's gone on lately, it just made sense. Especially because yesterday a huge whopping great big door did open. Not in the form of a new boy (although my eyes have been drawn to an Office Hotty of late) but career / job wise. Earlier in the week I saw an ad on a PR / Journalism job site, got excited about it and sent off an article and my CV. Two hours later, I got a phone call, and yesterday, after a meeting at lunch, all was agreed.
Would I have gone for it a month or two ago? Probably. Would I have thrown myself into it, made myself completely available and devoted my time to researching and writing, without feeling that I should be doing something else? Never. The opportunity came and for the first time in ages, whatever it leads to - travel, busy weekends, events, or just hours in front of a computer researching - I'm free and willing to do.
With office parties and lunches happening every week from now until Christmas, a new part time internship which is streets ahead from resident tea maker at a local rag -whatever the stars say, things are looking up. Bout time too.
I'm quite cynical about the whole starsign thingie. Like when you read your horoscope in the paper, and go 'Oh my god, spot on! That's just like my situation!', clearly chances are if you looked at the one next to it you'd be able to apply that to your life in some way too.
Nevertheless, like the wistful sucker I am, I read them if only to entertain myself for 5 seconds.
Of all the papers and magazines I trawl through each month, it's The London Paper which has got it bang on the nose the last few weeks. Which is strange, because what with it being a free paper n all, you'd think it'd be a load of (excuse my French), Bollocks. And it probably is.
However, so close to the mark they are on a day to day basis, I've started cutting them out and sticking them in my diary. Take one from the middle of the two week break, "If you're feeling a little emotional about certain aspects of life at the moment, let it out. And don't worry about having to tell close friends that you've been chopping onions, because they understand more than you might think". General? Yes. Relevant? Very.
Last night, as I got the tube home feeling happy about the day I'd just had, the commentary on Jo's life continued.
"A parting of the ways with another isn't always a positive thing - but one particular ending in your life just now is going to bring you more freedom and happiness than you currently realise. Yes, Virgo, it really is. Whatever's drawn to a close, a new door is about to open in the most unexpected of places"
Given all that's gone on lately, it just made sense. Especially because yesterday a huge whopping great big door did open. Not in the form of a new boy (although my eyes have been drawn to an Office Hotty of late) but career / job wise. Earlier in the week I saw an ad on a PR / Journalism job site, got excited about it and sent off an article and my CV. Two hours later, I got a phone call, and yesterday, after a meeting at lunch, all was agreed.
Would I have gone for it a month or two ago? Probably. Would I have thrown myself into it, made myself completely available and devoted my time to researching and writing, without feeling that I should be doing something else? Never. The opportunity came and for the first time in ages, whatever it leads to - travel, busy weekends, events, or just hours in front of a computer researching - I'm free and willing to do.
With office parties and lunches happening every week from now until Christmas, a new part time internship which is streets ahead from resident tea maker at a local rag -whatever the stars say, things are looking up. Bout time too.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Bad Wednesday, Good Thursday.
It must have been all the excitement of World Toilet Day, either that or the large glass of Pinot Grigio consumed in the pub after work, but I had a bit of a close call last night. My mouse cursor was hovering a little bit too close to dangerous, shark infested waters on facebook. I was bored to the point of a 9pm bedtime and checked 'online friends', where I saw the one person I can't talk to sitting there getting on with his life. That familiar 'OH THIS IS SO BLOODY STUPID' feeling struck me. Luckily a text message to the tune of "Help. I'm lapsing" was sent in the nick of time, and a phone call which began "Jo - get OFF facebook. NOW. Move AWAY." was received from a friend who lapses more frequently than I do. I did as I was told and put on another episode of Sex and the City. Thank god for that boxset. Best £50 I've ever spent.
I'm feeling a little better today, those of you following my daily updates on twitter will know that I discovered listening to sad songs on the train to work is NOT, I repeat NOT a productive way to start the day, particularly if you're feeling a bit dans le dumpage anyway. But in defence, they never used to be sad songs. Like I don't know if "At The Zoo" by Simon and Garfunkel can be considered sad to anyone else apart from me, but there you have it. Some of my favourite songs now make me feel sad.
Enough wallowing. Thursday is shaping up to be a good day. Tonight I am heading to Somerset House with my team at work for a bit of office bonding and bruising on the Christmas ice rink. I will attempt to look all Christmassy and dainty like an ice fairy and have chosen my tightest pair of skinny jeans for the job, and will be hurling myself at full speed into as many loved up, skating couples as I can find. Woooooooopsie!
