I have got stuff to DO, YOU KNOW.

Today, I wait.

I wait for my external hard drive to be delivered by the Home Delivery Network. Apparently they tried to deliver yesterday, but I was out so they left a note. I called their automated number and arranged with the robot woman for it to be delivered today.

Today is quite a general term in the grand scheme of days though, isn't it?

As in, today could mean 8:32am, 2:37pm or 5:16pm. Which is fine if you're an agoraphobic, but not so good if you've got dogs.

For example. This is The Dogs after their walk:



Nice and quiet aren't they? Aww, look how they sleep in the sun. But before this can happen, the blonde does this guilt inducing squeaky yawn, like 'Owwwwwwwww' and the other one bounces around bringing you stuff. Specifically, pears from the garden. He's loving the pears at the moment. He carries them so that the stalk sticks out of his mouth. It's all quite sweet for a few minutes, but then they both start yawning and squeaking and making noises, not quite barks, but noises like nagging children make when they're being forced to walk around Marks and Spencer's clothing department. They're bored. They want to go out.

But if I leave the house, the Home Delivery Network might turn up. Then they'll bugger off again and I'll have to do this all again on Monday. It's seemingly impossible for them to even give an indication of whether it'll be morning, afternoon or evening.

Aha! I know, I shall go out, but leave a note tucked in the letter box. One that scares of potential burglars whilst being informative at the same time and stressing how much I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed that package. Today.



I needn't have bothered. There'll be no treasure hunt today. It's now nearly 3 o'clock, I've walked the dogs, applied for a job, painted my toenails...and it hasn't arrived.

Grrrr.

Bored.

And I spelt 'burglars' wrong. :(

WOWWWEEEEEEEEEE

Yolyjolyguacamole, guess what I discovered today?

THE PUBLIC LIBRARY

No joke right, but I'd completely forgotten about public libraries. I used to be a member of one when I was about 8...in fact I think we've still got some books from it somewhere, but not since then. Of course I spent my time at university holed up in one, but that wasn't a proper public library. My uni one was massive and had all specific books on theories and criticism and stuff, and DVDs of stuff people study on film courses...but it's not like the one I found today.

I'll keep it short because to be honest I'm boring myself a little bit, but it's like a bloody Aladdin's cave in there. DVDs, boxsets of 24, Heroes, Lost and all those other series I couldn't be arsed to watch on TV or buy from Amazon, music CDs, language courses on CD, and BOOKS! So many books! Books in big print, little print, on CD, on cassette...Free books! You just hand your little card over and they give you a book! Or three books! For FREE!

I'm actually annoyed that I only remembered about the existence of my local library today when I just spent like £3 on Amazon to buy the 2nd Twilight book (in the absence of a proper love life I've taken a fancy to a fictional vampire, and what?).

Don't underestimate how excited about this I actually am. You know how I was all "urrrghh, I'm unemployed, what can I do to educate myself" the other day, well I'm off to scan the online library system to see what books (free books!) they have. Then I'm going to read them all. But not until I've watched Crash and Stranger Than Fiction, my DVD rentals for this week.

Woooooooooooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeee
e

(although I did have an overwhelming OCD-like urge to wash my hands once I'd made my selection and left the building, but that's cool. I'll just get some antibacterial hand gel.)

Weird email sent to blog address

From: ---------@gmail.com
To: pleasesendmesomelove@googlemail.com
Subject: What happens if you dont eat alot

Hi,
What happens if you dont eat alot? There are so many factors to consider.
Would you be kind enough as to give me some pointers as what to look for or avoid? Any help appreciated. I really appreciate your help.

yours truly,
Julie

Worddddd?

Ok Ladies.....Jazz Box!

Young 'uns and old people, we're not so different after all you know. It might seem that we are; oldies might be a bit more wrinkly, a little bit more easily perturbed by the prospect of the local corner shop's hours being changed for example, but we ain't that different.

And never is this likeness more apparent than when you step foot into an exercise class called Dancercise. Hop into Studio 1 at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning and it's come one, come all. Ahh, yes: breathe in everybody, and let all ages join together in a bubbling mass of absolute bewilderment.

I had sort of envisaged a fairly youthful group, clad in combats and tight, ripped Punkyfish tops all nodding their heads to a bit of Beverly Knight. In actual fact, what I got was more Church Hall Charleston than Down With Detroit. How can I put this. Have you ever seen One Man and His Dog? You know when the sheep all get herded up, and they're knocking heads together, bashing into each other, legs flailing trying to follow what all the others are doing? That was basically the Dancercise class this morning. Except the sheep were baffled, middle age ladies and instead of running into pens, they were doing "jazz boxes" (don't ask me) around a room to a sped up CD of Now That's What I Call Samba.

This isn't a case of me ripping the oldies for not having rhythm. To be honest, I was just as flummoxed as them. In fact, if I hadn't been busy wiping the look of sheer amusement off my face and trying not to piss myself laughing in full view of the mirror, I think I'd have been as visibly unhappy as the 60 year old woman next to me. You should have seen her worried little face when the words 'extended grapevine' boomed across the speakers. At one point she confessed to me how "anxious" she was, how much she wanted to leave, but stayed because she didn't want to seem rude. And anyway, having seen me (a young'un) equally lost, it made her feel a bit better. Great. Just call me Twinkle Toes.

