25.05.06..8:10 am
I've somehow managed to get promoted from a job I've not even started yet. Last week I sent out a bunch of emails gently reminding publishers and their HR teams of my existence and got a swift reply from several claiming to be nearly through the sifting and that they would be in touch soon as; and then on Wednesday one of them did. The interview was set for Thursday. The following morning I awake WAY TOO EARLY and try to work out how in blazes (hee!) I was to get myself into Twickenham. TWICKENHAM! It's the other bloody side of London! The very fact I was looking at train schedules made me decide right then and there that the job, no matter how great the people or the money, would suck my arse and I didn't want it. But I go anyway. I try to go anyway. There is a direct-ish route that skirts London, misses the centre completely and thus saves one oodles of money and the joys of pushing past people who already have jobs and are at liberty to laugh at the fact one has to roll up one's trouser legs of one's only suit because one has never managed to scrap together enough money to get them altered. This route goes from Crouch Hill (the station at the bottom of my Crouch End street) and via a couple of change-overs ought to make it to Twickenham in one hour. Unfortunately, a mere eight minutes into my journey, I was stopped and had to ring to reschedule. They were very nice about it all agreeing heartily there was nothing more I could do and, while the Tannoy shouted delays up to 58 minutes, that it was a bit of nuisance when people lobbed themselves in front of trains and that they would see me tomorrow instead. So that rather buggered up my day, though not half as much as it did to whoever it was that got hit by the train. There were paramedics and police officers swarming the place all looking very worried about the welfare of their charge while fending off incriminating looks from irritated train paissengers, or rather platform loiterers, who alternating between bellowing into their mobiles about why they were going to miss the meeting with Stevens and stalking impatiently about as though if they huffed enough time would reverse and whomever it was that jumped would wake up and decide it was all okay after all. I used the rest of my day to take comfort in the obvious omen that the whole thing was a bad idea and drink too much coffee. My first thoughts upon arriving in Twickenham following a wholly uneventful journey in the next day were thus: "Ah. Jolly Twickenham. The most dire place in London." It is a truly awful sort of place that could be not bad if the locals didn't look quite so resigned to their fate. * * * * I'm being called away to be breakfasted at the glorious S&M Cafe, so I shall have to leave you on this cliff-hanger and continue when I return. Exciting stuff though, no? I'm back! Breakfast was delicious: field mushrooms, large and grilled and oily, with two sausages and toast. I really must learn how to make my own wholegrain mustard. Wouldn't that be awesome? Right. So Twickenham (reminds me of Wickham in Pride and Prejudice, the name rather than the place. I wonder if that's where Austen got it from, or if she had other sources?) I arrived about forty-fve minutes before the interview was to begin and sat myself in the first cafe I could find: Norma's Diner. A rather dingy place with no Norma to be found, just a surly man behind the counter who seemed suspicious of my request for non-Instant coffee. Beside me sat a watery-eyed old man with impressive ear hair whose sole attempts at conversation were to congratulate me on smoking roll-ups instead of factory-cigs before he went back to reading what looked like an ancient economics text book. My previous sense of No Way! disapated the second I met Meg and Sam. The interview was only supposed to last half an hour, yet over an hour later as I walked back to the station I was bubbling away on my mobile at how much I thought I would like working there and how much I hoped they would give me a chance. For the first fifteen minutes I hadn't said much, and then someone mentioned Mormons and it dissolved into easy chatter. Even after we tried to stir it back to my CV and my suitability for the role, Meg noticed it was far more like sitting in the pub than an interview. Monday I got a call in for a second interview and on Tuesday, having met the directors, was told that I was over-qualified for the role I had applied for (Editorial Assisant) and would I be alright with coming in as a Junior Desk Editor instead. More pay and more responsibility, but also WAY MORE interesting. I think the thing that really turned it for me was when Meg asked when I would be able to start and upon hearing I'm fairly flexible immediately insisted they were as well. I wish I could start next week, but I'll be in Aiya Napa watching Gaz and Lara getting married. So there we go. The money-exchange are all happy for me; my parents are thrilled; Matthew was delighted; and I am too. I told you it was exciting. ****emmms
11.05.06..1:43 pm
This video of Colbert's speech was sent to me this morning by my dear friend James. Never have I welcomed laughing so hard I risk spluttering coffee out my nose over breakfast.