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
There is a distinct lack of blog support for NATIONAL TOILET DAY
I'm 100% ipso facto geronimo not making this up
Today, if you are not already aware, is none other than WORLD TOILET DAY.
I say "If you are not already aware" because my company seems to be championing the cause, with messages on the intranet every day for the past week and an email going round first thing, along with signs tacked to the toilet doors in our office.
As far as I know it's soommemeeething to do with people in the third world who don't have toilets. Or water. Or sanitised places to take a poop. Or something.
I'm not too sure, I just like the sentiment of celebrating what our internal emailer called "the humble, yet vitally important, toilet".
To do my bit I have been monitoring the usage of our office toilets today, mostly because it's World Toilet Day and mostly because I have little else to do and I sit opposite them. I have discovered that some ladies in this office go to the loo A LOT, and one was in there for like half an hour earlier. Serious. What a man beast. I was well curious because I went in and the other door was locked, then 20 mins later I went back for a tissue and it was still locked...so because it's World Toilet Day and I wanted to see what dirty woman was committing the cardinal sin of pooing, I kept an eye out and then she came out (eventually) clutching a report of some sort. And she wasn't even ashamed!
All praise toilets, the only place you can go for a bit of peace and quiet round here.
PARP
So what have you done today to celebrate? How many times have you been? What's your FAVOURITE thing about the toilet?
Don't be shy, it's World Toilet day woooooooooo!
Today, if you are not already aware, is none other than WORLD TOILET DAY.
I say "If you are not already aware" because my company seems to be championing the cause, with messages on the intranet every day for the past week and an email going round first thing, along with signs tacked to the toilet doors in our office.
As far as I know it's soommemeeething to do with people in the third world who don't have toilets. Or water. Or sanitised places to take a poop. Or something.
I'm not too sure, I just like the sentiment of celebrating what our internal emailer called "the humble, yet vitally important, toilet".
To do my bit I have been monitoring the usage of our office toilets today, mostly because it's World Toilet Day and mostly because I have little else to do and I sit opposite them. I have discovered that some ladies in this office go to the loo A LOT, and one was in there for like half an hour earlier. Serious. What a man beast. I was well curious because I went in and the other door was locked, then 20 mins later I went back for a tissue and it was still locked...so because it's World Toilet Day and I wanted to see what dirty woman was committing the cardinal sin of pooing, I kept an eye out and then she came out (eventually) clutching a report of some sort. And she wasn't even ashamed!
All praise toilets, the only place you can go for a bit of peace and quiet round here.
PARP
So what have you done today to celebrate? How many times have you been? What's your FAVOURITE thing about the toilet?
Don't be shy, it's World Toilet day woooooooooo!
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Errrrrrrrrrr this post is about LADY THINGS, right
I'm not imagining things, I swear on the muffin man's life...whenever I go to the supermarket to buy certain lady things it is garanteed, 100%, no quibble dibble that I will see someone I know. FACT.
This wouldn't be so bad if I was doing like a huge mahoosive weekly shop or something, but as luck would have it, usually when it's that time, it means I'm popping into the supermarket for one thing and one thing only. Just lady bits and perhaps small, edible supplies of healthy and not so healthy snacks to get me through the week.
And I definitely should not be embarrassed. It's not like I can help it. It's not like I have a choice about this particular bit of being a laydeeee. It's not like I told the marketing department at Tampax to make theirs the brightest sodding box on the shelf. Why can't they just make it a nice, inconspicuous dark grey colour? Why pink, yellow and blue?
I remember the day after a party once, I popped into Tescos to grab some essentials and was doing the whole stealthing it up the bubble bath aisle thing, trying to work out which box I need to hone in on from a distance so I didn't have to stand there right in front of it all for ages trying to decipher super from mini. Anyway I got the bits in the basket and turned to make a run for the check out, turned around and standing there is Hotty and his Hotty McTrotty mate from the party the night before gearing up for a chat.
Immediately I shove the basket behind my back and smile all nice and we talk about the party, then conversation starts wearing a bit thin and I can see their eyes drifting towards my basket, and one of them asks "Getting anything good?" or something like that. I'm not even joking when I say I've never seen two blokes look so horrified as they clocked the contents of my shopping. Hasty departures were made.
Then the other day I was doing the same thing, managed to avoid seeing anyone I knew, got some pizza (always good for laying across the top of the basket) and trundled to the self service check out...then I hear this "Jo! Helllooo, Jo!" from the machine next to me. Oh for gods...So I'm standing there trying to chat to an old friend, whilst simutaneously trying to scan my own Tampax boxes (2 for 1), and the machine's yelling "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA" and refusing to co-operate...then a Tesco's woman is coming over to help and I'm all "Oh dear these pesky machines, aye!" and hoping to god she doesn't have to repack my lady bits in front of the queue that has now formed behind me.
