I’m starting to think that working for people with six figure salaries is not doing me any good. I see their extravagant lifestyles of Mulberry handbags, lunch at the Ivy and holidays to Hawaii and feel resentful of my Pret lunch, weekend planned in Milton Keynes and Zara slingbacks (though actually, the shoes are fab).
I guess that’s just the way things are when you’re a lowly PA. I enviously process my boss’s expenses for the month that to me are the evidence of a month spent wining and dining in London’s most exclusive and glamorous venues, which for her, are evidence of a month’s hard work maintaining working relationships (and that stone in weight she put on ha ha). But I do wonder if they are completely oblivious to how the rest of us live.
For example…
This week, one of the directors told me that he might be able to ‘catch a lift’ with his friend to Scotland for a meeting, and to ring his friend to see if there’s room for him. He didn’t explain that this was in his friend’s PRIVATE JET. Honestly.
Then, the legal director kindly asked me where I was going on holiday for the various days I had booked off. I told him I was going to Devon for a few days and then to Valencia for a week. ‘How lovely’, he said, ‘do you have houses there?’
Oh yes, I thought. Didn’t I ever tell you? I won the Euro millions lottery last year, but I thought it would be good to get a job photocopying, filing and making coffee, you know, in case I lose my humility.
Later that day he came into the main office area and said ‘Ah. Now you’re all hip, fashionable, young people right? (Me, my 38 year old colleague and the spotty 19 year old German boy on an overseas work placement) ‘I want to pay for a night at a trendy hotel in London as a present for my daughter’s 21st birthday. Any ideas? Lydia – come on, your boyfriend is in a band, surely you must know about things like this?’
My boyfriend might be in a band, but our only parallel to Kate Moss and Pete Doherty is his love of the ladies and my love of Rimmel eyeliner.
‘I have no idea, I’m afraid’ I said. ‘But (with a smile and a wink) I’d be very willing to do some research, in my own time; all I need is the company credit card.’
‘Excellent’ he said (with a smile and a wink). ‘We could do it together…’
Oh my god. I think I found my humility.
Friday, 17 August 2007
Monday, 13 August 2007
Apologies
Apologies for the lack of post last week.
On Thursday the Legal Director accidentally split his trousers at the back, and then asked me to temporarily mend them using a stapler. Whilst he was still wearing them. It wasn’t a pleasant scene for the Chief Executive to walk in on.
I just need some more time to recover.
On Thursday the Legal Director accidentally split his trousers at the back, and then asked me to temporarily mend them using a stapler. Whilst he was still wearing them. It wasn’t a pleasant scene for the Chief Executive to walk in on.
I just need some more time to recover.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Hot wash
My boyfriend’s ground floor flat was flooded last week in the torrential rain we had, and so he came to stay with me on Sunday night. Given that I usually spend most nights at his house, I was quite looking forward to a week or two without carting round clean clothes and underwear.
I awoke on Monday morning to see through blurry eyes the vision of a half naked man ironing a shirt for work, and a cup of tea for me on the bedside table - so that’s why he set his alarm fifteen minutes early. Brilliant, I thought as he offered to iron my blouse, I could get used to this.
But some things never change. I went to check my washing pile on Tuesday evening and was amazed at how full it was. This was because the cheeky git had brought all the dirty washing round from his flat! I made a mental note to put all his boxer shorts on a hot wash and shrink them. That’ll teach him.
I’m not sure why but I actually feel quite threatened by the amount of skincare products my boyfriend owns…I’ve heard of metrosexual but this is ridiculous! I’ve actually been stealing his expensive moisturiser- this can’t be right.
Now he can’t get to sleep without listening to music for an hour. Of course I know this, but usually he listens to his iPod (also damaged in the flood). As I lay in bed on Wednesday night listening to Enya on my stereo, I realised the very first task of tomorrow would be to buy a new iPod online. Express delivery.
The final straw was on Thursday evening as we watched a DVD in my room. I was actually thinking how nice this was…until he remarked on how my room could do with a hoover. Right, I need to do something, he has to be gone by the weekend, I thought. I racked my brain all night – watching a whole Sex and the City box set? Bikini line waxing? Something had to work.
This morning though my prayers were answered, as he put on a pair of boxer shorts…‘how can these be so tight?’ he exclaimed worriedly, checking his profile in the mirror. ‘I must have put on weight with all the food you’ve been cooking me. This is a disaster - I have a gig tomorrow!’
I had an email earlier (an actual email, I mean, how are we meant to survive without Facebook today?) to say his flat was now in a reasonable state to go back to, and thanks for letting him stay. No problem at all I replied, I’ll drive your stuff round for you later.
Hmm, apart from that horrible Kula Shaker t-shirt perhaps…
Still, my skin’s never looked so good.
I awoke on Monday morning to see through blurry eyes the vision of a half naked man ironing a shirt for work, and a cup of tea for me on the bedside table - so that’s why he set his alarm fifteen minutes early. Brilliant, I thought as he offered to iron my blouse, I could get used to this.
But some things never change. I went to check my washing pile on Tuesday evening and was amazed at how full it was. This was because the cheeky git had brought all the dirty washing round from his flat! I made a mental note to put all his boxer shorts on a hot wash and shrink them. That’ll teach him.
I’m not sure why but I actually feel quite threatened by the amount of skincare products my boyfriend owns…I’ve heard of metrosexual but this is ridiculous! I’ve actually been stealing his expensive moisturiser- this can’t be right.
Now he can’t get to sleep without listening to music for an hour. Of course I know this, but usually he listens to his iPod (also damaged in the flood). As I lay in bed on Wednesday night listening to Enya on my stereo, I realised the very first task of tomorrow would be to buy a new iPod online. Express delivery.
The final straw was on Thursday evening as we watched a DVD in my room. I was actually thinking how nice this was…until he remarked on how my room could do with a hoover. Right, I need to do something, he has to be gone by the weekend, I thought. I racked my brain all night – watching a whole Sex and the City box set? Bikini line waxing? Something had to work.
This morning though my prayers were answered, as he put on a pair of boxer shorts…‘how can these be so tight?’ he exclaimed worriedly, checking his profile in the mirror. ‘I must have put on weight with all the food you’ve been cooking me. This is a disaster - I have a gig tomorrow!’
I had an email earlier (an actual email, I mean, how are we meant to survive without Facebook today?) to say his flat was now in a reasonable state to go back to, and thanks for letting him stay. No problem at all I replied, I’ll drive your stuff round for you later.
Hmm, apart from that horrible Kula Shaker t-shirt perhaps…
Still, my skin’s never looked so good.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Mothers
My mother came to London to stay for the night on Thursday, as she had tickets to see a show in the West End with a friend. Now don't get me wrong, housesharing has its bad points, but on the whole I'm very happy with my set-up in Tooting. The landlord is decent, the rent is low and the housemates are fun and tidy. Compared to some of the flea-ridden hovels I stayed in as a student, (one place bizarrely had a working shower in the middle of the hallway) it is a veritable haven.
But potentially seeing it through the eyes of my mother, I was suddenly acutely aware of the dirty fridge shelves, selection of drinking glasses from the local pub and economy toilet roll. I sacrificed the whole of Wednesday evening to scrub the place, only for my mother to remark how it ‘doesn’t take long to iron your pillowcases’ upon her arrival on Thursday evening. I reconciled myself with the fact she was drinking the cup of tea I had made her (even if it was from her own cup that she brought specially) and nipped upstairs to put any condoms in my room in an extremely safe place.
I hadn't banked on my housemate Charlotte coming home early from her night out though, and even worse, with a random guy in tow. My mother was most pleased however to finally meet Charlotte and her, ahem, 'boyfriend'. The last hour had been mentally exhausting and I soon suggested going to bed, settling my mother into my room, whilst I made up a bed on the sofa.