10.05.06..12:57 pm
There have to be better ways of injecting (sorry) a little excitement into your day.
10.05.06..12:30 pm
For two days now I've been somewhere between inspired to DO SOMETHING and totally depressed about my inability to actually succeed. Fortunately the sun is out and my left arm is getting birnt just by sitting in my living room window. I'm not sure why that's a fortunately, but you know, sometimes, you just have to put a positive spin on things to keep yourself sane. Basically, Monday morning I got a "positive" rejection email from a publishing agency. Apparently they love my CV, but I'm just not qualified enough for a position as Junior Editor for their client. Which bites my bottom. It's the sort of thing I wouldn't even need training for - editing fiction is something I've done for years, both academically and 'professionally', but 'professionally' only in magazine publishing and not, significantly, in book publishing. I'm sure there are subtle differences between the industries, but not so subtle that I couldn't pick it up in a matter of days. The biggest frustration is that I keep applying for things long before the deadline for applications and so I won't actually hear from anyone for at least a couple of weeks. I do know this. I do know that my mounting frustration, my continual banging my head against the wall and growing self-loathing is simply born of impatience. But I'm not patient. I've never been a particularly patient person, except for when I'm waiting for things like bread to rise or custard to blend. In the kitchen I am Patience Personified. When I'm knitting I've got all the time in the world. When I'm waiting to hear back from potential employers my heart sinks into my ankles after minutes of sending off my CV and I become utterly convinced that there is not a person in the publishing world who will ever get back to me. O fuck it. I'm too impatient to give it any more thought. Matthew bought me tulips for our anniversary and a tub of Green & Blacks Dark Chocolate ice cream to go with a rather delectable Chinese take away. We watched Sideways (pretty good) and got drunk before passing out blissfully on the sofa. Sideways reminded me how fantastically fantastic Sandra Oh is. I love her. She makes me want to fly out to Vancouver and smuggle her back in my suitcase.
07.05.06..7:11 pm
Today I: 1. Had a marvellous dream in which I discovered the most perfect garbage bin of all time. Shiny and galvanised, it both emptied itself immediately and smelt of freshly squeezed lime. Let it be understood that it did not eat any rubbish dumped inside, digestd it and bleched lime scented fumes. Rather, in a miracle of time and space, any rubbish dumped inside simply ceased to exist as waste and instead became instantly recycled as items for future use. The profusion of limey odours acted to signify the garbage bin was in working order; a small square label had been glued to the side, announcing in very fine print that any malfunctions would be detected by the emission of the scent of burnt steak. 2. Lazed deliciously until noon, wrapped in the arms of my dearheart. There are times in our relationship when the very sight of him irks me, if slightly. The curve of his jaw, during such periods, reminds me that he seems utterly incapable of picking up underwear from the floor or washing the kitchen counters unless prodded within an inch of his life. For the past few weeks that sentiment could not be further from when I feel. When I look at him now my stomach feels swishy. My skin gets softer, my heart gently strokes the inside of my ribcage, my head feels lighter. So light that my neck begins to stretch and my eyes grow wider until I can see every mole and every hair and my ears fold around his belly. Tomorrow will be our two year anniversary. Just writing that makes my fingers tingle. I find it impossible that I could have ever found him foxier than I do at this moment. 3. Went to the Ally Pally farmers' market where I bought a bag of apples, two bottles of pressed apple juice and a carton of eggs that were harvested this morning by a man who assured me that they were made by the most lovingly kept hens in the whole of Great Britain. The carton is blue. 4. Realised when I got home that I had spent so much time mooning about grinning at the thought of the slope of Matthew's bum that I had neglected to pick up any cheese. 5. Had the most hoopily fantastic sex on the living room floor, thus making Matthew late for work (which is were he is now). 