After 40 minutes and four converging routines, it became apparent that this wasn't a dance class, this was a special needs shack-out. A particular highlight was one of the ladies (standing at the front, near the speakers) tapping her ear and asking for the music to be turned down. It was hilarious. I was prancing around, flicking my legs, doing moves that had absolutely no semblance to what we were shown - and by the end I think we'd all given up. All except for the Smug Bastard. There's one in every class; the one who knows all the moves and performs them with added pizazz and flair. Her taking the whole thing so seriously made me grin with mirth even more. As the hour drew to a close, even the instructor began to lose the plot; forgetting the routine half way through over and over again until even Smug Bastard upped and left.

Jaaaysus. It went on for days. Eventually it ended, and you've never seen 20 people scarper so fast. Verdict? First time I've ever had sweats from tedium alone. Never again.

Next week, Tai Chi?

Knowing nothing about something

We've had horses ever since I was about five years old. Every day after school and every weekend was spent at the stables; mucking out, messing about, tearing around, rugging up and hosing down. My sister got her first pony aged 10, a 13.2 hands chestnut welsh, and I got mine when I was 16. I paid for him with my own money. He was 16 hands, a thoroughbred cross and he cost £1,800.

Our family's life pretty much revolved around this expensive hobby. Between going to shows, hunter trials and Pony Club camps, to vets fees and box rest, the horses were the centre of everything. Arguments, spare time, holidays and weekends. Dropping off, picking up. Christmas Day didn't start until the horses had been sorted out and my university choice was hugely influenced by the fact that there were stables around the corner from my halls. My sister's aging pony went to a retirement home in Lincolnshire. I finished uni and decided to put my horse out on full loan instead of bringing him back to London. After 19 years, we were horseless.

As much as I don't regret giving up riding, there's this feeling like I've lost my specialism. As I sat in a field in Oxford on Saturday afternoon watching a polo match, with a friend patiently explaining the rules of the game to me, I realised how much I miss having that in depth knowledge about something. At uni I was all over films and literature. Before that I knew everything there was to know about horses, particularly mine. But now it seems as if there's nothing I can speak with any authority about.

By the end of the afternoon I was quite taken by the game, the thundering hooves and the sheer speed and agility of the players. Later that evening at the Polo Club's summer ball, I got more of an insight into this strange world, where the 'entertainment' included err, three polo players 'tacking up' three female grooms, down to the bandages around their legs. Ahem. It was surreal, a little bit mental, but hilarious - suddenly I was thrown into this scene that I've only ever read about in Jilly Cooper's book Polo.

I feel like I want to be involved with something again, build up a little knowledge bank or learn something new. My first polo lesson is in the pipeline for my birthday, and if I'm going to be unemployed (1st rejection email of the week arrived in my inbox this afternoon), I at least want to be using the time wisely.

So, any suggestions for things I can fill my brain / time with? Link me up. Let's get clever.

Can't blame a girl for trying...

News from the Cotton mill

A conversation with someone last week, on the subject of my Most Favourite Celebrity in the Whole World Ever, mwah mwah mwah, snuggle:

'I facking hate Fearne Cotton' I said, glint in my eye.

'What's wrong with her? She's alright, isn't she?' replied someone I'd met 2 hours previously.

'She's the most irritating, patronising, overexcitable, insincere presenter in the world. Can't stand her.'

'Fearne Cotton? She's the blonde one, yeah?'

'Yep'

'Oh. I quite like her. Didn't realise she was on Radio One though.'

'How can you quite like her? Her vocabulary consists of one word. "Amazing". Everything's amazing. Everything's so exciting. Fearne, your shoe is on fire. "Amazing!!!" She'd attend the splitting of a toenail and gush about how amazing it was the next day.'

"She's the one with short blonde hair, bit overweight?'

"Not really overweight. Long blonde hair. Annoying face. Slightly hairy, I expect. But bleached, like stealth face hair.'

"Hmmm. Presents This Morning?'

"No, love. That's Fern Britton.'

"Oh. In that case, I don't know who you mean. But she sounds like a right idiot."

True story. Anyway, I mention this conversation because a couple of days later Brennig, the little information beaver that he is, provided me with news that made my belly gargle with rage. The news was that Fearne Cotton, bain of anyone who has working ears, has been given Jo Whiley's slot on Radio 1. This moves her away from her wanky weekend slot which only whales, dolphins and other high frequency transmitting mammals can hear, and into mid morning, where she will be broadcast into any workplace unlucky enough to have a radio tuned to BBC Radio 1 during the day. My thoughts are with you.

But then he sent me the press release put out by this tower of deaf incapables at Radio 1:

"Fearne said: Jo is leaving very big shoes for me to fill and it’s nerve wracking. She has been a massive inspiration to me throughout my career so I have a high standard to live up to. The live music legacy will live on in the new show and I can’t wait to get started.”