I was just drifting off into a peaceful slumber, when I awoke to the sound of panting. Oh my god. Surely Charlotte wouldn't be having loud sex with my mother in the next room? I anxiously sat up, wincing with every groan, and then, I suddenly heard a barking sound. Confused, I strained to listen more carefully...yes, it was definitely a 'woof'....now a 'miaow', what the hell was going on up there? The crescendo of this animal orchestra led me to the grim realisation that whoever Charlotte had brought home had a kinky thing for bestial noises during sex. This was beyond belief. There was nothing I could do but place the pillow over my head and wait for it to subside. It ended with growling. I could only hope that my hyper-nosy insomniac mother hadn't heard it.
The next morning my stomach lurched as I walked into the kitchen to see my mother kitchen having a cup of tea with Charlotte and her 'boyfriend'. 'Oh hello dear' she said, 'I was just saying to these two how I'm sure they can't have had a wink of sleep...not with the racket the foxes make around here.' As Charlotte made her hasty exit I sighed internally with relief. For once I was actually grateful for my mother’s sheltered ignorance. Only for her to turn to me and say 'don't think I don't know what that noise really was...it's a shame you and your young man don't have such a healthy sex life, I might have grandchildren by now if you did.’
Mothers. You can't do anything right.
But potentially seeing it through the eyes of my mother, I was suddenly acutely aware of the dirty fridge shelves, selection of drinking glasses from the local pub and economy toilet roll. I sacrificed the whole of Wednesday evening to scrub the place, only for my mother to remark how it ‘doesn’t take long to iron your pillowcases’ upon her arrival on Thursday evening. I reconciled myself with the fact she was drinking the cup of tea I had made her (even if it was from her own cup that she brought specially) and nipped upstairs to put any condoms in my room in an extremely safe place.
I hadn't banked on my housemate Charlotte coming home early from her night out though, and even worse, with a random guy in tow. My mother was most pleased however to finally meet Charlotte and her, ahem, 'boyfriend'. The last hour had been mentally exhausting and I soon suggested going to bed, settling my mother into my room, whilst I made up a bed on the sofa.
I was just drifting off into a peaceful slumber, when I awoke to the sound of panting. Oh my god. Surely Charlotte wouldn't be having loud sex with my mother in the next room? I anxiously sat up, wincing with every groan, and then, I suddenly heard a barking sound. Confused, I strained to listen more carefully...yes, it was definitely a 'woof'....now a 'miaow', what the hell was going on up there? The crescendo of this animal orchestra led me to the grim realisation that whoever Charlotte had brought home had a kinky thing for bestial noises during sex. This was beyond belief. There was nothing I could do but place the pillow over my head and wait for it to subside. It ended with growling. I could only hope that my hyper-nosy insomniac mother hadn't heard it.
The next morning my stomach lurched as I walked into the kitchen to see my mother kitchen having a cup of tea with Charlotte and her 'boyfriend'. 'Oh hello dear' she said, 'I was just saying to these two how I'm sure they can't have had a wink of sleep...not with the racket the foxes make around here.' As Charlotte made her hasty exit I sighed internally with relief. For once I was actually grateful for my mother’s sheltered ignorance. Only for her to turn to me and say 'don't think I don't know what that noise really was...it's a shame you and your young man don't have such a healthy sex life, I might have grandchildren by now if you did.’
Mothers. You can't do anything right.
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Mistaken Identity
I have to say I do wonder how we existed before mobile phones and the internet. I really am a communication junkie. This week I was looking on Facebook for an old friend from school, Helena, who I haven't seen since, well, school. A quick search came up with 3 possible matches, and I was pretty certain the one on the Bristol network must be her, she hadn't left our home town according to my mum. Our email conversation went like this...
Helena, hi! Last time I saw you was in school, must have been nearly 10 years! How are you?
It's so nice to hear from you, to be honest I didn't think you'd ever forgive me. I'm really glad we can put the past behind us.
At this point I grimaced. Oh god, she snogged my boyfriend at the time, but I'd never given it a second thought. He was a loser anyway, and he's bald with four kids now, from what I've heard...
Oh, don't be silly, we were so young, so anyway, what have you been up to?
Look that's really nice of you but it isn't something to be taken lightly. I betrayed you and I'm really sorry.
Oh, honestly I thought. Some people are sooo melodramatic.
Like I said, not a big deal, it was years ago. It's not like relationships are serious when you're sixteen!
Yes, but it was your dad. And I understand now why you were so upset.
Shit. This wasn't my old schoolfriend Helena. This was someone else. What was I to do? I pondered various responses for half an hour then finally replied...
Yes, I know, but Jesus teaches us to forgive, Helena. I've forgiven you and I think you should finally forgive yourself.
Yikes, I've deleted her as a friend. That'll teach me to mess with the past.
However, this case of mistaken identity didn't end there. My mobile phone broke this week, and I had to borrow a handset from my boss until my new one arrived. I hastily stored my most essential numbers in it, and drunkenly texted (what I thought was) my boyfriend on Thursday night after a few work drinks...
Fancy coming over? I'm wearing those heels u like ;-)
Gosh, wish I got texts like this from mysterious strangers more often!
Slightly surprised at the reply, (OK is the standard response) but tipsy and feeling flirtatious, I replied...
I'm mysterious and drunk, when will u b here?
If I knew your name and address I'd be right there...
Well you do...so what u waiting 4?
OK then mysterious, just give me the address, I can do without your name...
This wasn't my boyfriend. He hadn't even made this much effort when we met. I checked my contacts again. Why were there two entries against my boyfriends name? Oh god, it's my boss's old phone, she must have some numbers saved in there too...and my boyfriend's name is the same as...her husband's!
Needless to say I no longer felt tipsy, but quite sober all of a sudden. And a little sick. Who needs technology? Not me...
Helena, hi! Last time I saw you was in school, must have been nearly 10 years! How are you?
It's so nice to hear from you, to be honest I didn't think you'd ever forgive me. I'm really glad we can put the past behind us.
At this point I grimaced. Oh god, she snogged my boyfriend at the time, but I'd never given it a second thought. He was a loser anyway, and he's bald with four kids now, from what I've heard...
Oh, don't be silly, we were so young, so anyway, what have you been up to?
Look that's really nice of you but it isn't something to be taken lightly. I betrayed you and I'm really sorry.
Oh, honestly I thought. Some people are sooo melodramatic.
Like I said, not a big deal, it was years ago. It's not like relationships are serious when you're sixteen!
Yes, but it was your dad. And I understand now why you were so upset.
Shit. This wasn't my old schoolfriend Helena. This was someone else. What was I to do? I pondered various responses for half an hour then finally replied...
Yes, I know, but Jesus teaches us to forgive, Helena. I've forgiven you and I think you should finally forgive yourself.
Yikes, I've deleted her as a friend. That'll teach me to mess with the past.
However, this case of mistaken identity didn't end there. My mobile phone broke this week, and I had to borrow a handset from my boss until my new one arrived. I hastily stored my most essential numbers in it, and drunkenly texted (what I thought was) my boyfriend on Thursday night after a few work drinks...
Fancy coming over? I'm wearing those heels u like ;-)
Gosh, wish I got texts like this from mysterious strangers more often!
Slightly surprised at the reply, (OK is the standard response) but tipsy and feeling flirtatious, I replied...
I'm mysterious and drunk, when will u b here?
If I knew your name and address I'd be right there...
Well you do...so what u waiting 4?
OK then mysterious, just give me the address, I can do without your name...
This wasn't my boyfriend. He hadn't even made this much effort when we met. I checked my contacts again. Why were there two entries against my boyfriends name? Oh god, it's my boss's old phone, she must have some numbers saved in there too...and my boyfriend's name is the same as...her husband's!
