Pro tips for starting a new job

If there was a guide on how to prepare for your first day at a new job, there would probably be one point written in all caps, surrounded by an array of asterisks, an abominable amount of exclamation marks; maybe bold, underlined and put in red for good measure. It would say this:

******DO NOT GET DRUNK THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!!!!!!!!!******

But alas it happened, as these things tend to, entirely by accident.

One minute myself, PIB and new friend Brummie Girl were taking a leisurely stroll up Portobello Road after a Monday afternoon dim-sum binge. The next we were in a pub several glasses of wine down, huddled around my HT-Shit phone trying to work out how to delete my Facebook status, which I'd just updated with PIB's ex boyfriend's name. That's what happens when you're trying to delete someone when you've had a few: you mistake the "share" button for "search" on Facebook mobile, and helpfully, there's no option to remove.

Following an inadvisable finale which began "Oh dear, quite drunk now. Better make the last one a G&T", I went home, rectified the Facebook Status Boo-Boo (yes, he had noticed), went to bed, and the next day woke up feeling like my uncle's vegetarian girlfriend probably did one Christmas, when she realised my Grandma had wrapped her Linda McCartney sausages in bacon: a little bit sick.

Helping matters along immensely was the Northern Line, which didn't get the message that I'd pressed snooze five times and really needed a Charing Cross branch train - like now, right now - and put on three Morden via Bank's in a row instead. That sentence will make absolutely no sense to anyone who doesn't use the tube - but while you're here - can I borrow a tenner? My monthly travel card appears to have done its annual January magic trick of increasing by an extra £6, so I'm saving for a team of huskies instead. 

Anyway, aware that I was arriving five minutes late for my first day at a company which has around 24,985 fewer employees than my last one, ergo-these-things-might-be-noticed-a-tad-more, it was beyond me why I then answered my new bosses "How are you?" with "Struggling a bit this morning, if I'm honest".

In hindsight (or straight away after he'd raised his eyebrows in surprise) I realised that "Wonderful, fresh as a daisy, thank you" might have been more appropriate.

The day progressed with no further misdemeanours, except the bit where I didn't ask where the kitchen was and kept wandering purposefully into, and then out of, adjacent offices without luck in a frantic search for water.

But apart from the delays, hangovers on a school night, honest replies and partial dehydration, I've made it to day two and the new job is good. Nay, probably the best one yet. Relief all round.

And anyway, as all pro-tips in this field suggest: you must start as you mean to go on.

Being British and the Cake Conundrum

There are many, many wonderful things about being British.

Like, when three people are standing around a kettle in the office kitchen waiting for it to boil, the lull in conversation can always be filled with mindless observations about the sun, rain, clouds, heat, cold (or lack of it).

And no matter how chaotic the shop, there will always be a staunchly adhered to queue at the pay desk, populated by people who possess the ability to communicate using only tuts and rolls of the eyes.

Then there's the way the transport system in our capital city is governed by a set of rules based on maintaining order and politeness: letting people off the train first, allowing those in a hurry to get by on the escalators, giving up your seat for someone who needs it, and then shutting the hell up so everyone can brood at the lack of space in silence.

We live in a country where "sorry" is probably the most spoken word in our collective vocabulary, uttered even if we're annoyed and complaining about something - which we frequently are - and yep, we do that really well, if quietly, too.

But for all these entertaining little British nuances, these little quirks based around maintaining order - sometimes there's the feeling that people can be just too damn polite. Not wanting to tread on toes or rock the proverbial boat, we'll often say the opposite of what we want when asked. I like to call it The Cake Conundrum:

They say: Would you like the last slice of cake?

You think: Yes. Say yes. You're starving. Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You say: Oh, no thank you. I'm stuffed. And I ate yesterday, so I really shouldn't.

All of which keeps the world a lovely polite place, but doesn't really do you (or your rumbling stomach) any favours.

The Cake Conundrum can be reversed and applied to many situations, but the end result is the same. One person doesn't say what they really want, and ends up feeling worse, maybe even a bit resentful for it. The other person has their cake, eats it, then feels rude when they later find out, usually by via someone else, that they deprived someone of much needed food.

To carry the metaphor to its healthy end: I suppose sometimes, I feel like I eat a lot of the cake.