Ooh! Excited again are we Fearne? Is it all very exciting? And what's this music legacy you speak of? Oh! Will you be playing more new amazing Kings of Leon and Arctic Monkeys and Keane songs and raving about how they're really really great, and that you saw them last night and you're all great friends now? Are you on crack, woman? Clearly, I was not the only one perturbed by this, as Emsbabee alerted me to the actions of another, more err, viciously active member of the FEARNE BEGONE! group:

"A man has been arrested for allegedly sending threatening text messages to Radio 1 DJ Fearne Cotton"

[source]

^ Fearne Cotton being taken away for crimes against radio ^

Not guilty your honour! But strange how the two incidents occured within hours of each other, wouldn't you say? Radio 1, I think your listeners are trying to tell you something.

She is excited. Your audience are not.

The Texan and the Coffee Machine

I walk into the kitchen and a Texan client, in the office for a three day meeting, is staring at the coffee machine.

By the time I’ve filled up my glass with water, I notice he’s still standing there regarding the machine with what can only be described as absolute bafflement in his eyes. He seems to be having difficulty making a choice, and he hovers with his coffee cup reading the labels next to the frankly extensive choice of buttons. Including, but not limited to:

• Hot chocolate
• Cappuccino
• Expresso

For a second, one finger is raised within touching distance of one particular button, then pulled away. There is clearly some inner turmoil going on here. Glass duly replenished with water, I turn and, by way of friendly acknowledgement (had we both been Brits there would have been awkward small talk by now), smile as I go to walk back past him to my desk. But hark! He speaks.

“What is…white coffee?” he asks me, the only non-coffee drinker in London, pronouncing the last two words as if they’re written in Japanese.

I pause for a beat. In that time, I think about what should be a fairly simple question, as if I’ve been questioned on something I’ve always known is fact, but then start doubting myself. What is white coffee? Is it what I think white coffee is? It seems obvious, but having only ever drunk coffee three times, two of them being expressos, how can I really be sure?

( At this point, a scene flashed before my eyes. I remembered having an argument with the Suffolk-born ex about whether the road leading up to Buckingham Palace was The Mall (as I knew it was) or The Mile (which he said it was). I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was The Mall. “I’ve lived here all my life” I said, “It’s THE MALL”. I didn’t know why I knew, I just did. In return, he made a valid argument “No, it’s The Mile. Because it’s a mile long and there’s definitely somewhere in London called The Mile”. Without the internet close to hand, the battle had raged for hours; and towards the end I’d actually started to doubt myself. Was I sure? Was it definitely The Mall? The Mile would make more sense. Of course, I was right. And told him so repeatedly: to his face, by text, and on my blog. Even when I saw him the other day it came up in conversation as we walked down Pall Mall Road. "Remember Mile vs Mall...?")

And now here I was 2 years later, in the office kitchen being asked what white coffee was. I thought I knew: what else could it be? Of course it was. I bit the bullet.

“It’s coffee with milk in it”
“Oh. Wow. That’s a new one.” He said, all surprised n that.

But not a choice that appeals to the Texas folk, I noted, as he selected “Black coffee” instead.

I may doubt myself sometimes, but White Coffee is coffee with milk in it. Fact. No lie. True story.

(Isn't it?)

Man Fail.

Last week was a bit mental wasn’t it? Between realising I had £2,000 of debt to pay, a meeting with the ex boyfriend and well, quite frankly the pissing rain that has blighted every inch of the UK this week, I was pretty much done for. Head all over the place, mind whirring at lightspeed over career options, a re-broken heart and general life worries, I was in need of a boozy weekend with friends, and perhaps a sprinkling of male interest. You know, just to keep the cogs ticking over.

Unfortunately, the friends I went out with on Friday night had other ideas. Don’t get me wrong, we had men. We had men coming out of our ears (not literally); the blighters were everywhere. Gorgeous, strapping boys every which way you looked…but that’s because we were in Soho, Old Compton Street to be precise. Great, I thought, as my friends grabbed a flyer off the gay Scouser from this year’s Shipwrecked (who said that TV wasn’t a springboard for bigger and better things) and weighed up G.A.Y or a bar that appeared to have half naked men wiggling in the windows. In the event, we went to neither. No, no, because there was another brainwave. Instead, nine of us skipped down the stairs of a scary, dark underground bar called Garlic and Shots. Can you see where I’m going next? That’s right kids, they took me to Gay Town and fed me garlic. Brilliant. I woke up in an unfamiliar bed with a sour taste in my mouth, thanks to nothing more than rancid shot and an aversion to expensive taxis. Wah.

Now Saturday, Saturday was a bit more like it. To Camden we went, where after seeing a few bands we trotted to the pub next door. I was on route to the toilet when a hand tapped me on the shoulder, at which I turned round to see an incredibly good looking bloke smiling at me, saying those words every girl wants to hear. “Sorry, this is going to sound really random…but I saw you earlier next door and I really recognise you from somewhere, and I don’t know where”. Oh dear god, this man is hot. “Where did you go to uni?” I told him, and the penny dropped. “Me too! I went there, I left in 2006! You must have been in my year”. At this point my friend, playing Wing Woman, discreetly nipped off leaving me with HRH Hotty. Who had been in one of the bands earlier. Who was a drummer with arms of steel and, most importantly, beautiful teeth.