Needless to say I no longer felt tipsy, but quite sober all of a sudden. And a little sick. Who needs technology? Not me...
Friday, 13 July 2007
Children
When I described the events of last Thursday’s babysitting drama to my boyfriend, I kind of expected some admiration for the way that I handled the situation. Instead, to my horror, he gave me a knowing grimace and said, ‘yep, it’s as I thought. You would make a terrible mum, you would probably leave your baby on the bus, just like you did with your gym kit last week.’ I was outraged! Now it’s true, I do have a predisposition for losing things, I have seen the wonders of Mitcham Bus Garage, the chasms of the TfL Lost Property Office and Tiger Tiger in all its stinking morning-after glory, all in the name of reclaiming lost gym kits/coats/mobile phones. But I would like to think that I would be a little more careful with my own child. In fact I am accompanying my boss and her kids on a little excursion this weekend, that proves just how much I like children (and well, she is paying me).
In fact I think being a mum at around 33 would be ideal. By then I would have enough life experience to be wise, enough maturity to spend weekends at the Natural History Museum, and possibly enough money saved to consider private education. I am a little worried though that my body might not recover so well from the trauma of pregnancy and childbirth at that age. Perhaps the savings would be best viewed as an emergency tummy-tuck and occasional pair of Prada shoes fund (well you can’t be expected to sacrifice everything…surely?).
I observed my friend and her husband who have children at dinner decently, and they made a charming picture of domestic bliss. That is until little Emily suddenly announced loudly that she didn’t want a blue straw to drink her juice, she wanted a yellow one. I still cannot believe how the ensuing discussion descended into a full blown debate on her human rights (asserted by little Emily, who at four is already well on her way to becoming the next Cherie Blair) and inevitable tantrum and tears. Good god, I thought, I am never having children. Well, actually, I am never having coloured drinking straws in my house. And no Judge Judy either.
In fact I think being a mum at around 33 would be ideal. By then I would have enough life experience to be wise, enough maturity to spend weekends at the Natural History Museum, and possibly enough money saved to consider private education. I am a little worried though that my body might not recover so well from the trauma of pregnancy and childbirth at that age. Perhaps the savings would be best viewed as an emergency tummy-tuck and occasional pair of Prada shoes fund (well you can’t be expected to sacrifice everything…surely?).
I observed my friend and her husband who have children at dinner decently, and they made a charming picture of domestic bliss. That is until little Emily suddenly announced loudly that she didn’t want a blue straw to drink her juice, she wanted a yellow one. I still cannot believe how the ensuing discussion descended into a full blown debate on her human rights (asserted by little Emily, who at four is already well on her way to becoming the next Cherie Blair) and inevitable tantrum and tears. Good god, I thought, I am never having children. Well, actually, I am never having coloured drinking straws in my house. And no Judge Judy either.
Friday, 6 July 2007
Make mine a triple...
When my boss said she was taking a day’s annual leave yesterday, I was looking forward to a relaxing day of checking Facebook at my leisure. But oh no, I was to accompany her on her day off and take her children to have their fringes cut at Daisy & Tom’s on King’s Road, while she went off on a mysterious trip to Reigate
Well, I thought, at least it’s a day out of the office, it should fly by and I’m pretty sure that I have watched enough Supernanny to keep the kids under control.
Not quite how it worked out.
The fringe cutting episode was thankfully evaded in the most part, as I left the poor hairdresser to deal with Freya’s demand for a Pob and chuckled behind my copy of Vogue. The hairdresser obviously had never heard of the naughty step. Max was as good as gold for the haircut, but then spotted a clownfish in the fish tank that he was convinced was Nemo from Finding Nemo. He had hysterics when I explained we couldn’t embark on a rescue mission to send him back to the Great Barrier Reef.
When I finally left managed to drag away a tear stained Max, I noticed with horror that Freya had a smug beam on her face, and a Victoria Beckham bob. My heart literally stopped for a moment as the colour drained from my face, how was I ever going to explain this to my boss?
I had also been given £50 to take the children to lunch, the two requisites being a) healthy and b) organic. However, the idea of MacDonald’s went down a treat, and there seemed to be a tacit understanding that it would be better for both parties not to mention this to mummy. Luckily, their precocious discretion didn’t stretch to the concept of money, and they seemed satisfied that £50 would just about cover two Happy Meals. I saved the remainder for a triple gin and tonic at the next available opportunity.
Frisking the kids for evidence, I confiscated two miniature Shreks that came with the Happy Meals and now nervously awaited my boss as we sat in Starbucks. At least the hairdresser had stopped short of the highlights. When she finally arrived, I awaited her shocked and outraged expression, but her face remained completely composed. In fact, not a single muscle in her face moved – so that was what she was doing in Reigate. Somehow her remark of ‘what has happened to my poor baby?!’ didn’t seem half as bad with the fixed smile on her face.
Thank heavens for fast food, Supernanny and Botox.
Well, I thought, at least it’s a day out of the office, it should fly by and I’m pretty sure that I have watched enough Supernanny to keep the kids under control.
Not quite how it worked out.
The fringe cutting episode was thankfully evaded in the most part, as I left the poor hairdresser to deal with Freya’s demand for a Pob and chuckled behind my copy of Vogue. The hairdresser obviously had never heard of the naughty step. Max was as good as gold for the haircut, but then spotted a clownfish in the fish tank that he was convinced was Nemo from Finding Nemo. He had hysterics when I explained we couldn’t embark on a rescue mission to send him back to the Great Barrier Reef.
When I finally left managed to drag away a tear stained Max, I noticed with horror that Freya had a smug beam on her face, and a Victoria Beckham bob. My heart literally stopped for a moment as the colour drained from my face, how was I ever going to explain this to my boss?
I had also been given £50 to take the children to lunch, the two requisites being a) healthy and b) organic. However, the idea of MacDonald’s went down a treat, and there seemed to be a tacit understanding that it would be better for both parties not to mention this to mummy. Luckily, their precocious discretion didn’t stretch to the concept of money, and they seemed satisfied that £50 would just about cover two Happy Meals. I saved the remainder for a triple gin and tonic at the next available opportunity.
Frisking the kids for evidence, I confiscated two miniature Shreks that came with the Happy Meals and now nervously awaited my boss as we sat in Starbucks. At least the hairdresser had stopped short of the highlights. When she finally arrived, I awaited her shocked and outraged expression, but her face remained completely composed. In fact, not a single muscle in her face moved – so that was what she was doing in Reigate. Somehow her remark of ‘what has happened to my poor baby?!’ didn’t seem half as bad with the fixed smile on her face.
Thank heavens for fast food, Supernanny and Botox.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Hen night season
It seems that wedding season has started again, and more importantly, hen night season. Now a male friend of mine recently enquired as to what 'really happens' on hen nights. My answer was as truthful as his response as to what 'really happens' on stag nights, for as we all know: what happens on tour, stays on tour...but I have made a few wry observations from my own experiences...
1. Hen nights bring together ladies of all circumstances, and those with husbands and children are those who actually drink the most, behave in the most lewd manner, and generally spend the night egging the hen on to have one last snog, and then demonstrating this themselves in an...errr...attempt to convey the crucial importance of this to the hen. Shameful.
2. Naturally leading on from this, the single ladies are the ones that drink less, pull less, and go home the earliest. Obviously this isn't their only excuse or opportunity to let their hair down. Quite.
3. The formation of a group of ladies who quite often don't know each other (being a collection of school friends, university friends, work colleagues, sister-in-laws etc) and the addition of 10 bottles of rose result in a sense of touching camaraderie, friendship and loyalty over their night of hilarious antics, and all look forward to meeting up again at the actual wedding.