You ask me a question, you'll get an honest answer. If you're dithering, I'll decide. You see a husky dog on the tube with a face like a cuddly bear and stare at it longingly; while I'll bound up to the owner, pat the dog on the head, ask it's name ("Bonza") and smile all the way to work.

Because politeness is good, politeness is great. Politeness makes this country go round.

But sometimes, it's good to shelve the weather talk, tell the cashier to hurry up, ask that person next to you to get their bag off your lap, and not automatically apologise when someone else bumps into you. Aside from anything else, you'll feel better for it.

And always, always smile at the dog.

Girl on the train

Last night I was on the tube when a young girl flounced onto the train. 

Laden with large envelopes, a couple of posh looking branded material bags and about five Google Map print outs, initially I was annoyed. She'd sat down next to me and plonked her bags half across my lap. Even my shuffling about didn't alert her to the space infringement, so intent she was on studying the route mapped out on the bits of paper. 

A few stops along she got out her phone, clicked down to "Mum" and pressed call. Clearly stressed, she vented that she'd been running around London all day, delivering envelopes and having asked if she could finish up tomorrow morning, they'd said no. She didn't know what time she'd be home. My irritation fell away.

I glanced down at the top envelope and saw the name of a PR firm written in the corner. We went underground and she finished the call, got out a tube map and started comparing it with the Google version, which showed three markers dotted around east London.

It was well after six o'clock, and we were still west. I took out my earphones.

"Do you know which route you're going to take yet?" I said, pointing at the maps.

It transpired the girl - who was on an unpaid internship with the PR company - lived in the Home Counties, and would still have to get back out there once she'd finished the "drops", which had to be done tonight. With what I estimated to be (at least) another hour of walking ahead of her, she wasn't even close to going home. 

She was, effectively, a free courier.

I looked at the maps with her and told her the quickest way to go, which tube lines linked with where and what I hoped was an easier route than the one mapped out. Making a mental note of the PR company name, I wished her luck and got off at my stop.

Now, I don't know how long this internship was, or any other details apart from the company name*. What I do know is that there was a young, stressed out girl on my train home who wasn't getting paid for what was well over a full day's work.

And quite frankly, if the documents inside were really that important and really couldn't wait until the next day, why would you give them to an intern to deliver on foot?

The internship situation is beyond a joke. Yes, work experience is probably the most valuable thing I ever did, and let me find out which industry I wanted to work in. But I did short term, well managed placements. I never felt taken advantage of and working past 6pm was always a choice, not an enforced rule. 

It's one thing to offer valuable experience. It's another to give someone all the jobs you don't want to do yourself or pay for, and call it an "internship". 

You'd think they'd make it against the law. 

Oh, wait...

*No names, it'd probably do more harm than good.

When London Transport and Interviews Attack

'No, no it's cool. I've left an hour and a half to get there, and it should only take 45 minutes. I'll be fine.'

In London, these are what we like to call "famous last words".

My interview was at 9am and the train - packed, delayed, stationary - was devouring my travel time. A child screamed, then moved his sticky fingers from my coat buttons to the wire of my ear phones, giving them a hearty tug. I clung precariously to a sweaty hand rail next to a pushy woman and the child's buggy. Enraged passengers at each platform, unable to find room for their ample, incredibly rude backsides, yelled angrily at me to move down the carriage. "WHERE?!" I replied, "Shall I get into the buggy?". Then "Oh, sorry" as they spotted the offending object. "Oh, sorry indeed".

Things were not going well.

A bus ride, an apologetic phone call and a quick shoe-change later; I arrived at the interview three minutes late.

Let me start by saying this. Had I known an interview for a writing job could involve being tested on division, multiplication and number sequences, I'd have spent the night revising GCSE Bitesize rather than scouring my brain for witty content ideas. From what I could discern, the 50 number and word puzzles that were placed in front of me seemed to serve only one purpose: to remind me how utterly shit I am at maths.

Maths makes my brain shrivel. It panics me, flusters me and makes me wish I understood the strange finger-formula for remembering my nine times table. That is why I write. Because if my career choice depended on knowing how to divide big numbers in my head, I'd be spending my days mine sweeping in McDonald's.

Fifteen minutes passed and my exam paper was collected.

Shit the bed, I thought as the HR Woman left the room, What next? "Put these trainers on love, we're off for a run"?