As we grinned manically at each other, chatting away and saying how weird it all was, he got his phone out saying we should keep in touch and took my number and told me to look him up on facebook to see if we knew the same people. A kiss on the cheek later and I caught up with my friend. “He was HOT." she conceded. "That simply doesn’t happen. Ever”. Our night continued at a friend’s flat, where verdict was passed on the CD he'd given me and text messages were swapped with my new hot drummer friend until the very early hours. I went to bed a bottle of vodka later, dreaming about our future life together, imagining wonderful scenes of drumming and marital bliss. Ahhh. Young love.

Sunday I added him on Facebook. “Ello – you found me then ;)” came the response.

Then I checked the photos. Ahh, even better than I remembered. What a beautiful man he is.

Back to the profile. The left hand side. Information. Date of birth. And…oh. Relationship status.

Well, at least he's not gay.

His girlfriend is a lucky, lucky girl.

You keep coming in and out my life

Something bad happened.

It was shocking news that made me stare at my computer screen and think "How? Why?". I could imagine him trying to make sense of it and slowly realising that I would understand, because it's happened to me.

He likes to know why things happen, and if they have no rhyme or reason then the issue will sit on his shoulders until he can make sense of it. He doesn't like to brush things under the carpet.

Bad things have happened to me, too. Shocking things that have come out of the blue and made me very sad. They happened one after the other to people whose ages ranged from 43-79, over a relatively short period of time.

They effected me more than I think he and I realised at the time; it made me all too aware of the fragility of life and how quickly things can be taken away without explanation. At the time he didn't understand what I was going through, he'd never come close to something bad happening to someone he loves. But if him understanding meant he had to experience something similar, then I'd rather he remained naive.

But there's a flip side to being there for him, and that's the nagging feeling deep down (and from my friends) which tells me it's not my job any more. That I'm teetering on offering too much, whether that's practical advice, as an ear who understands, or actual physical time. He might only want my support over the course of one phonecall, or an evening, but in my mind it takes up more than that. I don't switch off when the phone gets put down or I get on the tube home.

Last night I met up with him, mostly to talk about the bad thing, but also because we'd been emailing while I was in France, talk of catching up. I wanted to see him and I think he wanted to see me. Trafalgar Square had a plinth with a Lollipop lady standing on it, she wasn't doing a lot really. We went to get food, and as we sat in the restaurant I looked around and saw that we were surrounded by other couples. You'd have thought we were one, too. Laughing, joking, catching up. Getting things off our chest; my debt, his housemates. Venting frustrations. Life as per normal. Back to Trafalgar Square, via Haymarket and Leicester Square. Sitting down and watching the opera which was randomly being screened in front of a plastic mac clad audience, against a darkening turquoise blue sky. Another woman was on the plinth now, taking photos of the crowd.

Suddenly he noticed the time, 9:48pm, said it was getting late and he had to go. As I'd glanced down at his phone, I'd caught a glimpse of his phone screen, the dialled numbers. I saw my name, now suffixed with my initials, as if Jo or the nickname I used to have in his phone wasn't appropriate any more. Two down from there and listed was another girl's name. It hit me like a kick in the teeth, innocent or not, friend or more - whatever - it was there. We hugged and went our separate ways.

Look, I feel as if I'm missing a trick here. Out of the loop. Can't see the blindingly obvious.

Whenever my friends talk to me about their relationship problems, or when I read blogs, quite often you see what that person doesn't. Whether they're receptive to that view is another matter, but you have the benefit of impartiality. Right now, I feel a bit like someone needs to go "Look, you blaady eedjit, can't you see that...." because I honestly can't see what's going on. I need an outside perspective.

When we meet, we don't refer to the break up. We don't talk about our relationship, not since it ended that night on the South Bank. We don't talk about what's going on here, why we e-mail each other, why he turned to me when something bad happened. There's so much I want to talk about but there never seems to be a time, place, or way to bring it up.

What the hell is going on?


PS. I'm writing this on a bit of an impulse. Not sure if I'll keep it up.

I'll do anything for a writing job...

...but I won't do that. (click for bigger picture)




There's something a bit obscure about an employer asking a potential junior writer to prattle on about sex toys...


(Re: Swine Flu - I must thank you all for your concern. You have been rather more sympathetic about my viral predicament than my fellow office workers, one of whom asked if he could do an ‘Office sweepstake” as to whether I’ve got it or not. Charming. As if proof was needed, later, someone sneezed across the open plan room and before I knew what I was doing, I had involuntarily yelled “OINK” instead of “bless you”. Sometimes you just have to see the funny side of disease, or at least you do if you're my work colleagues)

I think I've got the swine flu

Don’t write this off as one of those blog posts where there’s a quirky joke about pigs flying, or some sort of porky pun, or general “har har har I’ve got a cold, it’s probably swine flu so I’m off to die, babahahahaha”. I actually think I’m coming down with something.