4. When the wedding actually happens, everyone sticks at the side of their husband/boyfriend/date and just politely smiles at all the other hens. Everyone has something to hide. No one wants anyone to discuss or reveal what really happened, although they may make snide comments to their husband/boyfriend/date such as 'yes, that's her, the one that did the thing I told you about' in order to divert from their own guilty conscience.
5. Everyone is very interested to see what everyone else's other half looks like. They already have heard about their inadequate lovemaking/kinky preferences/disgusting personal habits after the game of truth and dare back at the hotel after that bottle of vodka was drunk. Fascinating, and in many cases, explains a lot.
6. A stripper is not a good idea.
7. I did warn you, a stripper is not a good idea.
8. Look, take it from me. I have been on enough hen nights to know for certain that a stripper is NEVER A GOOD IDEA.
9. Though if that Polish barman wants to strip whilst making our cocktails, for a tip, then that's ok.
I dread to think of what really goes on at stag dos, though I actually suspect that more happens on hen dos. Men are pretty predictable - alcohol, drugs, lapdancers, kebab... I was once at a hen do when the organising bridesmaid suggested that everyone strip off together in the hotel room and find an appropriate object to protect their modesty for a group photo. It seemed hilarious at the time, but in retrospect is actually rather odd. Any guys reading this will assume that in our tipsy state this 'naturally' descended into some sort of orgy...well let me tell you, you've been watching too much porn...and what happens on tour, stays on tour...
1. Hen nights bring together ladies of all circumstances, and those with husbands and children are those who actually drink the most, behave in the most lewd manner, and generally spend the night egging the hen on to have one last snog, and then demonstrating this themselves in an...errr...attempt to convey the crucial importance of this to the hen. Shameful.
2. Naturally leading on from this, the single ladies are the ones that drink less, pull less, and go home the earliest. Obviously this isn't their only excuse or opportunity to let their hair down. Quite.
3. The formation of a group of ladies who quite often don't know each other (being a collection of school friends, university friends, work colleagues, sister-in-laws etc) and the addition of 10 bottles of rose result in a sense of touching camaraderie, friendship and loyalty over their night of hilarious antics, and all look forward to meeting up again at the actual wedding.
4. When the wedding actually happens, everyone sticks at the side of their husband/boyfriend/date and just politely smiles at all the other hens. Everyone has something to hide. No one wants anyone to discuss or reveal what really happened, although they may make snide comments to their husband/boyfriend/date such as 'yes, that's her, the one that did the thing I told you about' in order to divert from their own guilty conscience.
5. Everyone is very interested to see what everyone else's other half looks like. They already have heard about their inadequate lovemaking/kinky preferences/disgusting personal habits after the game of truth and dare back at the hotel after that bottle of vodka was drunk. Fascinating, and in many cases, explains a lot.
6. A stripper is not a good idea.
7. I did warn you, a stripper is not a good idea.
8. Look, take it from me. I have been on enough hen nights to know for certain that a stripper is NEVER A GOOD IDEA.
9. Though if that Polish barman wants to strip whilst making our cocktails, for a tip, then that's ok.
I dread to think of what really goes on at stag dos, though I actually suspect that more happens on hen dos. Men are pretty predictable - alcohol, drugs, lapdancers, kebab... I was once at a hen do when the organising bridesmaid suggested that everyone strip off together in the hotel room and find an appropriate object to protect their modesty for a group photo. It seemed hilarious at the time, but in retrospect is actually rather odd. Any guys reading this will assume that in our tipsy state this 'naturally' descended into some sort of orgy...well let me tell you, you've been watching too much porn...and what happens on tour, stays on tour...
Friday, 22 June 2007
A difference of opinion
It seems to be quite easy to meet people who have the same interests as you these days. Internet forums bring together Shakira fans from around the world, and I’m sure there are many tales of people sparking relationships over their shared love of meerkats.
When I think about it, I’m not entirely sure how my boyfriend and I got together. We were at the same university, and apart from that, the only thing we have ever worked out that we have in common is that both of us had a hamster called Crumbs when we were kids. It seems our entire compatibility rests on this amazing co-incidence. In fact we disagree on everything possible:
Me: Diet coke
Him: Regular coke
Me: Blur
Him: Oasis
Me: London Lite
Him: The London Paper
Me: Wembley is the best Fraggle
Him: Gobo is the best Fraggle
Me: Caribbean (I can dream…)
Him: Glastonbury (don’t mention it this weekend…)
Me: Allergic to cats
Him: Allergic to guinea pigs
Actually the list goes on…
But in fact, I think that perhaps some of the best couples have nothing in common. Now my boss and her husband may have a harmoniously amicable marriage, but really they actually have completely different interests: he drinks red wine, she drinks white, he likes the South of France, she likes Dubai, and it works because they dine and holiday separately…well perhaps not the best example, but still, differing opinions bring variety to a relationship, right? My boyfriend and I often have lively debates, for example, why you shouldn’t name a child after the place it was conceived...yes Brooklyn is a much better name than Romeo, but when you might still be living in Tooting in five years time…
But my colleague at work is not convincing me on her current love interest. She recently had a breast enlargement operation, and her surgeon was an extremely handsome Kiwi. She is besotted, and has a date with him this Friday night (believe me, this girl always gets what she wants).
Now I feel that the fact that he has already touched her intimately whilst she was naked and unconscious already makes it just a little uncomfortable, but my main problem is that he actually bungled the operation, giving her uneven results, meaning she has had to have consequent corrective surgery. What a basis for a relationship! A major issue of contention, bound to be brought up in any argument, already exists, before even their first date! Every time they argue over how she never does the washing up, she can retort, ‘well, you botched my boob job, you bastard!’ I’m really not sure…
Hmm, you know, my boyfriend and I have plenty in common – both being normal is more than enough.
When I think about it, I’m not entirely sure how my boyfriend and I got together. We were at the same university, and apart from that, the only thing we have ever worked out that we have in common is that both of us had a hamster called Crumbs when we were kids. It seems our entire compatibility rests on this amazing co-incidence. In fact we disagree on everything possible:
Me: Diet coke
Him: Regular coke
Me: Blur
Him: Oasis
Me: London Lite
Him: The London Paper
Me: Wembley is the best Fraggle
Him: Gobo is the best Fraggle
Me: Caribbean (I can dream…)
Him: Glastonbury (don’t mention it this weekend…)
Me: Allergic to cats
Him: Allergic to guinea pigs
Actually the list goes on…
But in fact, I think that perhaps some of the best couples have nothing in common. Now my boss and her husband may have a harmoniously amicable marriage, but really they actually have completely different interests: he drinks red wine, she drinks white, he likes the South of France, she likes Dubai, and it works because they dine and holiday separately…well perhaps not the best example, but still, differing opinions bring variety to a relationship, right? My boyfriend and I often have lively debates, for example, why you shouldn’t name a child after the place it was conceived...yes Brooklyn is a much better name than Romeo, but when you might still be living in Tooting in five years time…
But my colleague at work is not convincing me on her current love interest. She recently had a breast enlargement operation, and her surgeon was an extremely handsome Kiwi. She is besotted, and has a date with him this Friday night (believe me, this girl always gets what she wants).
Now I feel that the fact that he has already touched her intimately whilst she was naked and unconscious already makes it just a little uncomfortable, but my main problem is that he actually bungled the operation, giving her uneven results, meaning she has had to have consequent corrective surgery. What a basis for a relationship! A major issue of contention, bound to be brought up in any argument, already exists, before even their first date! Every time they argue over how she never does the washing up, she can retort, ‘well, you botched my boob job, you bastard!’ I’m really not sure…
Hmm, you know, my boyfriend and I have plenty in common – both being normal is more than enough.
Friday, 15 June 2007
A good moan
Now I actually hate it when I hear people ranting about public transport in London, but I think I deserve my contribution this week.
Have you ever been told off by a bus driver?
