(By the way I’m not being weird, that is a quote from a song by the Halo Benders)
For I shall be going on holiday soon, it was time to take stock of any available swimwear I had. Three mismatched bikinis and one that appears a size too small later, I decided I may have to invest in a new garment.
Off I trundled to the Westend. It’s June, there’s loads of shops and there appears to be a sale on. Finding suitable attire should not be a problem.
First stop, Primark. An urban hell hole of a shopper’s warzone. Ladies are tearing at T-shirts and jumpers. I get confused and end up in the lingerie section. After feeling up half the bra section, I realise these are not for swimming in. Ooops.
Onto the beachwear! Locating something that does not consist of three strategically placed triangles and a bit of string is proving difficult already. God, if I wanted to show off quite that much of my dubious physique, I would have booked a week in a nudist camp! Do people really walk around wearing what is effectively a set of nipple tassles and a figleave? Hello? Less is not more. It is less.
On to H&M. Luminous colours seem to be very this season. I spot something that looks halfdecent in design, but, sadly, it appears to be only available in neon pink camouflage. No doubt it’d be great for hiding on the beach. Hiding amongst all the other neon camouflage ladies that is. By now I am harbouring a deathwish. It gets better: there’s a sign telling me that if I buy a bikini top, I shall get the bottom half thrown in for free! As opposed to what exactly? How many people are currently out frolicking on beaches bottom- or topless? Actually, I’d rather not know.
Next stop BHS. Ah, this is better. Sensible bikinis. Ones were you don’t end up with three quarters of breast tissue hanging out the sides. With matching bottoms that consist of squares rather than triangles. Needless to say, I found those in the ‘middle aged ladies section’ and they are thirty quid a pop. I will have to give that a miss.
Topshop! Two floors worth of organic, ever so urban pretend-vintage later, I finally spot the swimwear section. And there is it. A silver man-kini (or is that a woman-kini?). It’s so bright it has a halo. It looks like a fucking space suit. I haven’t seen such an exquisite alignment of lycra since the last cocktail party on Dallas. Better still, two women are actually picking the things up and take them to the changing room. I’m intrigued. They’re not actually going to … I hang around by the changing rooms (creepy, I know. But I had to know!). Both parties emerge victoriously and … take the silver shockers to the till! I am now convinced there will be an alien invasion soon. The kind where the old tinfoil hat just won’t cut it any more.
And all I wanted to do is acquire a bathing costume.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
Thursday, 22 May 2008
When the kids are re-united …
Yesterday I received an email inviting me to a school reunion. Ten years since I left school. Oh my. The sender I instantly recognizes as the irritating, overly sociable little git who constructed his own lie-down bicycle at the tender age of 15. In the ‘TO’ box, I soon spotted various irritants of my formative years. Funnily enough, the entire ‘in crowd’ is on there. And yes, I am still puzzled why it was sent to me, for I was never a member of this ‘in crowd’, Quite the contrary, I was with the weirdoes. The ones who did not live in Replay! And Chiemsee jumpers. The ones whose jeans were not made by Chevignon. If you have never heard of these brands, I suggest you pat yourself on the back right now.
Whoever invented the idea that school years are the best years of your life is a big liar. They are not. They’re the years you spend getting picked on, laughed at and smoking in the girls loos. The years with the ‘us versus them’ attitude, where you get the weird kids in one corner and the brand wearing offspring of the local surgeons and lawyers in the other. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bullied as such. And I did have friends. I just didn’t get on with the majority of these, well, people and I certainly did not enjoy school. Who’d enjoy a powercrazed megalomaniac at the front of the room telling those at the back of the room exactly what they should and should not be doing? Exactly. And lessons were not ‘fun’. And those ‘hilarious’ pranks the class jokers played on people weren’t all that funny. And I doubt they’ll be funny ten years down the line either.
‘Remember how we used to … whatever … in the chemistry lessons? Wasn’t it such a laugh?’. No, it bloody well was not. Chemistry lessons sucked ass. And so did PE. We were only there because we did not have a choice. I, for one, ditched chemistry as soon as I got the chance to.