Before I go on, here’s what the NHS says:

The typical symptoms are:

• sudden fever, and
• sudden cough.

Other symptoms may include:

• headache,
• tiredness,
• chills,
• aching muscles,
• limb or joint pain,
• diarrhoea or stomach upset,
• sore throat,
• runny nose,
• sneezing, and
• loss of appetite.

It started yesterday, I sat in the office and felt a tickle in my throat which by the end of the day had turned into a full blown cough. Pretty quick turnaround hey? Now it’s a (sudden) chesty cough. I definitely felt a bit hot this morning (high temperature), except when I went to interrupt my mum on the computer while trying to force some toast down (loss of appetite) and she felt my head to see if I had a temperature, she said “ooh you are a bit hot”, but then I told her I’d just been blow drying my hair and she said that would explain my head being all hot. I choffed down some Day Nurse anyway.

Then just before I was leaving for work, the cleaner did her own mini-diagnosis on me, saying she’d been really unwell with a bad cough a couple of weeks ago, so I said “Oh, but that’s alright, look you’re still alive” – but then she told me her doctor had prescribed her very strong antibiotics. Were my lymph glands enlarged? Why, yes I think they are. Are all my limbs aching? Why, yes – but only because I’d gone a bit mental on the exercise routine last week. Apparently the cough started on the first day then her limbs ached the next. “When did you start feeling ill?” she asked. Well, yesterday. Which means I’ll be due for limb, joint pain and aching muscles by the end of the day. She raised her eyebrows.

“See mum? I might have the swine flu” I said, turning around, but she was mid conversation on the phone so I put my hands above my head like pig ears and scrunched up my nose whilst trotting around in circles to stress the point.
“Sorry – hang on. Jo, Sue says to advise you not to roll in mud” and she carried on her phone call.

So then I got in the car and drove to work, and immediately looked up the symptoms on the NHS website. I haven’t sneezed yet, although my nose has been sporadically running, usually whenever someone comes near my desk. My stomach’s been ok, but I’m definitely not hungry. Usually I’ll have a big bowl of Weetabix for breakky and will be hungry by half 11, but here we are at nearly 12 o’clock after two pieces of toast, and there’s not a hunger pang in sight. Plus, I’m a bit chilly and have goose bumps, but then maybe my choice of clothing isn’t the most practical for someone with suspected swine flu in an air conditioned office.

I did the NHS symptom checker and worryingly, it said if you are "more tired and confused than usual" then there's cause for concern. I have been on the receiving end of some rather complex e-mails this morning and I've been yawning a lot. And stretching. And I think my headache's coming back. But then that could be lack of food. Oh, god I'm confused.

If the newspapers are to be believed, I’ve got three days.

Shiz sticks.

Work History

Oh, how I love working. No joke. I know that’s a really bloody weird thing to say, and most of you will be reading this in soul destroying offices doing a job you despise with people who irritate you to the point of committing Death By Stapler, but right now at this moment, I’m enjoying being at work - even if it is just three weeks temping. My mind changes on an almost weekly basis as to what it is I actually want to do, but nonetheless, I need to be working while I figure it out.

To the outsider, it seems as if I’ve flitted from temporary job to temporary job since leaving university, trying out different possible career options and dumping them when I realise they’re not what I want. I’m not sure if this experimentation is a good thing to have on a CV, or whether it’s a worrying “this girl can’t commit” warning to any potential employers, but I’ve come to the conclusion that doing something for free is better than doing nothing for free and sitting at home scratching my arse. And lord knows I’ve done a lot of something for free to avoid scratching my arse.

But to sort my head out as much as anything else, here’s a list of Things What I Learnt Since Leaving Uni.

Working in TV Ain’t For Me
I loved the initial 4 weeks work experience at the Big Broadcasting Company and when I was offered a job off the back of it, I snapped it up and had an exciting funtime. However, the money was awful and I hated making microwave dinners for an Arrogant Presenter before each live show. I realised I didn’t aspire to be a producer, or director…or much in the world of TV, really, so I left at the end of the series to pursue the writing dream.

Book publishing is tooooo slowwwww for Jooooooo
Reading is my favourite thing to do. Whizzing through a good book is my ideal way to spend a day, but the process of making that book is a long, slow, drawn out process. Unless you’re on the Michael Jackson bandwagon at Harper Collins this week, that is. It was all a bit too quiet and mundane, although working in the children’s department had it’s plus points. The clincher was that it required months of unpaid work to get a head start on something I wasn’t quite sure about. I let it slide.

Magazine Publishing Lit My Fire
Now this job, I liked. I had a week of working on the editorial team of a leading Woman’s Monthly Magazine (ooh err). Impressed the right people, enjoyed the deadlines and demands – but had run out of money after a summer of working for free and travelling. I needed money. Enter my old favourite…

PA to the Man Who Got My Name Wrong and Left His Dirty Coffee Cups on My Desk
Difficult man, but absolutely amazing working environment (got paid well too. Bonus) and the social events kept me busy through the breakup. I decided I could handle being a PA if I had enough to do and didn’t work for someone who called me Joanne all the time. Made good friends who I still see a lot. Shame they chucked me out when finances tightened.