In fact, this is something that has happened to me on more than one occasion. The first involved a certain bus route where the two services were the 220 and 270, virtually impossible to distinguish until the very last minute, and resulting in sometimes stopping a bus, only to then not get on. But most recently, I was sat at the bus stop on my way to work, engrossed in a world of Justin Timberlake on my iPod, when my bus approached. I didn't see it in time to have made my presence known at the bus stop, but the bus stopped anyway to let some crazy Tooting residents off, so I jumped up to get on it. The front bus doors opened, and as I fumbled about to try and turn the volume on my iPod down whilst simultaneously locate my Oyster card in the chasmic compartments of my bag, the bus driver looked at me sternly and said ' You have to flag the bus down if you want to get on, we don't stop automatically you know'. My surprise at being reprimanded over my failure to engage in passenger signaling etiquette, meant I simply looked at him with a baffled expression. Then, he added the grumpy warning 'Next time, I won't stop, you know'.
What?!
To start with, I was not aware that there was a public transport sanctioning system in place for people who fail to observe these unwritten commuter rules. Secondly, what exactly were the chances of him driving the same bus on another morning, recognising me at the bus stop and refusing to stop in order to teach me a lesson? Perhaps though, this explained those times when buses mysteriously failed to stop despite the frantic waving of potential passengers, it was all part of an elaborate discipling regime. I really resented this chastisement though, considering how once on the bus, people seem to be free to do whatever they like. Someone even tried to sell me a pirated DVD of Spiderman 3 on the bus last week. Perhaps it's just Tooting buses.
And road rage. Now I'm not talking about lack of tolerance at other people's mistakes or inconsideration, but completely unhinged behaviour at other drivers doing anything that impedes their intended route. For example, yesterday I needed to turn my car round before starting my journey, and after looking round carefully before the maneuver, and indicating, despite the empty street, as soon as I attempted to swing it round in the nearest right hand turning, a huge 4x4 vehicle whizzed out of nowhere behind me. I pulled over to let it pass, but no, this was not acceptable. Despite my petite Peugeot leaving enough room for a double decker to pass by, I had committed the crime of interrupting the intended passage of this oversized, overpriced beast. The driver instantly stopped, got out and began ranting inanely at me. The community police officer who happened to be passing immediately came to my rescue, appalled that my abuser was half as tall again and twice the width of me. There was no need though, for as soon as I launched into my vitriolic counter-attack the other driver was gone in a cowardly puff of carbon-emitting exhaust. Humph.
While I'm at it...
Why is it that Starbucks now have a leaflet in stores telling you exactly how many calories are in your Mocha?
Why is it that when you have no money and casually wander into Topshop you find the perfect bag, and it costs £100 when all the others are £35?
Why is it that men pretend they can't iron?
Is it just me?
Have you ever been told off by a bus driver?
In fact, this is something that has happened to me on more than one occasion. The first involved a certain bus route where the two services were the 220 and 270, virtually impossible to distinguish until the very last minute, and resulting in sometimes stopping a bus, only to then not get on. But most recently, I was sat at the bus stop on my way to work, engrossed in a world of Justin Timberlake on my iPod, when my bus approached. I didn't see it in time to have made my presence known at the bus stop, but the bus stopped anyway to let some crazy Tooting residents off, so I jumped up to get on it. The front bus doors opened, and as I fumbled about to try and turn the volume on my iPod down whilst simultaneously locate my Oyster card in the chasmic compartments of my bag, the bus driver looked at me sternly and said ' You have to flag the bus down if you want to get on, we don't stop automatically you know'. My surprise at being reprimanded over my failure to engage in passenger signaling etiquette, meant I simply looked at him with a baffled expression. Then, he added the grumpy warning 'Next time, I won't stop, you know'.
What?!
To start with, I was not aware that there was a public transport sanctioning system in place for people who fail to observe these unwritten commuter rules. Secondly, what exactly were the chances of him driving the same bus on another morning, recognising me at the bus stop and refusing to stop in order to teach me a lesson? Perhaps though, this explained those times when buses mysteriously failed to stop despite the frantic waving of potential passengers, it was all part of an elaborate discipling regime. I really resented this chastisement though, considering how once on the bus, people seem to be free to do whatever they like. Someone even tried to sell me a pirated DVD of Spiderman 3 on the bus last week. Perhaps it's just Tooting buses.
And road rage. Now I'm not talking about lack of tolerance at other people's mistakes or inconsideration, but completely unhinged behaviour at other drivers doing anything that impedes their intended route. For example, yesterday I needed to turn my car round before starting my journey, and after looking round carefully before the maneuver, and indicating, despite the empty street, as soon as I attempted to swing it round in the nearest right hand turning, a huge 4x4 vehicle whizzed out of nowhere behind me. I pulled over to let it pass, but no, this was not acceptable. Despite my petite Peugeot leaving enough room for a double decker to pass by, I had committed the crime of interrupting the intended passage of this oversized, overpriced beast. The driver instantly stopped, got out and began ranting inanely at me. The community police officer who happened to be passing immediately came to my rescue, appalled that my abuser was half as tall again and twice the width of me. There was no need though, for as soon as I launched into my vitriolic counter-attack the other driver was gone in a cowardly puff of carbon-emitting exhaust. Humph.
While I'm at it...
Why is it that Starbucks now have a leaflet in stores telling you exactly how many calories are in your Mocha?
Why is it that when you have no money and casually wander into Topshop you find the perfect bag, and it costs £100 when all the others are £35?
Why is it that men pretend they can't iron?
Is it just me?
Friday, 8 June 2007
Book club
After last week's cringe-worthy encounter with the city boys, and a weekend in Skegness spent fetching pints of Stella from the bar for bandmate 'Nasty', I decided that it was time for some intellectual stimulation in my life. On my friend Leila's suggestion, I joined her friend Victoria's book club. This week's book was The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and having already read this recently, I arrived eager but nervous on Tuesday night, clutching my copy in hand and armed with a good bottle of Chablis and a stock of comments deftly lifted from the Guardian website. These book clubs were a serious business so I'd heard, the two ultimate faux pas being to admit you hadn't finished the book and bringing cheap Chardonnay.
After everyone was comfortably seated and acquainted, with glass of wine in hand, I was aghast at the tumult of apologetic mutterings, embarrassed grimaces and occasional apathetic shrugging of shoulders from various members at not having read the book, it really was 'the dog ate my homework Sir...' Taking a large gulp of wine, I ventured that the actual idea of time travel was pretty convincingly handled by Niffenegger. After a few polite nods, and half-hearted comments regarding plot holes, the host Victoria turned the subject to the new Big Brother series. This really got discussion going and after a few more drinks we were in full swing, slating the ludicrously-vain, transparently-mercenary contestants offered by the reality TV show this year. If I hadn't been so merrily drunk, I would almost have resented how my expensive Chablis was gulped down along with the seven other bottles of cheap plonk we'd got through so far.
Soon we were all far too pissed to even hold a discussion of our favourite Sex and the City episodes, and so Victoria decided to turn on her computer and connect to the internet. It has been a while since I'd been drunk with a group of girls, and I'm used to watching YouTube clips of 'comically' dubbed pop videos (or just Jessica Simpson's new pop video) with my boyfriend's friends after a night out, so match.com and mysinglebestfriend.com were real eye openers. At first I was a bit disturbed at the opportunity to literally 'shop' for men on these sites, finding it rather stalker-like. But soon I realised we women need all the advantages we can get - a man's main criteria in the opposite sex seem to be an ample bra size and shapely derriere, with a pretty face being the hat trick, from what I can gather. All this can be ascertained visually from a few metres away. Women need to know a man's job, hobbies and star sign before we can seriously consider having a relationship with them - and here you could get all of this information upfront on each man, saving all those pointless drinks with their colleagues, attending rugby matches with their friends, and awkward initial sexual fumblings to then discover that he is a Gemini. Why hadn't this been invented when I was 20?!!!
