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…
Friday, 25 May 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