The email is accompanied by an itinerary and a questionnaire. The itinerary consists of a champagne reception in the school hall (and I am, in fact, surprised the decrepid building that was my school hasn’t collapsed entirely yet), then a tour of the school (why would I need a tour? I spent nearly ten years in that school!), followed by a ‘bavarian buffet’ (think Emmental, think Pretzels, think large sausage platters, think no more) in the café of the nearby park. For this I am asked to pay 35 Euros. I don’t think so. I have an excuse. I’m out of the country. Permanently.
The questionnaire is disconcerting, to say the least. The email tells me that those wanting to save themselves from 120 small talks should fill in and return the questionnaire. Hang on, if there won’t be any small talk, why would you go to a school reunion. Without a half-arsed ‘so, what have you been up to?’ ice breaker, this is going to be a very silent affair indeed.
‘What have you been doing over the last ten years?’
Left the country.
‘This is what I remember from the last day at school celebrations?’
The only thing I remember is that, during the headmaster’s speech, I plucked up the courage to talk to this guy in my year I had a crush on for ages. He was a bit strange and I had never spoken to him before, He told me he secretly liked Abba. I haven’t seen him since and I doubt very much he would turn up for the school reunion. He never spoke to anyone at school, collected war memorabilia and most people were a bit scared of him.
‘This is what I always wanted to say about my final week at school’
1.Yes, I was stoned out of my brain when I turned up for that last biology exam. 2. Yes I did indeed burn the book in which absences were recorded. 3. Yes, I did nick about 50 air fresheners from the toilets during my last two years at school.
‘This is what still links me to Regensburg’
Not a lot. My parents live outside of town. My sister is transient between Dresden, Hamburg, Berlin and Munich and my friends got the hell out of that town.
‘This is what I imagine myself to be like for the 20 year reunion’
Jesus, they’re planning another one? I have no idea, to be honest. Still alive, I hope.
Whoever invented the idea that school years are the best years of your life is a big liar. They are not. They’re the years you spend getting picked on, laughed at and smoking in the girls loos. The years with the ‘us versus them’ attitude, where you get the weird kids in one corner and the brand wearing offspring of the local surgeons and lawyers in the other. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bullied as such. And I did have friends. I just didn’t get on with the majority of these, well, people and I certainly did not enjoy school. Who’d enjoy a powercrazed megalomaniac at the front of the room telling those at the back of the room exactly what they should and should not be doing? Exactly. And lessons were not ‘fun’. And those ‘hilarious’ pranks the class jokers played on people weren’t all that funny. And I doubt they’ll be funny ten years down the line either.
‘Remember how we used to … whatever … in the chemistry lessons? Wasn’t it such a laugh?’. No, it bloody well was not. Chemistry lessons sucked ass. And so did PE. We were only there because we did not have a choice. I, for one, ditched chemistry as soon as I got the chance to.
The email is accompanied by an itinerary and a questionnaire. The itinerary consists of a champagne reception in the school hall (and I am, in fact, surprised the decrepid building that was my school hasn’t collapsed entirely yet), then a tour of the school (why would I need a tour? I spent nearly ten years in that school!), followed by a ‘bavarian buffet’ (think Emmental, think Pretzels, think large sausage platters, think no more) in the café of the nearby park. For this I am asked to pay 35 Euros. I don’t think so. I have an excuse. I’m out of the country. Permanently.
The questionnaire is disconcerting, to say the least. The email tells me that those wanting to save themselves from 120 small talks should fill in and return the questionnaire. Hang on, if there won’t be any small talk, why would you go to a school reunion. Without a half-arsed ‘so, what have you been up to?’ ice breaker, this is going to be a very silent affair indeed.
‘What have you been doing over the last ten years?’
Left the country.
‘This is what I remember from the last day at school celebrations?’
The only thing I remember is that, during the headmaster’s speech, I plucked up the courage to talk to this guy in my year I had a crush on for ages. He was a bit strange and I had never spoken to him before, He told me he secretly liked Abba. I haven’t seen him since and I doubt very much he would turn up for the school reunion. He never spoke to anyone at school, collected war memorabilia and most people were a bit scared of him.
‘This is what I always wanted to say about my final week at school’
1.Yes, I was stoned out of my brain when I turned up for that last biology exam. 2. Yes I did indeed burn the book in which absences were recorded. 3. Yes, I did nick about 50 air fresheners from the toilets during my last two years at school.