And don't try saying you don't notice what people in front of you at the supermarket are buying. I knew that lady bits, plus chocolate, crisps, dip, pizza and token grapes and apples were screaming HORMONAL WOMAN EURRGHH to everyone that day. Plus once, there was a lady infront of me buying Tena Lady incontinence nappies and I told everyone about it later on. Judge thee by my own standards, indeed I do.
Male readers, you may return. The female stuff is over.
This wouldn't be so bad if I was doing like a huge mahoosive weekly shop or something, but as luck would have it, usually when it's that time, it means I'm popping into the supermarket for one thing and one thing only. Just lady bits and perhaps small, edible supplies of healthy and not so healthy snacks to get me through the week.
And I definitely should not be embarrassed. It's not like I can help it. It's not like I have a choice about this particular bit of being a laydeeee. It's not like I told the marketing department at Tampax to make theirs the brightest sodding box on the shelf. Why can't they just make it a nice, inconspicuous dark grey colour? Why pink, yellow and blue?
I remember the day after a party once, I popped into Tescos to grab some essentials and was doing the whole stealthing it up the bubble bath aisle thing, trying to work out which box I need to hone in on from a distance so I didn't have to stand there right in front of it all for ages trying to decipher super from mini. Anyway I got the bits in the basket and turned to make a run for the check out, turned around and standing there is Hotty and his Hotty McTrotty mate from the party the night before gearing up for a chat.
Immediately I shove the basket behind my back and smile all nice and we talk about the party, then conversation starts wearing a bit thin and I can see their eyes drifting towards my basket, and one of them asks "Getting anything good?" or something like that. I'm not even joking when I say I've never seen two blokes look so horrified as they clocked the contents of my shopping. Hasty departures were made.
Then the other day I was doing the same thing, managed to avoid seeing anyone I knew, got some pizza (always good for laying across the top of the basket) and trundled to the self service check out...then I hear this "Jo! Helllooo, Jo!" from the machine next to me. Oh for gods...So I'm standing there trying to chat to an old friend, whilst simutaneously trying to scan my own Tampax boxes (2 for 1), and the machine's yelling "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA" and refusing to co-operate...then a Tesco's woman is coming over to help and I'm all "Oh dear these pesky machines, aye!" and hoping to god she doesn't have to repack my lady bits in front of the queue that has now formed behind me.
And don't try saying you don't notice what people in front of you at the supermarket are buying. I knew that lady bits, plus chocolate, crisps, dip, pizza and token grapes and apples were screaming HORMONAL WOMAN EURRGHH to everyone that day. Plus once, there was a lady infront of me buying Tena Lady incontinence nappies and I told everyone about it later on. Judge thee by my own standards, indeed I do.
Male readers, you may return. The female stuff is over.
Friday, 14 November 2008
Dressing up - help, please. HELP ME!!
I bloody hate dressing up.
Not dressing up as in shoving a pair of heels and a spangley dress, I love all that, I mean dressing up as in fancy dress. As in 'ooh, I know! let's all go as superheros!' (let's not).
I was always ok as a 18/19/20 year old doing the whole school girl thing at uni, but generally I steered well clear of anything that required hiring of an outfit and venturing out anywhere more public. I physically recoil at the thought of proper adults dressed as Rainbow Bright, Scooby Doo or, worse still, Wonderwoman. Or nurses. Or policewomen. I cringe when I see hen parties out on the town dressed up as cowgirls or playboy bunnies.
Saying that, I did once dress up as a playboy bunny in my first year of uni; stockings, hot pants, rabbit ears, corset, fluffy tail, cuffs, the lot - only to lose my tail, stain the cuffs with snakebite, ladder the tights and go home before 12 because I'd got too drunk in preparation for going out looking like a complete slag. Those were the days.
Not dressing up as in shoving a pair of heels and a spangley dress, I love all that, I mean dressing up as in fancy dress. As in 'ooh, I know! let's all go as superheros!' (let's not).
I was always ok as a 18/19/20 year old doing the whole school girl thing at uni, but generally I steered well clear of anything that required hiring of an outfit and venturing out anywhere more public. I physically recoil at the thought of proper adults dressed as Rainbow Bright, Scooby Doo or, worse still, Wonderwoman. Or nurses. Or policewomen. I cringe when I see hen parties out on the town dressed up as cowgirls or playboy bunnies.