I Left School For a Reason
I am never going to work in a school ever again, or believe my mum when she says “We need someone to fill in for a few days until we find someone permanent”. Cue 3 months as an admin assistant; which involved sitting in front of a computer with no solitaire, no internet, and surrounded by lots of women whinging about their weight and staff room biscuits. Shudder. I repeat: never again.

Freelance is mostly free
Ahh, the Writer. Writer? Writer? Where For Art Thou, Writer? I have no idea. He hasn’t contacted me since June, no doubt blaming travel commitments and things being typically manic. Things would be less manic if he let me help, but freelancers are solitary beasts and I fear he is too set in his ways to really let me help with the work load. However, I got great experience, a trip abroad and wrote for some big name titles, albeit under his name. Most importantly, I realised that the freelance life maybe isn't for me; working from home is no match for a buzzing office.

So children, what have we learnt?

Err…

Well.

I think I’d quite like to try working in a zoo. Or the lifetime ambition of a circus acrobat. Failing that, I'll just keep applying for jobs in a vaguely creative officey environment in the hope that someone says "Ello darlin, now then. I tell you what you little rascal, why don't you come and work for me?"

Or perhaps not exactly that, but you get the message.

Horrors, horrors and debt.

Isn't it annoying when a job you didn't particularly enjoy at the time continues to give you hassle even when you've left?

I haven't worked at the Little School of Horrors since April, but horrors indeed it is for entirely different reasons at the moment. After I left, despite the County Council being given the relevant paperwork regarding my end date, payslips continued to arrive at my door. I trusted the County Council to know when they were letting one member of staff go and hiring another - presumed I was being paid legitimately. Holiday pay, or payment in arrears, perhaps. It was only when I received another payslip at the end of June that I realised something wasn't quite right. Whereas arrears would cover April and May, June was out of the question. I cut the spending, alerted the relevant authorities and arrived at the sombre realisation that I'd have to pay back a months wages.

Except when the letter came through from the County Council earlier this week, I couldn't help but yell, loudly, "ERR, WHAT THE HELL? ARE THEY ON CRACK?" as I realised they were asking me to pay back not one, not two, but three months wages; coming in at nearly £2,000. The deadline? Two weeks from now.

Cue much stomping, yelling and RAH, BLAH, NAHing.

This lunchtime I called my manager at The Little School, who suggested I set up a payment plan to scatter the money going back. Which would be fine, if I actually had a salary and regular income. I don't, in fact the two and a half weeks of temp work I'm doing at the moment are my first since April. Then I rung the County Council, whose debt recovery manager listened to my rant before telling me yes, it was their fault but it was public money and would have to be paid back. My voice cracked. Oh, bugger. Tears abounded. She softened, told me to calm down; that there's nothing to get upset about. "That," I blubbed, "is easy to say when you don't have £2,000 of unnecessary debt as well as unemployment to contend with." She took down my details and said she'd talk to people to try and sort something out; and rang back 10 minutes later to tell me to contact the Citizens Advice Bureau.

I understand it must be paid back. I have no gripes with paying back money that isn't legally mine. What I have a huge, mammoth, astronomical problem with is being put in this position in the first place. The way the County Council get away with just a "Eek, my bad. Sorry for the inconvenience. Can we have the money back now.", without a thought to what problems this causes to someone who can't find a full time job, let alone £300, £200 or even £100 a month in repayments. Maybe I should have questioned my pay, kept a better track on things. But that wasn't my job; and the County Council are notorious for letting things like this happen.

What a bloody debacle. I'm fighting it.

They're getting £10 a month, tops.

Edit: PS. Thanks to Keep Britain Tidy for putting a link to yesterday's post up on their opinion bit of the website.

PPS. Have a good weekend.

PPPS. Someone just put Friday chocolaty treats out in the Office Kitchen. I feel better now.

Litter Bug

If you watch BBC Breakfast or GMTV, or enjoy Radio 1's blessed three minute news relief from the vacuous pus pit that is Chris Moyles every half hour, or caught a flash of the Daily Mail's skinnier, freebie sister The Metro on your way to work this morning, you may have noticed a royal PR drive from the Keep Britain Tidy camp. And I thought "AT BLOODY LAST", because they're right on the case about the one thing more likely to cause me road rage than some immensely incompetent idiot tailgating me on the middle lane of the motorway...and that is someone even more immensely incompetent throwing litter (that includes fag butts, you dutty smokers) out of their car window and onto the road / a grass verge.

It is - ipso facto - the one thing that winds me up so much that steam rises from my ears and out the sunroof, turning my car into some sort of novelty teapot; yet short of beeping my horn, ramming my car into the back of theirs or learning sign language for "pick it up, you dirty crackfiend", there's not a lot you can do about it. On Tuesday night, while I was busy three getting lost on my way to West Hampstead thanks to the North Circular's nightly crash closure messing up my AA route finder directions, I saw a paper cup being thrown from the van in front. A cup. Who the hell throws a cup out of their window, biodegradable or not? Since when was the road a bin?