6. Rented I Heart Huckabees, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, and Sideways. I don't actually know if any of these will be any good, though I vaguely remember reading decent reviews for each when they came out. To be honest, I don't think I'd mind if they were crap. I'm still a bit flippy from being SO FREAKISHLY IN LOVE. Any thoughts on the matter? On the films I mean. 7. Made pizza dough. I decided this morning that what I really wanted more than anything else in the world (in term of victuals) is one of those mini-pizza/tartlets that the Spence Bakery make. Unfortunately I no longer live in Stoke Newington and thus would have to make them at home should the craving ever be satisfied, thus pizza dough was made. It should nearly be ready. I have some rather scrummy looking purple sprouted broccoli and bought a wedge of gorgonzola after picking up the films just for this very occasion. 8. I also picked up some lime and Brahma. I shouldn't really be drinking at all, I had quite enough last night thank you (last night being the 30th brithday party of my dear friend Sarah who endeared herself all the more by supplying hefty doses of champagne to those who asked and if you have to ask whether I asked, you obviously don't read these pages often enough). However, Brahma is thirst-quenching and delicious and very easy on the stomach. I'm going to up the Glory Be The House Frau quotient now by going into the kitchen to bake some rhubarb tarts as well. Sod it. I might even bake some custard tarts to go with the rhubarb tarts. My dinner is going to be tartalicious. Tartastic. Tartiffic. I'm going to be so tarted up, you won't be able to see me for the lack of identifiable clothing. Bon appetit. ****emmms
28.04.06..12:32 am
Have you ever noticed how when you don't where your contacts for, say, MONTHS ON END -- to the point where touching your eyes becomes gross and would mean the instant transmission of disease -- the switch back to glasses is even weirder than you could imagine? Incidentally, have you ever noticed how, after you DO manage to overcome the total ick-factor of putting finger to eye and stick tiny sheets of pressurised silicone or whatever to you eyes, everyone seems to look at you funny? Not just people you know, but random people on the street. Something to do with the sudden outpouring of foliage made me decide contacts were the new black. It may have had something to with discovering I'd been sleeping on my glasses for eight hours and was scared I'd finally done irreparable damage to the cheapo (if delightfully purple) frames, but I don't wish to speculate. In any case, so off go the glasses, in go the contacts. Matthew, in the meantime, has begun to stir from his snore-y slumber; he takes one look at me and his double take mutates into a series of sideways glances like he's not entirely sure who this girl is, but she's vaguely recognisable, so maybe he knows her. Evenutally he tells me I look "Ok.. Yeah, fine. Cool." before throwing a last darting glance of apprehension at me as I walk out the door. I get to the cafe where I'm meeting people and get told I look naked. The shop assistants at Woolworths all look like they want to grip my elbow and guide me to whatever I ask them about. The kids immediately tell me I look uncategorically WEIRD and refuse to look at me for half an hour. Today, day two of my new found devotion to a glasses-free way of life, I meet my neighbour in the hall. Before long I notice she's using the same sort of tone to ask me questions that one might use with ESL students or the mildly mentally handicapped. Later I meet up with Mel and Marcus. Marcus is a flaming queen of flaming proportions, thus says nothing of my new look because he's having work done on his flat which is INFINITELY MORE IMPORTANT, while Mel keeps grinning absurdly at me. "What?" "Nothing, you look nice today." "I'm not wearing my glasses," I point out, rather redundantly. "Yeah, I know." She grins back at me. "It looks nice." She looks at me with the same increasingly creepily smug smile and says: "You've let your hair down too." "...Ye-ah..." I don't know how else to respond. "No, no! It looks good," she assures me. "It looks really nice." Marcus looks up from his tirade about fitted kitchens and remarks that whatever I'm doing, I should do it more often. So now I'm left wondering how I looked before. Apparently contacts aren't just the new black, but mole-y peering and self-conscious fringe-straightening are the new pink.
27.04.06..11:48 am
Is there anyone in the world who wouldn't want a flamingo-shaped gelly stuck to their window? A house just isn't a home without one.
prev ~ nexthello and goodbye - 16.02.07
like lightning in the morning - 19.06.06
knob-end loser - 12.06.06
don't get the wine part I - 10.06.06
a blurb is a blurb is a blurb - 07.06.06