I was starting to feel quite envious of this opportunity that I had never had, having met my boyfriend at University. I have never been taken out on a proper date in London (paying for my kebab does not constitute taking me out for dinner), and I imagined choosing an outfit, making small talk, shamelessly getting too drunk and going back to his place... It suddenly seemed very glamourous, until one of the girls Sarah then revealed how she had recently met a man called Scott through match.com. It started off very well through some email flirting, then one night he texted her, asking what she was wearing. Slightly confused, she innocently replied saying she was wearing the stripy pyjamas she had got for Christmas. This seemed to reveal some kind of kinky desire in Scott who then replied explaining exactly what physical manifestation of lust this had aroused in him, and how Sarah might help him out with this, via text message. So in the space of ten minutes, I went from feeling left out of the exciting world of grown-up dating, to realising that the internet hadn't changed anything. Nothing much had moved on from my distant single memories of being chatted up by losers in bars, and probably never would.
But I am now a massive fan of the book club. My suggestion for next month was a classic - Pinot Grigio.
After everyone was comfortably seated and acquainted, with glass of wine in hand, I was aghast at the tumult of apologetic mutterings, embarrassed grimaces and occasional apathetic shrugging of shoulders from various members at not having read the book, it really was 'the dog ate my homework Sir...' Taking a large gulp of wine, I ventured that the actual idea of time travel was pretty convincingly handled by Niffenegger. After a few polite nods, and half-hearted comments regarding plot holes, the host Victoria turned the subject to the new Big Brother series. This really got discussion going and after a few more drinks we were in full swing, slating the ludicrously-vain, transparently-mercenary contestants offered by the reality TV show this year. If I hadn't been so merrily drunk, I would almost have resented how my expensive Chablis was gulped down along with the seven other bottles of cheap plonk we'd got through so far.
Soon we were all far too pissed to even hold a discussion of our favourite Sex and the City episodes, and so Victoria decided to turn on her computer and connect to the internet. It has been a while since I'd been drunk with a group of girls, and I'm used to watching YouTube clips of 'comically' dubbed pop videos (or just Jessica Simpson's new pop video) with my boyfriend's friends after a night out, so match.com and mysinglebestfriend.com were real eye openers. At first I was a bit disturbed at the opportunity to literally 'shop' for men on these sites, finding it rather stalker-like. But soon I realised we women need all the advantages we can get - a man's main criteria in the opposite sex seem to be an ample bra size and shapely derriere, with a pretty face being the hat trick, from what I can gather. All this can be ascertained visually from a few metres away. Women need to know a man's job, hobbies and star sign before we can seriously consider having a relationship with them - and here you could get all of this information upfront on each man, saving all those pointless drinks with their colleagues, attending rugby matches with their friends, and awkward initial sexual fumblings to then discover that he is a Gemini. Why hadn't this been invented when I was 20?!!!
I was starting to feel quite envious of this opportunity that I had never had, having met my boyfriend at University. I have never been taken out on a proper date in London (paying for my kebab does not constitute taking me out for dinner), and I imagined choosing an outfit, making small talk, shamelessly getting too drunk and going back to his place... It suddenly seemed very glamourous, until one of the girls Sarah then revealed how she had recently met a man called Scott through match.com. It started off very well through some email flirting, then one night he texted her, asking what she was wearing. Slightly confused, she innocently replied saying she was wearing the stripy pyjamas she had got for Christmas. This seemed to reveal some kind of kinky desire in Scott who then replied explaining exactly what physical manifestation of lust this had aroused in him, and how Sarah might help him out with this, via text message. So in the space of ten minutes, I went from feeling left out of the exciting world of grown-up dating, to realising that the internet hadn't changed anything. Nothing much had moved on from my distant single memories of being chatted up by losers in bars, and probably never would.
But I am now a massive fan of the book club. My suggestion for next month was a classic - Pinot Grigio.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Oh god
On Monday my boyfriend excitedly informed me that his band have gigs in Rotherham, Skegness, and Rhyl, and he is now off on a three week inventively titled ‘Northern Tour’. I am not convinced that the kudos of the venues particularly warrant him taking three weeks precious annual leave that we could have spent on holiday together, and his bandmates ‘Snake’, ‘Nasty’ and ‘Diesel’ (aka Rupert, Rodney and Dave) are not exactly paragons of morality, law or hygiene, so I decided to take my boss up on that offer of a night out in the City on Wednesday (well, she did say the first bottle of Champagne was on her).
What I didn’t realise until my boss and I arrived at the bar, was that her Swedish au pair already at a table with a glass of Moet bestowed upon her by an admirer, was to be my partner in crime for the evening. My boss made her exit and good god, it began.
The top that au pair Helena was wearing made it perfectly clear exactly how much money she had spent on surgically enhancing her chest, and I have never quite seen anything like the clearly practised sultry glance that she used to gesticulate interest to any man who had foolishly flashed a credit card in the vicinity. She quickly informed me that she did not want anyone to think that she was ‘just’ the au pair, and that she would be telling people that she was my boss’s PA. What did that make me? I didn’t have time to come up with a suitable alternative, before two men came over.
Both ‘Tony’ and ‘Steve’ were (in my eyes) hideously unattractive, but there must have been something about the bulge in Tony’s wallet that Helena liked, as she immediately latched on to him, leaving me to make painful small talk with his sidekick. After barely two minutes had elapsed she announced that we had been invited to the VIP area of another nearby bar with them. For my purposes this was an order, not a suggestion.
Two hours later, I was quite tipsy, albeit on house white wine – it seems that while Tony’s American Express card was platinum, Steve’s Natwest credit card was maxed out. Then again I was her boss’s cleaner (thanks, Helena) and I too was maxed out - on conversation involving cufflinks, sports cars and how much I charge on an hourly rate (for my cleaning services, of course). So when Helena suggested a turn on the dancefloor, I was only too glad to oblige. However it seemed that Helena was now intent on articulating her powers in the bedroom department through the medium of dance. Cue moves worthy of a Pussycat Doll. This was a little off-putting, but bearable in comparison to the earlier humiliations of the night, that is until she decided to involve me in some erotic grinding. Oh god. I think the idea was to titillate the guys, but the result was me suddenly standing there horrified and statue-like, the pole in her pole-dancing routine.
It seemed to work for Tony though who left with Helena in tow, smugly triumphant after he offered her a job as his new PA. Ha ha. I would warn my boss, if I thought her childcare was in any real jeopardy.
And I’m going to book a train ticket to Skegness this weekend. My boyfriend has run out of clean socks.
What I didn’t realise until my boss and I arrived at the bar, was that her Swedish au pair already at a table with a glass of Moet bestowed upon her by an admirer, was to be my partner in crime for the evening. My boss made her exit and good god, it began.
The top that au pair Helena was wearing made it perfectly clear exactly how much money she had spent on surgically enhancing her chest, and I have never quite seen anything like the clearly practised sultry glance that she used to gesticulate interest to any man who had foolishly flashed a credit card in the vicinity. She quickly informed me that she did not want anyone to think that she was ‘just’ the au pair, and that she would be telling people that she was my boss’s PA. What did that make me? I didn’t have time to come up with a suitable alternative, before two men came over.
Both ‘Tony’ and ‘Steve’ were (in my eyes) hideously unattractive, but there must have been something about the bulge in Tony’s wallet that Helena liked, as she immediately latched on to him, leaving me to make painful small talk with his sidekick. After barely two minutes had elapsed she announced that we had been invited to the VIP area of another nearby bar with them. For my purposes this was an order, not a suggestion.