‘This is what still links me to Regensburg’
Not a lot. My parents live outside of town. My sister is transient between Dresden, Hamburg, Berlin and Munich and my friends got the hell out of that town.
‘This is what I imagine myself to be like for the 20 year reunion’
Jesus, they’re planning another one? I have no idea, to be honest. Still alive, I hope.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Please take your items
Picture the scene. You’re in the supermarket. You’re hungry. You’re in a rush.
After repeating your order at the cigarette counter three times (what is it with non-smokers working at these counters?), you’ve filled your little basket and it’s payback time.
Queues, glorious queues as far as the eye can see.
You try to be smart and head for the self-checkout. To check yourself out. Up goes the little basket. Have you swiped your Nectar Card? As you fumble in your purse for the godforsaken card (that never seems to get you anything but vouchers for nappies you don’t need), your bloodpressure begins to rise. Card Accepted! Fabulous! You swipe a yoghurt and put it in your bag. Please place item in bagging area! I just bagged it! No really, I have. I don’t get it. On the one hand they are begging you to bring your own bags, on the other hand the robotic checkout girl throws a wobbly if you try to use anything but their bags. Please wait for assistance! Here comes with personal Checkout Captain in the shape of a spotty youth with a nametag saying ‘KevinHowCanIHelpAreYou21?’. Well, I am. Young Kevin certainly is not.
Onwards! I scan the next item. A packet of Heat Patches. The box states these do not contain any kind of actual painkiller. Still, Authorisation Required! Please wait for assistance! Now where has young Kevin gone? I decide it’s probably best to get the Ibuprofen ready also, since this is likely to cause another approval scene. Just in case I am planning to cut my shopping life span short with the help of 16 painkillers and a Heat Patch.
By this point my blood pressure has reached dangerously high levels and I am ready to throttle the screaming baby in aisle number three. Heck, I’ll throttle the teenager mother, too. That way she won’t be able to bring any more screeching, hairless little numpties into this world.
Shit. Now my bag is full. I fumble with plastic bags. A queue has formed behind me. Unexpected item in the bagging area! Yes, that would be my hand. Authorisation required! For my own flesh and blood. What is this? Some bizarre consumer assault course? I could be home by now, had I queued up behind the baby in aisle three.
At last! Insert payment! Only that the robotic check out girl does not like my 20p. The coin returns time and time again. I try the thing where you rub the coin on some metal (who came up with this idea? People do it in phone boxes, too. It never helps.). To no avail. Change of plan, I’m giving them a tenner. The tenner doesn’t want to go in either. Did I put the Queen’s head the wrong way round? Eventually, the machine eats my tenner and proceeds to spew out my change in a randomly located tray. Coins on the floor. I am beginning to sweat profusely, the queue behind me is getting restless. And so am I.
I hurriedly stuff my wares into bags and scuttle outside. Turns out one of the bags had a hole in it. There’s egg on my face, there’s egg on the floor. I am now very angry and kick the nearest dustbin in projected frustration. This swift motion causes me to drop bag number two. A milk bottle now decides to leak. I feel a one-woman rage coming on. Breathe in. Breathe out. For God’s sake, BREATHE. Walk away calmly. And stop pulling those horrible faces.
After repeating your order at the cigarette counter three times (what is it with non-smokers working at these counters?), you’ve filled your little basket and it’s payback time.
Queues, glorious queues as far as the eye can see.
You try to be smart and head for the self-checkout. To check yourself out. Up goes the little basket. Have you swiped your Nectar Card? As you fumble in your purse for the godforsaken card (that never seems to get you anything but vouchers for nappies you don’t need), your bloodpressure begins to rise. Card Accepted! Fabulous! You swipe a yoghurt and put it in your bag. Please place item in bagging area! I just bagged it! No really, I have. I don’t get it. On the one hand they are begging you to bring your own bags, on the other hand the robotic checkout girl throws a wobbly if you try to use anything but their bags. Please wait for assistance! Here comes with personal Checkout Captain in the shape of a spotty youth with a nametag saying ‘KevinHowCanIHelpAreYou21?’. Well, I am. Young Kevin certainly is not.