My mind hullaballooed by cryptic word and number problems, I stumbled through the verbal interview that followed. If given the job, what would I be told to improve on after three months? I entered two minutes of very deep thought, which produced two extremely vague answers. "And a third?" she prompted.

The heavy thinking resumed.

"Err, make more cups of tea?" I japed into the silence, somewhat unwisely. There are several stock answers to this question, and that probably isn't one of them.

I struggled on. The tables turned. What questions did I have? I asked about the potential salary, stated as "Dependent on Experience" on the job description. She told me. I was disappointed. She asked my current salary. I added five grand to her number. "Oh."

"Well, if you want someone with a lot of experience who can just get on with writing good stuff, then that's me."

But if they're looking for a mental arithmetic enthusiast with no interest in ever leaving home (or buying a new pair of shoes ever again), and a flair for telling HR Managers exactly what they want to hear...let's be honest.

It's probably someone else.

Girl Interrupted

This morning I decided to try out some music.

I've been avoiding listening to music because, as SingleGirlie mentioned last week, listening to sad songs after a breakup is anything but helpful. You just end up applying all the lyrics to your own situation and generally crying over the songs you used to love. But the one big thing me and the...argh, I can't even say 'ex' yet, me and him shared was just that: music.

When my own iPod broke, I inherited his old mp3 player. It's filled with his music, mixes and whatever he downloaded for me to listen to. It has sat on the kitchen table since last Sunday and I couldn't bring myself to touch, let alone use it. Soupy kindly lent me her Spotify playlists for work, but with a 40 minute journey every morning, I needed background noise for the commute.

So today, having survived the night and early morning without tears, I steeled myself, grabbed his mp3 player and plugged in. Nina Simone - Feeling Good accompanied me to the tube station. As I stood at the platform edge, engrossed in a Sunday Times supplement, I felt distracted from everything. A train spilling with people pulled into the station, and I started to get on.

Then I got tapped on the shoulder.

It was the first morning in a week that I felt anything remotely close to normal - not on the edge of crying, not feeling sick, not dreading the day ahead. And suddenly, there was my sodding work colleague grinning away, saying "Hi!" and jamming in to the already packed tube alongside me. In an instant, my relaxed mood evaporated. I reluctantly folded up the magazine and removed my earphones. All I'd wanted was just 40 minutes in my own little world and now I was stuck, uncomfortable, awkward, pissed off at the interruption. I didn't want company.

Surely, I thought as the train tumbled along, the two of us packed in with the expectation of conversation hanging over us, surely everyone knows that morning tube journeys are not for small talk. Surely you wouldn't squash yourself onto a packed and silent carriage when you have nothing to say, no friendship outside of work, no reason to talk to that person. Yes, we work together - but you'd just keep walking, catch up later. Today of all days, I did not want to have awkward chit-chat for the best part of an hour. Or, as we ended up doing, invading each other's personal space in silence. I spend all day talking about work, why would I want to do it on the way in? The platform and tubes were packed, you'd never notice or care if a work colleague walked past without saying hello. It's almost expected.

I made no effort to start conversation. And by the time we'd switched onto the Central line, my eyes were buried back in the magazine; his in the Metro. Maybe he'll get the hint for tomorrow.

Oh, what a lovely day!

"There are currently severe delays on the Bakerloo line, due to a person under a train at Warwick Avenue."

Is it just me, or has there been a sudden rise in inconsiderate bastards throwing themselves under tubes recently?

It's like, bloody hell, yes winter's depressing, yes Christmas is a drag, and yes life can get really, really shit in this vastly expensive city. But if you're thinking of ending it all - your life, your choice folks - I'm just going to put this suggestion out there: why not just do it in the comfort of your own home?

In fairness, I can see the up side of hurling yourself in front of a tube at rush hour (and it is always bloody rush hour); it's quick, you can do it on your way home and your family won't have to see or clear up the mess you inevitably make. But then you are mentally scarring a tube driver and those who choose to remain ON the platform at your chosen station, before causing an evening of travel chaos for thousands of Londoners who just want to get home and eat dinner. Then again, maybe that's the point.