Saying that, I did once dress up as a playboy bunny in my first year of uni; stockings, hot pants, rabbit ears, corset, fluffy tail, cuffs, the lot - only to lose my tail, stain the cuffs with snakebite, ladder the tights and go home before 12 because I'd got too drunk in preparation for going out looking like a complete slag. Those were the days.
It just makes me incredibly uncomfortable to dress up as anything apart from myself; especially if it's just as part of a small group who decide to go out in themed clothing amongst hoards of ordinary people. With a group of mates at a house party, fine. Go mental. But wondering the streets of London dressed as a Snow White? Not for me, no thank youuuu.
So it was with great trepidation that I read the invites for two office Christmas parties that I'll be attending next month, only to find that one at an esteemed media corporation requires 'chav' dress (burberry, tracksuit, gold jewellary, buggy, baby) and the other, my work do, requires us all to go to a as a country (ie. onions, stripes, moustache and garlic for France, Supersize big mac for America, that kind of thing)
I know with these sort of things it's better to go the whole hog than just dip your toe in, there's nothing worse than people wondering whether you're in fancy dress or just your normal clothes, but still. Even though there will be a big group of us....something about a fancy dress theme just fills me with fear.
Plus, I'll be honest, I'm newly single. It's Christmas. I want to look hot.
So, suggestions please. Chav I can do, I'll just dress like I was 14 again. I need ideas for the countries theme. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllpppp!
Thursday, 13 November 2008
I just donnnnnt want to chat, GET ME!
Haha. You know what I did yesterday. I actually hid from someone I didn't want to talk to in the office.
I haven't hidden from someone in aaaaaggges. You know when you use proper stealth avoidance tactics.
There's a bloke in the office, who, when bored, is a menace to what I like to call my afternoon quiet time. Every afternoon he'll get bored and do the rounds, stop by my desk and hang about there for longer than the time deemed acceptable for office lingering. Especially if I'm trying to do some work, clearly answering the phone, typing, looking at the screen, eating a biscuit - he doesn't seem to take the hint. Then there's the way he speaks. Those of you who aren't familiar with London accents might not get it, but Londoners you surely will. He speaks like a rudeboy. Making a sucking noise with his mouth at the end of sentences. Kissing his teeth. Punctuating his speech with a drawn out 'Laaiiiike', 'You knoo', 'you get me' or worse still, 'init'. It drives me mad.
Argh, and he always has some sort of story to tell and he'll tell it really dramatically and sloooowwwwly to draw out the time away from his desk. Monday he decided to fill me in on how bad Sunday had been. His car, you knooo, had got a puncture on the way to football and he'd had to change it, init. That, as far as I can tell, was the gist of it, but he managed to draw it out for a good five minutes "and, oh my GOSH! It was, laaike, raining and naaaaasty, you get me!". He then whittled on about football, which I hate more than packaged sandwiches. Even when I told him I hate football, "especially when blokes go on about it", we then had to have a discussion about that. That's right: we had a discussion about how much I hate discussions about football. And no amount of busying myself with the four page handwritten document in front of me (which might as well have been written in Arabic for all the sense it made) would stop it.
Then after about ten minutes more of him hanging around my desk yabbering on about football (which I hate, did I mention that) he finally said "Raaaite, well laike I be'ah get back to my work now, init" and meandered off and away. Thank god for that.
So yesterday, I wasn't having it. I peeked over my computer and saw him wondering my way. Immediately got up and dashed past him in manner of Busy Woman Going About Duties and hid behind someones desk on the other side of the office. I kept poking my head around and when I saw he was gone, I went back.
Now I'm not a wholly unsociable little scamp. I do like a bit of conversation to pass the day, but blimey - office bores of the world take note - hints are there to be taken. Init.
I haven't hidden from someone in aaaaaggges. You know when you use proper stealth avoidance tactics.
There's a bloke in the office, who, when bored, is a menace to what I like to call my afternoon quiet time. Every afternoon he'll get bored and do the rounds, stop by my desk and hang about there for longer than the time deemed acceptable for office lingering. Especially if I'm trying to do some work, clearly answering the phone, typing, looking at the screen, eating a biscuit - he doesn't seem to take the hint. Then there's the way he speaks. Those of you who aren't familiar with London accents might not get it, but Londoners you surely will. He speaks like a rudeboy. Making a sucking noise with his mouth at the end of sentences. Kissing his teeth. Punctuating his speech with a drawn out 'Laaiiiike', 'You knoo', 'you get me' or worse still, 'init'. It drives me mad.