Onwards! I scan the next item. A packet of Heat Patches. The box states these do not contain any kind of actual painkiller. Still, Authorisation Required! Please wait for assistance! Now where has young Kevin gone? I decide it’s probably best to get the Ibuprofen ready also, since this is likely to cause another approval scene. Just in case I am planning to cut my shopping life span short with the help of 16 painkillers and a Heat Patch.
By this point my blood pressure has reached dangerously high levels and I am ready to throttle the screaming baby in aisle number three. Heck, I’ll throttle the teenager mother, too. That way she won’t be able to bring any more screeching, hairless little numpties into this world.
Shit. Now my bag is full. I fumble with plastic bags. A queue has formed behind me. Unexpected item in the bagging area! Yes, that would be my hand. Authorisation required! For my own flesh and blood. What is this? Some bizarre consumer assault course? I could be home by now, had I queued up behind the baby in aisle three.
At last! Insert payment! Only that the robotic check out girl does not like my 20p. The coin returns time and time again. I try the thing where you rub the coin on some metal (who came up with this idea? People do it in phone boxes, too. It never helps.). To no avail. Change of plan, I’m giving them a tenner. The tenner doesn’t want to go in either. Did I put the Queen’s head the wrong way round? Eventually, the machine eats my tenner and proceeds to spew out my change in a randomly located tray. Coins on the floor. I am beginning to sweat profusely, the queue behind me is getting restless. And so am I.
I hurriedly stuff my wares into bags and scuttle outside. Turns out one of the bags had a hole in it. There’s egg on my face, there’s egg on the floor. I am now very angry and kick the nearest dustbin in projected frustration. This swift motion causes me to drop bag number two. A milk bottle now decides to leak. I feel a one-woman rage coming on. Breathe in. Breathe out. For God’s sake, BREATHE. Walk away calmly. And stop pulling those horrible faces.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
A Woman's Weekly
I think I am addicted to weeklies. It all started quite innocently with fishing out a copy of Love It! Magazine to read in the bath. Next was Take A Break, followed by Real People and there isn’t an end in sight.
Now, I consider my self a reasonably educated semi-feminist. I have no understanding of cosmetic surgery or the latest weight loss fad. Neither am I a 15 year old single mother with hoop earrings and hair scraped back so tightly my eyes have started to wander towards my temples.
But, how could I resist the riveting weekly story about someone having a sex-change? ‘My Groom is a Bride’! ‘How I became the first pregnant man in Bolton’!.
For the more harrowing tales, paragraph one will set the scene and force the reader to like the tortured protagonist. Hence, a lot of ‘I smiled’, ‘I cupped my baby bump’ and ‘I giggled as I stuck the last bauble on our Christmas tree’.
Inadvertently, some form of disaster will strike in paragraph number four. ‘Dwayne only had four weeks left’, ‘I was about to loose my baby’ or ‘I just didn’t feel comfortable as a man any more’. Luckily, good friends are always at hand to ‘soothe’. I could write a whole book on the overuse of the word ‘soothe’ in human interest stories. ‘It will be okay’, Stacey soothed, ‘Don’t worry, he only lost both legs, an eye and a kidney’, Jayneesha soothed …
After much soothing and despair, a solution will present itself in the shape of a ‘hunky mechanic’ with ‘rippling muscles and eyes like saucers’, accompanied by a picture of a grinning, hideous male with two litres of hairgel on his head, a gold earring in his nose, fake tan on his shoe and a shifty glint in his ears. Chavboy to the rescue! First thing chavboy will do is impregnate the protagonist, because then she will be able to do all the smiling and bump-cupping from paragraph once again and everyone is happy.
Should there was a baddie in the story, a picture of Baddie (no matter what Baddie did, if they’re male, they will always look like a pedophile) will appear at the end, with a caption saying ‘Bruce refused to comment, but did say he had never met Stacey in his life. Sadly, we could not interview him properly because he is currently imprisoned for petty theft or GBH’.
Another staple requisite for the likes of Love It! is the weekly plastic surgery story. Entitled ‘I hated my ugly hooter’ or ‘Bullied for my spaniel ear boobs’, this will explain to the hapless reader that a restructured bodypart can buy you eternal happiness. It also reminds you that anything smaller than a D cup will ruin your life (Oh no, better go hang myself on my A cup bra right now! I can’t possibly go on like this!). To reinforce the point, ‘before and after’ shots are provided. Before: blurred picture, bad hair, misery all around. After: big smile, full makeover (which tends to evolve around blond highlights and a low cut top or bikini), lens no longer blurry lens. Flat chested BAD. Big tits GOOD.