Every time I drive on the motorway I'm glad not to be in the passenger seat, because when you're not busy DJing, what is there to look at? A glance out of the window reveals the grass verges of the British countryside absolutely strewn with litter. Crisp packets, clothing, chocolate wrappers, cups, plastic packaging and fag butts just thrown out of an open window by people too lazy, selfish and uncouth to take responsibility for their own waste.

I'm like look, it's not hard sweetheart - just do as I do. Scrunch your rubbish up and shove it in the glove compartment and side pockets of your car. When that's full, use the foot well of the passenger seat, then every 2/3/4/5 (delete as appropriate) weeks, grab a Sainsbury's bag and collect it all up. Then take it into your house, as you would a bag of shopping, and throw it in with your household waste. Simple. Better yet, your car will be in such a state that you won't have to give your friends lifts anywhere because they can't get in, and your hair won't get messed up on car journeys from opening the window every two minutes to dispose of your mess. Everyone's a winner.

Keep Britain Tidy basically want to change the law so you can get an on the spot fine and points on your licence for being a dirty, littering bugger (for that is where the term litter bug originates...and if that's not fact, it is now) and I personally am all for it. If you don't use the road as a waste disposal unit, why would anyone object?

And ironically, just as I was contemplating this news story at the traffic lights this morning, the well groomed, tidy looking woman in the sports car in front of me inhaled her final puff, and threw the cigarette out of the window where it lay smoking on the ground. Smokers, you choose to smoke - fair do's, go for it, fill yer boots. But keep the butts to yourself, that's what your car ashtray's for. So clear out the 10ps and pound coins, and start using it.

But for those of us - smokers and non - who don't impose our dirty ming mong disposables on everyone else, who sit behind those who do at the lights - what can we do? It seems recycling and keeping clean literally goes out the window as soon as people leave the house.

Keep Britain Tidy have got a monster on their hands.

Porquoi?

Ahhh, "WHY".

That great question of our life and times, gateway to knowledge and a harvest of the brain. Mmm, knowledge. Observe:

E.g. Why is e.g short for "for example"? Shouldn't it be "F.e."? Why is the sky mostly grey? Why do people insist on trying to make dungarees fashionable every couple of years? Why do British people queue so much for everything? Why do some places charge such extortionate amounts for a cup of peppermint tea, when by rights it's just hot water and a few leaves? Why does the sound of someone eating make my stomach boil with irrevocable fury? Why does the North Circular break, delaying thousands of commuters on route to work - every - single - day? Why do cyclists wear lycra on the way to work, does it really increase their speed that much?

Why when I turned up for Boxercise the other night, on the one night I decided to actually use the scathing, money grabbing arse-pit of a gym that I'm a member of straight after work and wait an hour and a quarter for a class to start, did no one turn up apart from me and another equally baffled couple? Why did the receptionist not know what was going on, where the instructor was or why it wasn't running? Why was Stability Ball, a class that requires you to be middle aged, incontinent and able to stretch yourself over a large, bouncy ball, the only other class running? Why was it full? Why on that morning, the only morning in the history of portable music, did I pack my bag and fail to include my earphones, was that the one night I had to use the gym because Boxercise inexplicably wasn't running? Why did I choose the one exercise bike next to the man sweating so profusely that a salty stream dripped from his face onto the machine, causing a puddle of bodily fluid to gather on the floor around him? Why did no one go "Mate, that's rank...here's a mop"?

And more importantly:

Why do children pick their nose and eat it? Why do adults think they can't be seen when they pick their nose and inspect it while sitting behind me in a traffic jam? Why do you use your index finger to pick your nose when you're little, then switch to a thumb when you're older?

Pick one. (Not your nose, a question.) Answer it. Make my day.

Reason no. 12376456383453 why being famous is probably crap

I don't share this generation's obsession with becoming famous. The idea of being splattered across newspapers, photographed at every turn, idolised / hated by the public at large just doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. Everyone wants to do a job they love and get paid for it; but what if succeeding in that job automatically means that you have to become a figure in the public eye? Nowhere is this more prevalent than in the media world. It's a fickle industry where people will love you one minute then turn on you the next just to make themselves a few bob. Look at Big Brother contestants. Last year, a friend at uni was contacted via facebook by a journalist digging dirt on one of the housemates. She was offered £1,500 if she put her name in the story, and £1,000 to be named as a source.

Plus, it's no longer just the photographers and journalists you're hiding from, either. Suddenly the public, with their camera phones and instant YouTube / Facebook tendencies are the 21st century paps, and the internet is their front page.

On Saturday night I realised just how careful people in the public eye have to be. While dancing in the marquee in our enclosure at Henley on Saturday night, one such person got himself into quite a lather over a video we'd inadvertently taken of him ballroom dancing to Club Tropicana with a friend of ours. Ironically, we hadn't realised who this mystery man bum wiggling, side stepping, twirling and bending our friend round the dancefloor was, until he spotted us recording the show and immediately stopped and came over to ask us to delete the video. It was then that the penny dropped: I recognised him from an almost daily presence on TV, where he's a respectable, very well known figure. Even yesterday I noticed his face appeared on the front page of one of the weekend newspaper supplements and thought about the potential goldmine on my camera.