Argh, and he always has some sort of story to tell and he'll tell it really dramatically and sloooowwwwly to draw out the time away from his desk. Monday he decided to fill me in on how bad Sunday had been. His car, you knooo, had got a puncture on the way to football and he'd had to change it, init. That, as far as I can tell, was the gist of it, but he managed to draw it out for a good five minutes "and, oh my GOSH! It was, laaike, raining and naaaaasty, you get me!". He then whittled on about football, which I hate more than packaged sandwiches. Even when I told him I hate football, "especially when blokes go on about it", we then had to have a discussion about that. That's right: we had a discussion about how much I hate discussions about football. And no amount of busying myself with the four page handwritten document in front of me (which might as well have been written in Arabic for all the sense it made) would stop it.
Then after about ten minutes more of him hanging around my desk yabbering on about football (which I hate, did I mention that) he finally said "Raaaite, well laike I be'ah get back to my work now, init" and meandered off and away. Thank god for that.
So yesterday, I wasn't having it. I peeked over my computer and saw him wondering my way. Immediately got up and dashed past him in manner of Busy Woman Going About Duties and hid behind someones desk on the other side of the office. I kept poking my head around and when I saw he was gone, I went back.
Now I'm not a wholly unsociable little scamp. I do like a bit of conversation to pass the day, but blimey - office bores of the world take note - hints are there to be taken. Init.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Normal?
This morning on the train I was thinking about how unnatural it feels to suddenly cut off contact with someone you’ve spent the last few years talking to nearly every day. It was what I wanted – the only way I knew I’d be able to handle the break up – but is it normal to be so logical and rational about the whole thing? Love is so emotional, everything in a relationship depends on and is ruled by it, yet emotion is the one thing I haven’t really indulged in since the break up was 'finalised'.
Until today, that is, when for the first time in two weeks and after a brilliant weekend of declaring myself absolutely fine to anyone who has asked – fine is the one thing I don’t feel.
Thing is, I’m following the advice I’d give someone else in my situation down to a T. Don’t contact him, it’ll only make it harder, don’t attempt to meet up – it’s a bad idea. I’m being an agony aunt’s dream, someone who asks for advice and actually takes it. I know the rules, I know common sense, I know that in comparison to another friend who is going through an almost identical break up situation to mine, for almost the same reasons and after the same amount of time, but continuing to contact and meet up with her ex, that I am coping a million times better and getting on with life without that dragging, painful feeling of a broken heart getting in the way.
But something about the whole thing just doesn’t feel normal. For me there’s nothing more abnormal than cutting someone out of your life, someone who hasn’t necessarily done anything wrong or major to hurt you, like cheat or dump without word or warning, or said horrible things, someone who you get on with and know better than anyone else. I know it was the right thing to do. I know I was unhappy, that I have been repeatedly questioning whether I was in the right relationship for a lot longer than just the last month. I know that attempting to be friends with an ex is a redundant exercise, and that I couldn’t subject myself to hearing about his life when it doesn’t feature me any more. I know all that and I’m sticking to it. There are no drunken texts, no teary calls or emotional, attention seeking facebook statuses. There’s nothing. One text to briefly mention his stuff at my house, and suggest he picks it up. One acknowledgement back. It is practical in every sense of the word. No questions, no slip-ups, no emotion. It seems completely at odds with every other break up story I've ever heard, seen on TV or read about.
I've taken the rational, sensible option, and today it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world.
Until today, that is, when for the first time in two weeks and after a brilliant weekend of declaring myself absolutely fine to anyone who has asked – fine is the one thing I don’t feel.
Thing is, I’m following the advice I’d give someone else in my situation down to a T. Don’t contact him, it’ll only make it harder, don’t attempt to meet up – it’s a bad idea. I’m being an agony aunt’s dream, someone who asks for advice and actually takes it. I know the rules, I know common sense, I know that in comparison to another friend who is going through an almost identical break up situation to mine, for almost the same reasons and after the same amount of time, but continuing to contact and meet up with her ex, that I am coping a million times better and getting on with life without that dragging, painful feeling of a broken heart getting in the way.