When half of the Central Line was closed last night ("the second jumper this evening" said the TFL worker I spoke to, "and we had three last week"), I had to take an entirely different route home. This meant leaving my car on a roadside by my usual station over night, walking home from somewhere I could get to, and taking a horrendously awful, stop-every-two-minutes train into work today. Seriously, the Metropolitan line gives an whole new meaning to the term "semi-fast".

And the clincher? Despite a 25 minute journey taking twice that, and a 12 minute wait for the next Hammersmith and City Line train at Baker Street, all London Underground lines were apparently running a good service. Ha! Is that like when you say good, but mean really, really categorically bad?

I despair. It's a wonder these people can find a train to jump in front of.



(Non Londoners for whom this is absolutely non-information, please excuse the rant. I've been back to the dentist this afternoon. My lovely day has been made infinitely better by one mother of a filling.)

We've all done it, apparently

Wednesday Evening Mission: couple of drinks, cheapy meal and home at respectable time.

Money withdrawn from cashpoint = £30
Bottle of white wine in Charlotte Street pub = £12
Food for two in Wagamamas on South Bank, plus more wine = £24
More wine in the BFI bar, South Bank = £15
Getting home = £3.70

Falling into a deep, drunken sleep the minute you get onto the (last) train, waking up 45 minutes later at the end of the tube line, wondering where the hell you are for about 5 minutes before realising there are no more southbound trains, then having to get more money out and a metered cab back home again at 12:30am = £25

And to think, I bought these for someone else earlier in the year...



Clever, Jo. And not at all ironic given the 'napping on the tube' label / mockery on this blog.

A (Seated) London Tube Journey

The Underground system was bursting to capacity this morning. Not that I really cared; I was one of those smug bastards with a seat.

When you've got a seat you're part of the Tube Aristocracy, you don't communicate, touch or even look at those standing around you except, perhaps, in utter disdain when one of the standing riff-raff rests their arse against your shoulder. When this happens, you merely shuffle around to make your presence known and / or emit a loud 'TUT'. That shifts 'em. You'll often find us TA's just blankly staring out of the window as the train pulls into the station. We barely register the heaving masses, five people deep on the platform, all vying for a slice of Tube Crush Pie. After a fleeting thought of 'Oh, that's unfortunate', we generally turn our attention to more pressing matters...like the Metro Horoscope.


The Kings Cross platform was packed from end to end, but there wasn't going to be any relief from my train. To be fair, the Pyrennian Mountain dog on my carriage didn't help matters. I love that massive dog, he almost makes me want to give up my seat just so I can stand next to him and watch the reactions of those getting on. Instead, I had to reach round to pat him on the head and crane my head to chuckle at the arched eyebrows, wrinkled foreheads and widening eyes of boarding passengers. I live in hope that one day the big furry white dog will stand up and roar "I'm a LUCK DRAGON!" and really give them cause for complaint. 


Then a fight broke out at Moorgate. Alright, not a fight, but something just as good. A frustrated exchange. 

"Can you move DOWN" yelled an irate voice near the doors to a bloke standing at the end of the carriage.
"I can't there's a suitcase behind me!" came the response.
"Can't you just MOVE DOWN so we can get on?", she repeated helpfully, a little louder. 
"Fa facks sake" he muttered, then, raising his arms in an exaggerated shrug, "WHERE DO YOU WANT ME TO GO?". 

You could see the Tube Aristocracy raising their eyes, rubbing their hands, mouthing 'Fight, fight, fight!' and removing an earphone to get the full story. More disgruntled noises from the doors prompted the Suitcase Man to do a comedy shuffle, two centimetres back, before yelling "IS THIS BETTER?" to the amusement of everyone around him. 


Then the doors shut on the fracas and we continued on our way; them all squished...me, arriving on time and quite content with the journey, really. 


I don't know what all the fuss is about.

They're all out today. Out for the count.

Stockwell's a funny place. For those not familiar with London, please reference the terms "Jean Charles De Menezes" and "bungled terrorist operation" and see if some bells begin to ring. It's a strange area where everyone seems to know each other; most the housing is in high rise tower blocks or on estates and the shops all look a bit, well, dodgy. But that's just me and my North West London sensibilities talking. There's a little cafe where me and The Writer often head for lunch, opposite which sits a little stall manned by a couple of Jamaican men - and if the smells are anything to go by, I'm pretty sure it's not just fruit and hot food they're selling. Ya get me.