Two hours later, I was quite tipsy, albeit on house white wine – it seems that while Tony’s American Express card was platinum, Steve’s Natwest credit card was maxed out. Then again I was her boss’s cleaner (thanks, Helena) and I too was maxed out - on conversation involving cufflinks, sports cars and how much I charge on an hourly rate (for my cleaning services, of course). So when Helena suggested a turn on the dancefloor, I was only too glad to oblige. However it seemed that Helena was now intent on articulating her powers in the bedroom department through the medium of dance. Cue moves worthy of a Pussycat Doll. This was a little off-putting, but bearable in comparison to the earlier humiliations of the night, that is until she decided to involve me in some erotic grinding. Oh god. I think the idea was to titillate the guys, but the result was me suddenly standing there horrified and statue-like, the pole in her pole-dancing routine.
It seemed to work for Tony though who left with Helena in tow, smugly triumphant after he offered her a job as his new PA. Ha ha. I would warn my boss, if I thought her childcare was in any real jeopardy.
And I’m going to book a train ticket to Skegness this weekend. My boyfriend has run out of clean socks.
Friday, 25 May 2007
Dating dilemma
My boss took me out for lunch on Wednesday, and after a couple of glasses of wine, the subject inevitably turned to men. I am always fascinated by any glimpses I can get into my boss’s marriage, as it is in such a wildly removed sphere to my own experiences and knowledge of relationships. My boss is married to a very successful banker, and their life is a whirl of social events, be it Ascot or children’s birthday parties (both seem to require the same amount of dramatic excessive preparation). Her husband is a perpetual wearer of suits, and the source of a plethora of credit cards. I imagine they have separate ‘dressing rooms’ and certainly have no inkling of each other’s bodily functions. The only potential threat to their relationship that I can fathom comes in the form of their Swedish au pair’s silicone enhanced GG breasts.
These were my boss’s questions about my boyfriend, which seemed pretty innocent, on the surface…
1. How old is he?
2. Where does he work?
3. How much does he earn?
4. How much was his last bonus?
5. Where does he go on holiday?
6. What type of wine does he prefer?
7. What was the last present he bought you?
And my answers…
1. 25
2. He’s a computer programmer, and is in a band
3. No idea
4. Not applicable
5. I think he went to Glastonbury last year?
6. Wine? Pint of lager, maybe a vodka and coke if I’m paying
7. My birthday present I guess – a DVD of his favourite film so we can watch it together.
I thought this was fairly reasonable, but not judging by her reactions…
1. What?! You CANNOT date a younger man darling. At the end of the day, it is all about
that diamond engagement ring, and younger men won’t be as easy to ensnare into
commitment.
2. A band? Oh no, we can’t have him hanging out with young girls at gigs plus there’s no
money in it.
3. Jaw drops.
4. Rapid intake of breath denoting horror.
5. Head in hands
6. Faint moaning sounds.
‘Look’. My boss said. ‘It sounds like he’s very selfish and doesn’t appreciate you at all. You should be admired, chased, spoilt, and preferably by a man who can afford to do it with some style. You obviously don’t go out in the right places, you should be going to bars in the City, Canary Wharf, finding someone to buy you champagne, take you on shopping trips to Dubai…’ I shook my head firmly. ‘No,’ I maintained. ‘I’m just not that kind of girl – I don’t like City types, my boyfriend is creative, and well…thoughtful. ‘How do you know if you’ve never tried?’ she said, wryly. ‘When was the last time he surprised you with something romantic?’ I thought about it. Guaranteed when he had something ‘exciting’ to show me, it would be how he’d come up with improved lyrics for the new Maroon 5 single, or how he’d found a new way to style his hair that disguised that fledgling bald spot. But it was sweet…kind of. Not selfish…was it?
On Thursday my colleague Becca was sent an enormous bunch of stylish flowers by a guy that she had a first date with on Tuesday. The note said to meet him at in a bar in Mayfair on Friday for champagne cocktails. I noticed my wild excitement and disbelief at this gesture was counterbalanced by her own nonchalance. ‘Hmm, Floridita is my favourite place for cocktails, and it’s a bit desperate after a first date, don’t you think?’ she sighed. I was beside myself with shock. The concept of a normal, attractive man I was dating finding out my work address and sending flowers for no other reason than a romantic whim is something of epic movie standards to me. Which was clearly wrong, judging by the knowing glare my boss gave me.
My boss has arranged to take me out to a well known haunt of City types next week, and now, I’m actually quite curious. How would I know what it would be like to date a wealthy man if I’d never experienced it? Perhaps it could be time to do some experimenting…
These were my boss’s questions about my boyfriend, which seemed pretty innocent, on the surface…
1. How old is he?
2. Where does he work?
3. How much does he earn?
4. How much was his last bonus?
5. Where does he go on holiday?
6. What type of wine does he prefer?
7. What was the last present he bought you?
And my answers…
1. 25
2. He’s a computer programmer, and is in a band
3. No idea
4. Not applicable
5. I think he went to Glastonbury last year?
6. Wine? Pint of lager, maybe a vodka and coke if I’m paying
7. My birthday present I guess – a DVD of his favourite film so we can watch it together.
I thought this was fairly reasonable, but not judging by her reactions…
1. What?! You CANNOT date a younger man darling. At the end of the day, it is all about
that diamond engagement ring, and younger men won’t be as easy to ensnare into
commitment.
2. A band? Oh no, we can’t have him hanging out with young girls at gigs plus there’s no
money in it.
3. Jaw drops.
4. Rapid intake of breath denoting horror.
5. Head in hands
6. Faint moaning sounds.
‘Look’. My boss said. ‘It sounds like he’s very selfish and doesn’t appreciate you at all. You should be admired, chased, spoilt, and preferably by a man who can afford to do it with some style. You obviously don’t go out in the right places, you should be going to bars in the City, Canary Wharf, finding someone to buy you champagne, take you on shopping trips to Dubai…’ I shook my head firmly. ‘No,’ I maintained. ‘I’m just not that kind of girl – I don’t like City types, my boyfriend is creative, and well…thoughtful. ‘How do you know if you’ve never tried?’ she said, wryly. ‘When was the last time he surprised you with something romantic?’ I thought about it. Guaranteed when he had something ‘exciting’ to show me, it would be how he’d come up with improved lyrics for the new Maroon 5 single, or how he’d found a new way to style his hair that disguised that fledgling bald spot. But it was sweet…kind of. Not selfish…was it?
On Thursday my colleague Becca was sent an enormous bunch of stylish flowers by a guy that she had a first date with on Tuesday. The note said to meet him at in a bar in Mayfair on Friday for champagne cocktails. I noticed my wild excitement and disbelief at this gesture was counterbalanced by her own nonchalance. ‘Hmm, Floridita is my favourite place for cocktails, and it’s a bit desperate after a first date, don’t you think?’ she sighed. I was beside myself with shock. The concept of a normal, attractive man I was dating finding out my work address and sending flowers for no other reason than a romantic whim is something of epic movie standards to me. Which was clearly wrong, judging by the knowing glare my boss gave me.
My boss has arranged to take me out to a well known haunt of City types next week, and now, I’m actually quite curious. How would I know what it would be like to date a wealthy man if I’d never experienced it? Perhaps it could be time to do some experimenting…
Friday, 18 May 2007
A PA's work is never done
I think my multi-tasking abilites are what makes me a (seemingly) efficient PA, but I do occasionally feel like the modern world is just far too complicated, and want to get back into bed and under the duvet.
This Tuesday morning I packed myself onto the usual heaving tube carriage on the Northern line, doing my best to avoiding being crushed, sneezed on or opportunistically groped, and then my bus from the tube to work drove straight past the bus stop without stopping, for no apparent reason. Determined not assume my usual victim of Transport for London status, I tried to beat the bus and run to the next bus stop, failing, (impeded by a ridiculously impractical but gorgeous pair of blow-your-bonus Jimmy Choos) and then feeling that commuting, working, indeed living, was totally futile. A temper tantrum and tears to rival that of the toddler also at the bus stop were narrowly avoided.