But something about the whole thing just doesn’t feel normal. For me there’s nothing more abnormal than cutting someone out of your life, someone who hasn’t necessarily done anything wrong or major to hurt you, like cheat or dump without word or warning, or said horrible things, someone who you get on with and know better than anyone else. I know it was the right thing to do. I know I was unhappy, that I have been repeatedly questioning whether I was in the right relationship for a lot longer than just the last month. I know that attempting to be friends with an ex is a redundant exercise, and that I couldn’t subject myself to hearing about his life when it doesn’t feature me any more. I know all that and I’m sticking to it. There are no drunken texts, no teary calls or emotional, attention seeking facebook statuses. There’s nothing. One text to briefly mention his stuff at my house, and suggest he picks it up. One acknowledgement back. It is practical in every sense of the word. No questions, no slip-ups, no emotion. It seems completely at odds with every other break up story I've ever heard, seen on TV or read about.
I've taken the rational, sensible option, and today it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Yummy Sunday
Today was a good day.
There's something so relaxing about starting your lazy day at 3pm, meeting a friend at Notting Hill station before wondering along the Portobello Road, stopping for a hot chocolate and a perfectly formed cupcake, then popping in and out of shops half an hour before closing time when the crowds have gone home. Even when it started to absolutely bucket down with rain, it was just a good excuse for a glass of Pinot Grigio in the nearest pub. Then we ambled back up the road again, I bought a dress and a jumper I'd seen earlier and that was that. Home time.
I whinge about it a lot, but sometimes, just sometimes, London is the best place to be even when it's drizzly and miserable outside.
Plus, there's something nice about a day when the hardest decision you make is whether to have a chocolate or vanilla cupcake. Clearly, the answer should always be "both, and one in a box to takeaway, please."
There's something so relaxing about starting your lazy day at 3pm, meeting a friend at Notting Hill station before wondering along the Portobello Road, stopping for a hot chocolate and a perfectly formed cupcake, then popping in and out of shops half an hour before closing time when the crowds have gone home. Even when it started to absolutely bucket down with rain, it was just a good excuse for a glass of Pinot Grigio in the nearest pub. Then we ambled back up the road again, I bought a dress and a jumper I'd seen earlier and that was that. Home time.
I whinge about it a lot, but sometimes, just sometimes, London is the best place to be even when it's drizzly and miserable outside.
Plus, there's something nice about a day when the hardest decision you make is whether to have a chocolate or vanilla cupcake. Clearly, the answer should always be "both, and one in a box to takeaway, please."
Yum.
Friday, 7 November 2008
Paying to print off your own tickets - THE CHEEK OF IT!
Wooooooooo yeah tonight I'm off to the far reaches of outer Mongolia....(aka Greenwich in SE London) to see Mr Scruff at Matter. I'm excited like a small goat in a herd of other goats because past experience tells me I'm in for a chocolaty treat of musical goodness. Mmmmm.
Anywho - so to attend this worthwhile event I had to purchase tickets from a website - and you may be familiar with the plight which is to follow. Off I logged onto www.ticketweb.co.uk to buy my 2 wonder passes, priced at 15 Great British Pounds each. These tickets would then have to be sent to me by post or maybe some other new fangled way of delivery, like carrier pigeon, so I anticipated royal mail or bird training costs would figure into the equation. However! Joy of joys, there were even more options at my disposal. Which to choose?
First up, I can print them off myself! Hurrah, thought I, this should save a few pennies, after all, I'm using
- my paper
- my printer
- my time
- ergo my money
to procure the tickets in material form. Either that, or I can pick them up from the box office after my long plane, train, camel, taxi, bus, and donkey trip to Greenwich on the night. This, again would (you'd expect) save a few pennies, because I'm
- picking them up myself
Unfortunately, I then noted a few numbers by the side of these options, accompanied by a pound sign. It seems that even though I'm using
- my paper
- my printer
- my time
- ergo my money
effectively, I am paying for them to send me an email, or for them to keep them safe until I get to the box office and collect. I chose email. A glance at my inbox tells me that most people, nay, everybody in the world - manages to do this for free without charging £1.75 for the pleasure. So I pay for the tickets, I pay for them to be "delivered" to my inbox so that I can enjoy printing them out, and then I check the total cost and LOW AND BEHOLD....
| Total Face Value: | 15.00 |  |
| Service Charge: | 1.88 | |
| Delivery Fees: | 1.75 |
SERVICE CHARGE? SERVICE CHARGE? But you haven't bloody done anything! That's like the time I went to Pizza Hut buffet and the waiter bought us the bill with 'service not included' and 'THANKYOU' scrawled across it ringed in red as if we owed him something for not bringing me my food and drinks! Are you kidding me?
What service have I actually received? As far as I can tell, I've done all the work here and paid £18.63...that's £3.63 more than the actual face value of the ticket.... to do everything myself.