So this is where I headed today to meet the Writer and make sure we were both on the same page. Thanks to Google Docs and Google Calendar, we are well on our way to sharing this same page online. And I have been given permission to nag, nag, nag. Apparently he responds well to nagging. Ha. We'll see about that. He'll know all about nagging by the time I'm done. Thank you for the advice in the last comments, I need as much as I can get. I'm new to this game, after all.

But anyway, given that the Victoria line was being it's usual reliable self (ie. the workers were all on Sun Strike, again), I had to use the Northern Line. Ahh, the lovely Northern Line, with more branches than Argos... and this ever so charming man.



No no no, I haven't caught him mid-yawn. He's having a nap whilst cleverly ridding our carriage of flies at the same time. Before this photo was taken, his legs were splayed and stretched so that the woman in front was enveloped in a kind of foot hug. And every five minutes or so he'd wake up, wave his hands in front of someone, and ask them the time. First up he asked me. Then he was back to sleep, mouth wide open, legs akimbo, before waking up and asking the woman to my left the same question. Then he must have really got comfy. He lent forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and fell asleep on his hands.

Which is about the point that he began dribbling onto the floor.

Dribbling. Strand by strand. Drip by drip. Onto the floor.

Yum.

The mystery here is not what he was doing: clearly he had an hour to kill before The Weakest Link and decided an afternoon Northern Line Nap was in order. No, the real mystery is how he managed to fall asleep on this particular tube; as I suspect that a journey aboard a 3 wheeled skateboard, being pulled by a blind, epileptic horse along cobbled Medieval roads in a hail storm would be capable of producing a smoother journey.

Ahh, the London Underground, where wonders never cease.

Veeting in public

Never mind putting your grimey germy fingers in your mouth.

This morning there was a girl who produced from her bag a pair of tweezers, and begun plucking her eyebrows on the tube into work.

That alone made me put my perplexed, slightly disgusted face on.

which, just so you know looks a little bit like this*


*nose not to scale

But personally, the bit I enjoyed the most was when she'd finished inspecting the two hairy catapillars above her eyes and turned her attention to the hairs around her mouth.

Ladies, please. Pluck your tashes at home.

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.

Not many moutains round here

This morning there was something big on my train. People stared, laughed, pointed, went wide eyed, some got off and tried another carriage to get away from it. I, however, running through the ticket gates as the train doors opened, saw this massive, huge great big thing get on, grinned and thought 'Now that's a carriage I need to be in' and hopped on after it.

"Hello Rufus!"

Rufus stared back at my manic, grinning face. The man with him said 'Ahh, we've seen you before, haven't we?' and I confirmed that yes, we had met before at Baker Street the previous week when I was waiting for the train, and no, I wasn't just some manic nutter with a penchant for random morning conversation. I turned my attention back to Rufus, who was looking particularly big and hairy today, although surprisingly dry, considering the rain.

As the train moved away, packed as usual, all eyes rested on the thing at our feet taking up most of the room. Some questions were asked, like "Is he going to get any bigger?", but most people just stared, waiting to see what he would do; surely being that size on such a cramped carriage, he's bound to kick off.

But no, Rufus just lay down, resting his head on some unsuspecting commuter's shoes, curled around the legs of another, closed his eyes and slept. Part of me considered if it would be appropriate to get down there with him, he seemed to have the right idea, but I made do with standing over him for the whole journey, just grinning at his massive face.



No doubt some people in the carriage were quite relieved when his owner started feeding him treats at every stop, thus keeping hunger at bay and minimising the chances of being Pyrenean mountain dog breakfast. But I like it. I love big dogs. I love them even more when they're doing something unusual, like wearing a hat, santa costume, glasses, dancing, or commuting to work. He goes into work like this every morning, and comes home in the rush hour too, big, imposing (at least a metre long lying down), white, fluffy and utterly harmless.

Pretty sure I was the only one who tried to engage him in conversation, though.

Sleeping with the lights and err, other people on...

As a follow up to this, I bring you the second installment of the Comfortable Places to Sleep series. I call this one:

"Another man's shoulder"

Thanks to the rest of the carriage for sharing in the amusement and the kind couple opposite who, after a little bit of goading and several re-takes, managed to get this prize winning photo.

Tube nappers...bringing commuters together.

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

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

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

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

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