The cunning editor also manages to consiostently feature the amazing weightloss story right next to the one entitled ‘My Bulimia Hell’. What now? Am I meant to loose weight or gain weight?
Particularly annoying is the ‘You’ve Got Male’ section. Where do they find these people? Building sites? The job centre? They’re always topless and look like they’re likely to reappear in next week’s issue as an axemurderer. If I see another bronzed sixpack on some semi naked fireman I am going to puke.
Thumbs up for the Reader’s Tips page though (‘Carly’s Top Tips’!) though. Did you know there was ten useful things to do with the little net bags washing tablets come in? And that you can satisfy your neatfreak cravings by sticking clingfilm on the bathroom wall above the sink so you can just peel any toothpaste stains off the wall without actually having to scrub it? Did you know that your goldfish just loves frozen peas and that you can make a perfect gardening kneeling pad out of ‘an old showercurtain’? I don’t know about you, but how many old showercurtains do you have knocking around at any given time?
I can’t wait for next weeks issue. ‘I love my fake 32G boobs!’!! ‘I stole my best friend’s wrinkly dad!’!! and the much awaited ‘Cheryl Exclusive’!!
Now, I consider my self a reasonably educated semi-feminist. I have no understanding of cosmetic surgery or the latest weight loss fad. Neither am I a 15 year old single mother with hoop earrings and hair scraped back so tightly my eyes have started to wander towards my temples.
But, how could I resist the riveting weekly story about someone having a sex-change? ‘My Groom is a Bride’! ‘How I became the first pregnant man in Bolton’!.
For the more harrowing tales, paragraph one will set the scene and force the reader to like the tortured protagonist. Hence, a lot of ‘I smiled’, ‘I cupped my baby bump’ and ‘I giggled as I stuck the last bauble on our Christmas tree’.
Inadvertently, some form of disaster will strike in paragraph number four. ‘Dwayne only had four weeks left’, ‘I was about to loose my baby’ or ‘I just didn’t feel comfortable as a man any more’. Luckily, good friends are always at hand to ‘soothe’. I could write a whole book on the overuse of the word ‘soothe’ in human interest stories. ‘It will be okay’, Stacey soothed, ‘Don’t worry, he only lost both legs, an eye and a kidney’, Jayneesha soothed …
After much soothing and despair, a solution will present itself in the shape of a ‘hunky mechanic’ with ‘rippling muscles and eyes like saucers’, accompanied by a picture of a grinning, hideous male with two litres of hairgel on his head, a gold earring in his nose, fake tan on his shoe and a shifty glint in his ears. Chavboy to the rescue! First thing chavboy will do is impregnate the protagonist, because then she will be able to do all the smiling and bump-cupping from paragraph once again and everyone is happy.
Should there was a baddie in the story, a picture of Baddie (no matter what Baddie did, if they’re male, they will always look like a pedophile) will appear at the end, with a caption saying ‘Bruce refused to comment, but did say he had never met Stacey in his life. Sadly, we could not interview him properly because he is currently imprisoned for petty theft or GBH’.
Another staple requisite for the likes of Love It! is the weekly plastic surgery story. Entitled ‘I hated my ugly hooter’ or ‘Bullied for my spaniel ear boobs’, this will explain to the hapless reader that a restructured bodypart can buy you eternal happiness. It also reminds you that anything smaller than a D cup will ruin your life (Oh no, better go hang myself on my A cup bra right now! I can’t possibly go on like this!). To reinforce the point, ‘before and after’ shots are provided. Before: blurred picture, bad hair, misery all around. After: big smile, full makeover (which tends to evolve around blond highlights and a low cut top or bikini), lens no longer blurry lens. Flat chested BAD. Big tits GOOD.
The cunning editor also manages to consiostently feature the amazing weightloss story right next to the one entitled ‘My Bulimia Hell’. What now? Am I meant to loose weight or gain weight?