Ticketmaster.co.uk is even bloody worse. £4.55 PER ticket service charge. So 2 tickets for the Prodigy next year
| Tickets (The Prodigy - Seated) | |
| FULL PRICE TICKET | £32.50 x 2 |
| Total Service Charge(s) | £4.55 x 2 |
| Standard Post (includes Order Processing Fee) | £2.75 |
| TOTAL CHARGES | £76.85 |
HA! Service charges! HA! Paying to print off my own tickets which are on a sheet of paper covered in adverts! BAH! £2.75 for an envelope with a bit of paper in it not even sent recorded delivery. GAH!
Bloody ridiculous.
Humph.
(Not that it's going to stop me going to any of the above events, but still. It's the principal of the thing)
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Dutty ming mong cup pulls through
Today went downhill. It started well, I got into work with no delays apart from the snooze button on my alarm.
Then I saw a dirty coffee cup on my desk, placed in front of my keyboard so that I couldn't miss it.
It annoyed me, lazing about there all dirty with the remnants of yesterdays tea sitting at the bottom and brown stains round the edge. Needless to say, it wasn't mine. My cup's behind the computer screen with a manky three day old peppermint tea bag in it going a funny colour.
But the difference is I put my dirty cup there and I'm going to clear it away (when I can be bothered).
Someone else put their cup here and expects me to do it for them. Maybe that's my job, maybe it's not - whatever - I don't really care about the details. I'm just glad it's there, because every time my boss leaves his dirty cup on my desk, it gives me the kick up the arse I need.
Lately I've been considering my options about what to do NEXT. January is approaching and with it the deadline I set myself to finish here and get on the career bus. But my options in the last month have widened and are now infinite...there is nothing tying me to anywhere and I have no obligations. I can please myself. I could go abroad. Or stay here. Or do absolutely nothing. I could blow the entire amount I've just earnt on that Dior bag I've had my eye on for the past however long. Who would disapprove? I could become a dog walker. Or move out. Or not. I could carry on doing this job if I wanted to, sod a career for now. Who knows?
Amazingly, I'm not annoyed any more because of that dirty coffee cup. I'm excited because I can do anything and go anywhere.
And you know what?
I'm going to get pizza now. BECAUSE I CAN!
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Secretary = ?
Every lunch time me and the other secretaries sit around a table to eat and chat. I know the image you've just conjured up; it's probably of four or five middle aged women, with common, screechy voices yapping away about stationary, the people we work for or other insignificant matters.
I like to think we break the mold.
We're a like-minded bunch. Well spoken, young, with a lot to say and always something interesting to talk about. We're well educated; most of us with arts degrees and aspirations to be writers, actors or something else in the media bubble; a couple have left well paid, high stress jobs in Australia to come and live in London while another does this job part time while she trains to be a psychotherapist.
Secretarial work has a habit of attracting a real mish-mash of people. Mostly people who, like me, use it as a stop gap to earn good money without having to make a life long career commitment, to fund travel, or university courses. It's the perfect job for those who aren't sure what they want to do but like the security of an office job. The hours are sociable, and flexible, and I hardly ever have to work late. There is of course one other similarity between us all which I was wondering about today, as I looked down the list of secretaries and unsurprisingly, found them all to be female.
It's something that bugs me a bit. The engineers, directors, associates, grads who make up the rest of the company have no distinct gender bias. Maybe a few more men, but when it comes to mixing up the sexes in this male orientated industry, there is a good ratio of men to women. So why is this not the case with secretaries? For some reason, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. More so because this company doesn't use the words 'Personal Assistant', preferring everyone to be team secretaries, secretary to whoever, and so on.
For me, the word 'secretary' has distinct connotations, mostly outdated and old fashioned. It denotes, to me, someone with no more skills than knowing how to work a keyboard (or typewriter, back in the day), type, make tea, answer the phone and take messages. Above all, it screams 'FEMALE'. other aspects of the 'support staff', the administrators, document controllers, even receptionist, are a mix of men and women. So why is the role of 'secretary' such a resolutely female job? There is nothing to suggest that it's something that men couldn't do (apart from you have to be good at multi tasking...ahem) - so why are all the secretaries in this world female?*
*Apart from John Barrowman's PA. He's a bloke. As is Russell Brand's, I believe. Maybe it's ok to be a male PA in the media. But then that's PA, not secretary. Is there a difference?