It's all a bit hazy, but he was, to put it bluntly, cacking himself about what we were going to do with the video and the effect it could have on his reputation if the papers got hold of it. But we're kind hearted soles, and I reassured him the footage would go no further, and that we hadn't even realised who he was to begin with. He was polite, thankful and never arrogant - just visibly concerned about the potentially damaging results that letting his guard down for a few minutes could have on a career.

"Thank you so much. It's just the papers would have a field day and twist it all out of proportion. You're never safe in the media."

And with that, we said goodbye and he went on his way.

"Oh, and mate?"
"Yep?"
"Nice moves"
"Ha! Thanks."

If being famous means you can't let your hair down to a Wham! classic, then in my opinion, you're better off being a nobody.

A short, slightly freaky ad break

When I signed up to this Evian campaign thing, it wasn't just a matter of giving a shameless plug and gushing about the wonders of drinking bottled water. It's about opinions, which as you'll probably have gathered by now, I have rather a lot of. They want an honest opinion on their new advert which seems to have a slight fascination with babies. Babies that dance. Babies with A.D.D and a generous helping of speed.

But here's the thing I don't get. You know when you watch an advert for five minutes on TV, then at the end of it you turn to the person next to you and go "What the hell was that about?" - that's kind of what I reckon to this one. This advert doesn't make me want to go and buy a bottle of water; the thirsty part of my brain does that. No, this advert makes me want to hide behind the sofa with my hands over my eyes, yelling "Make the freaky babies go away". It's like a minute long remake of the film 28 Days Later, except this time the zombies are nappy-clad infants on rollerskates. Shudder.

And that, I suspect, will be the last time any marketing company asks for my opinion on their advert.

Charlie says "NO!" to anything less than Harrods

Every year, my sister and her friends trot off to a rowing competition on the banks of the River Thames in Buckinghamshire. It's an age old tradition, fraught with dress codes, etiquette and, err, cravats. Only yesterday a student was turned away from the members only Stewards' Enclosure because her knee length dress was too short. This Saturday there are 15 girls going, including me and some friends. The event is called 'Henley Regatta'.

But, in the interests of this blog, I would like to call it "Pimms O'Clock"

or

"Bag 'a' Rower"

or

"Let's get smashed in a marquee while wearing a nice dress"

Sorry, ignore that. It's all very serious. Sporting. Yah, yah.

The question of what to wear has been a hot topic, with one member of our party bringing two dresses (one of a suitable length for the Stewards' Enclosure, plus one for our marquee) and another asking if it would be appropriate to wear a distractor. "A distractor?" we replied, as emails flew back and forth between the girls. "Yeah, you know, those things you wear on the side of your head. With bits sticking up." Dawns broke and pennies dropped all over London. "Oh, darling, does one mean a Fascinator?". I was jolly glad she made that faux par before we entered the enclosure. What would the hoi polloi think?

Next for us was the issue of tents. Not for us the hassle of taxis home and faffing with hotels. No, no. Give us a good old tent in a field to retire to after our day and night of Pimms enduced revelry. "I was just going to get one of those ones you chuck in the air" I volunteered, knowing that my tent building skills after a day of drinking would probably end in me using it as an open air sleeping bag. My sister duly ventured onto Argos Direct, ordered a tent and arranged for it to be delivered yesterday as she had the day off work.

Later - with no sign of the tent - it transpired that earlier in the day, someone had indeed arrived at the house clutching a box and the firm instructions that "If no one is in, just go down the left hand side of the house and leave it behind the gate". According to my mum, someone rang the bell but there was no one there when she opened the door. Charlie Dog then rushed out and...err...said "No!" to Argos man, who was ferretting about down the right hand side of the house, looking for the left-hand side gate. So Charlie Said NO again. Loudly. And continued to say "NO!" even more when faced with a man flapping a cardboard box in his face. The man then raced back to his van and retreated hastily without a word, leaving my mum at the door slightly baffled, and Charlie muttering "Bloody canvassers" as he ambled back into the house.

A phone call to Argos later revealed that the man had stated "Customer refused delivery" as the reason for not delivering the tent.

The woman on the helpline, on hearing the full story, then entered a follow up message:

"No - delivery man ignored instructions, took one look at barking labrador and sprinted back to van before driving off"

Usually Charlie reserves this level of fury for Jehovas Witnesses and double glazing salesmen. I'm glad he's joining in the Regatta spirit and raising his standards to include Argos, more commonly known as the home of Elizabeth Duke sovereign rings and gold "BEST MUM EVA" pendants.

Tents, distractors, appropriate length dresses and multiple bottles of Pimms are now sorted, but I think I'll leave the dog at home.

I'm baaack! And it's question time...

Dear Bloggers,

Let me pose a hypothetical question to you all:

If you went online, searched for a blog, found it, had a nose about but didn't like what you read...

Tell me.

Why would you continue to come back?

Moreover, if that anonymous blog belonged to a friend - why would you search for it in the first place?

Let's speculate...