Following the obligatory trip to Starbucks for the boss’s latte, I arrived sulkily at work and sat at my desk. My boss was in fits of jealous ecstasy over my shoes, and asked where they were from. My usual tactic is to pretend that my Rimmel eyeshadow/River Island jeans/New Look belt are actually MAC/Rock & Republic/Gucci and watch with glee as she subtly flounces in the following week with crass designer versions of my shrewd buys and a sizeable credit card bill to boot. However my mood made me a little more spiteful this morning…I’ll look out for her rummaging through Tooting Primark this weekend.
Things hadn’t even begun it seems, for sneaking a quick look at Facebook (yes, I’m addicted) revealed that my boyfriend had listed himself as single, a fact fed into the newsfeed of all his 127 friends, including 23 of our mutual ones. It seemed I had been cyber-dumped, and all before 9.30am. The humiliation! Hasn’t a girl enough to worry and obsess about in every aspect of a relationship, without having to keep an eye on the virtual aspect of her relationship too?!
I could not think of a single reason why this could have transpired, but before my mind could be drawn into frenzied paranoid analysis, my boss’s array of demands drew my attention away from this online catastrophe for most of the morning. By lunchtime, a Facebook status update revealed with a grovelling public apology that this had actually been down to the wrong click of a button, and I actually wasn’t dumped. Aside from the issue of how my boyfriend as a programmer could be such a technobimbo, how could such major damage be effected with a simple mouse-click? These things should surely be safeguarded against more carefully, there are real people’s emotions involved! Not to mention the delicacy of having to deal with various ensuing emails from friends offering a shoulder to cry on, giving my their real opinion on my boyfriend's egotistical conversation/attempt to pull off skinny jeans/band that he's far too old to be in which is painfully crap anyway...
Anyway I’ve decided revenge is a much better outlet for my frustrated humiliation. I think the photos from my summer as a club rep in Ibiza a few years ago might find their way onto Facebook next week…
This Tuesday morning I packed myself onto the usual heaving tube carriage on the Northern line, doing my best to avoiding being crushed, sneezed on or opportunistically groped, and then my bus from the tube to work drove straight past the bus stop without stopping, for no apparent reason. Determined not assume my usual victim of Transport for London status, I tried to beat the bus and run to the next bus stop, failing, (impeded by a ridiculously impractical but gorgeous pair of blow-your-bonus Jimmy Choos) and then feeling that commuting, working, indeed living, was totally futile. A temper tantrum and tears to rival that of the toddler also at the bus stop were narrowly avoided.
Following the obligatory trip to Starbucks for the boss’s latte, I arrived sulkily at work and sat at my desk. My boss was in fits of jealous ecstasy over my shoes, and asked where they were from. My usual tactic is to pretend that my Rimmel eyeshadow/River Island jeans/New Look belt are actually MAC/Rock & Republic/Gucci and watch with glee as she subtly flounces in the following week with crass designer versions of my shrewd buys and a sizeable credit card bill to boot. However my mood made me a little more spiteful this morning…I’ll look out for her rummaging through Tooting Primark this weekend.
Things hadn’t even begun it seems, for sneaking a quick look at Facebook (yes, I’m addicted) revealed that my boyfriend had listed himself as single, a fact fed into the newsfeed of all his 127 friends, including 23 of our mutual ones. It seemed I had been cyber-dumped, and all before 9.30am. The humiliation! Hasn’t a girl enough to worry and obsess about in every aspect of a relationship, without having to keep an eye on the virtual aspect of her relationship too?!
I could not think of a single reason why this could have transpired, but before my mind could be drawn into frenzied paranoid analysis, my boss’s array of demands drew my attention away from this online catastrophe for most of the morning. By lunchtime, a Facebook status update revealed with a grovelling public apology that this had actually been down to the wrong click of a button, and I actually wasn’t dumped. Aside from the issue of how my boyfriend as a programmer could be such a technobimbo, how could such major damage be effected with a simple mouse-click? These things should surely be safeguarded against more carefully, there are real people’s emotions involved! Not to mention the delicacy of having to deal with various ensuing emails from friends offering a shoulder to cry on, giving my their real opinion on my boyfriend's egotistical conversation/attempt to pull off skinny jeans/band that he's far too old to be in which is painfully crap anyway...
Anyway I’ve decided revenge is a much better outlet for my frustrated humiliation. I think the photos from my summer as a club rep in Ibiza a few years ago might find their way onto Facebook next week…
Friday, 11 May 2007
Worlds apart
My boss has no understanding of what it's like not to be affluent, live in Dulwich, have an au pair and spend obscene amounts of money on Prada, organic vegetables and chablis. For a 26 year old PA like myself, life is remarkably different.
Her weekly Starbucks bill alone would very nicely cover my weekend's spend on cheap chardonnay, following morning fry-up and Primark purchases. In fact, she probably has no idea where Tooting actually is.
Despite the fact that we work in the same office, and I take her calls, organise her meetings, pick up her dry cleaning and remember her children's birthdays, once we go our seperate ways on Friday evenings, our weekends are literally worlds apart.
Recently I spent a Friday evening babysitting my boss's two children (a task she actually considered a favour on her part I think, as I would be ingratiated into Dulwich society for the evening, albeit only that of her children) and was astounded at the excess displayed in the simple journey from the office to her house.
We took a black cab home ('these shoes were not meant for walking, sweetie') and stopped at Waitrose for some supplies for the evening ahead. Two bottles of chablis, three bags of crisps, assorted dips, two gourmet pizzas, a mountain of chocolate and a footspa (?!) later, we were back on our way to the house, with a Starbucks latte in hand, prepared for the evening. Well, actually that was just for me, we hadn't even started on the children's requirements yet.
After a couple of glasses of wine later that evening, with remote to Sky TV in one hand, piece of organic chocolate in the other, and feet blissfully in the footspa, I figured I could get used to this...I even considered soaking the label off the remaining bottle of chablis and sticking it to a cheap bottle of plonk from the corner shop...it's not like she'd notice the difference.
But on reflection, her generosity made up for her ignorance beyond the confinements of Dulwich village...this time.
Her weekly Starbucks bill alone would very nicely cover my weekend's spend on cheap chardonnay, following morning fry-up and Primark purchases. In fact, she probably has no idea where Tooting actually is.
Despite the fact that we work in the same office, and I take her calls, organise her meetings, pick up her dry cleaning and remember her children's birthdays, once we go our seperate ways on Friday evenings, our weekends are literally worlds apart.
Recently I spent a Friday evening babysitting my boss's two children (a task she actually considered a favour on her part I think, as I would be ingratiated into Dulwich society for the evening, albeit only that of her children) and was astounded at the excess displayed in the simple journey from the office to her house.
We took a black cab home ('these shoes were not meant for walking, sweetie') and stopped at Waitrose for some supplies for the evening ahead. Two bottles of chablis, three bags of crisps, assorted dips, two gourmet pizzas, a mountain of chocolate and a footspa (?!) later, we were back on our way to the house, with a Starbucks latte in hand, prepared for the evening. Well, actually that was just for me, we hadn't even started on the children's requirements yet.
After a couple of glasses of wine later that evening, with remote to Sky TV in one hand, piece of organic chocolate in the other, and feet blissfully in the footspa, I figured I could get used to this...I even considered soaking the label off the remaining bottle of chablis and sticking it to a cheap bottle of plonk from the corner shop...it's not like she'd notice the difference.
But on reflection, her generosity made up for her ignorance beyond the confinements of Dulwich village...this time.
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