PS. I should mention that I ignore office policy and call myself a PA on my email signature and on the phone, as do a few others, much to the annoyance of some older 'secretaries' who abide by the rules.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Why Jo thinks guest blogging is NOT a good idea (stick that in your pipe and smoke it, ProBlogger)
Here's the thing. I know loads of you do it, or get other people to write guest posts for your own blogs. I can see the advantages: spreading readership, a break from the norm, that little tingle of pride you get when someone else thinks you're a good enough writer to grace their readers with a post. It's the blog equivalent of house-sitting; you are responsible enough to guard someone elses patch and not mess it up or vomit on the carpet. (Funnily enough, guest posts always seem to start with that kind of irritating quip about looking after someone’s blog house while they’re gone. Oh snooooze. And I'm a hypocrite, again)
So I get the reasoning behind it. I really do, and Google lists thousands of reasons why it's a brilliant idea to get more readers, network, get more readers, blah blah, yadda, get more readers, yadda.
But from a reader’s point of view… the concept just doesn’t work for me. “Are you not entertained? Is that not why you are here?” Well...Actually, no. it’s not.
In fact, I can't remember a time when I've clicked onto someone's blog, seen that it's a guest post, and actually read to the end of it. More often than not, the guest blogger is trying so hard to impress that it just comes across as a bit of an effort. “Ooh, hello. I’m So and So from this blog and I’m here to tell you a story about the day I tripped up on the way to the shops. It’s truly hilarious. Promise. I’m doing it as a favour, definitely not to promote myself. So, err, do stop by.”
I think part of the non-appeal is that if I'm reading a blog regularly, it's because I like the writing style or I want to know what happens next in the life story. Take those two elements away, and what’s left? I don't visit the blog because I like the decor, it's because I like the person who writes and what they have to say. If they bugger off on holiday for a week, good times for them! Tell us about it when you get back, we’ll still be here! (I’ll just have to do a bit more work in the meantime)
Yes, there is the potential for a guest poster to be this amazingly funny, witty person who will make me cry with laughter and send me running to their blog to read forever more...but how often does this actually happen? Isn't it usually the case that your regular readers will click on, read a few sentences, realise it's not you then click off again? Or is that just me?
On the flip side, if someone whose blog I read regularly does a guest post somewhere else, I'll click over to see what they're writing…but even then they never seem to write with the same sort of spontaneous manner that attracted me to their blog in the first place. Occasionally there’ll be a gem, but usually the post always seems a bit contrived as if they've racked their brains for a story to write about.
Anyway, I'm interested in the whole thing. If you do it, is there a pressure to write something special, or do you just churn out any old hat? Do you often find interesting blogs from guest posts, or do you not really pay attention to them? What’s the motive if you get people to blog on your behalf while you’re away, be honest. For the good of the blogging community, or to keep numbers up?
So I get the reasoning behind it. I really do, and Google lists thousands of reasons why it's a brilliant idea to get more readers, network, get more readers, blah blah, yadda, get more readers, yadda.
But from a reader’s point of view… the concept just doesn’t work for me. “Are you not entertained? Is that not why you are here?” Well...Actually, no. it’s not.
In fact, I can't remember a time when I've clicked onto someone's blog, seen that it's a guest post, and actually read to the end of it. More often than not, the guest blogger is trying so hard to impress that it just comes across as a bit of an effort. “Ooh, hello. I’m So and So from this blog and I’m here to tell you a story about the day I tripped up on the way to the shops. It’s truly hilarious. Promise. I’m doing it as a favour, definitely not to promote myself. So, err, do stop by.”
I think part of the non-appeal is that if I'm reading a blog regularly, it's because I like the writing style or I want to know what happens next in the life story. Take those two elements away, and what’s left? I don't visit the blog because I like the decor, it's because I like the person who writes and what they have to say. If they bugger off on holiday for a week, good times for them! Tell us about it when you get back, we’ll still be here! (I’ll just have to do a bit more work in the meantime)
Yes, there is the potential for a guest poster to be this amazingly funny, witty person who will make me cry with laughter and send me running to their blog to read forever more...but how often does this actually happen? Isn't it usually the case that your regular readers will click on, read a few sentences, realise it's not you then click off again? Or is that just me?
On the flip side, if someone whose blog I read regularly does a guest post somewhere else, I'll click over to see what they're writing…but even then they never seem to write with the same sort of spontaneous manner that attracted me to their blog in the first place. Occasionally there’ll be a gem, but usually the post always seems a bit contrived as if they've racked their brains for a story to write about.
Anyway, I'm interested in the whole thing. If you do it, is there a pressure to write something special, or do you just churn out any old hat? Do you often find interesting blogs from guest posts, or do you not really pay attention to them? What’s the motive if you get people to blog on your behalf while you’re away, be honest. For the good of the blogging community, or to keep numbers up?
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