Particularly annoying is the ‘You’ve Got Male’ section. Where do they find these people? Building sites? The job centre? They’re always topless and look like they’re likely to reappear in next week’s issue as an axemurderer. If I see another bronzed sixpack on some semi naked fireman I am going to puke.
Thumbs up for the Reader’s Tips page though (‘Carly’s Top Tips’!) though. Did you know there was ten useful things to do with the little net bags washing tablets come in? And that you can satisfy your neatfreak cravings by sticking clingfilm on the bathroom wall above the sink so you can just peel any toothpaste stains off the wall without actually having to scrub it? Did you know that your goldfish just loves frozen peas and that you can make a perfect gardening kneeling pad out of ‘an old showercurtain’? I don’t know about you, but how many old showercurtains do you have knocking around at any given time?
I can’t wait for next weeks issue. ‘I love my fake 32G boobs!’!! ‘I stole my best friend’s wrinkly dad!’!! and the much awaited ‘Cheryl Exclusive’!!
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Hooked
I have come to the gruesome realization I am addicted to doing things I should not. Nothing major, but things like smoking in my flat when the contract clearly states I am not allowed to. Picking my nose on the tube a little bit when nobody is looking. That sort of thing. Now I’m planning to give up smoking but have every intention of getting a little furry pet, despite the fact my contract states ‘no pets’! And since I am considering of getting rats (would love a cat but I don’t want to be keeping a cat indoors and if I let it out, people in my block would know!) eg every landlord’s worst nightmare.
If the letting agency have to come round in an emergency, I’d be screwed. They won’t do that very often, but shit happens. Mind you, I am an experienced keeper of pets who won’t tell her parents about them. A friend once said ‘You never lie, apart from pet-related lies’. And he had a point there. I don’t lie to people and I do mean what I say, even when I’m saying stupid or inappropriate things, I am usually brutally honest.
So what is it with the excitement of doing stuff I’m not supposed to do. Why did I take the plug for the bath tub with me when I moved out? (ok, guess I wanted to annoy my old flatmate). Why did I badly paint the hallway of my old flat in the vain hope nobody would see the great big bike tyre marks?
Weirdly, despite the fact I am very strong willed, I do seem to have a very addictive personality. I obsess over stuff. I smoke. Thank God I never took up drugs and am a lightweight drinker. Instead I obsess over little things, like how coffee should be, what chocolate is good, strange bags and morning routines. And if anything or anyone disturbs my routine, my day shall be ruined from then on. At least until lunchtime. Probably not quite OCD, but somewhere on that scale.
If the letting agency have to come round in an emergency, I’d be screwed. They won’t do that very often, but shit happens. Mind you, I am an experienced keeper of pets who won’t tell her parents about them. A friend once said ‘You never lie, apart from pet-related lies’. And he had a point there. I don’t lie to people and I do mean what I say, even when I’m saying stupid or inappropriate things, I am usually brutally honest.
So what is it with the excitement of doing stuff I’m not supposed to do. Why did I take the plug for the bath tub with me when I moved out? (ok, guess I wanted to annoy my old flatmate). Why did I badly paint the hallway of my old flat in the vain hope nobody would see the great big bike tyre marks?
Weirdly, despite the fact I am very strong willed, I do seem to have a very addictive personality. I obsess over stuff. I smoke. Thank God I never took up drugs and am a lightweight drinker. Instead I obsess over little things, like how coffee should be, what chocolate is good, strange bags and morning routines. And if anything or anyone disturbs my routine, my day shall be ruined from then on. At least until lunchtime. Probably not quite OCD, but somewhere on that scale.
Friday, 25 April 2008
Bye Hun
Three temps left the Office today. It’s an epidemic. And I don’t blame them. Would you want to work for six-odd quid an hour if you had something better lined up? Neither would I.
#1
Celebrated her 22nd birthday in the Office by crying because she missed her mum. Her mum was back in South Africa. I got her a miniature pack of crayons for her birthday, she was very impressed. Once I swapped her over to someone else’s team (she was petrified of nasty phonecalls, which doesn’t help when you’re supposed to be manning the enquiries line of a large-ish Government body), she was eternally grateful. I also equipped her with Monster. Monster came in a Happy Meal and cheered her up no end. One we put her in charge of filing, the stationery order and away from horrible callers, she was having a lovely time at work. In fact, everything was ‘lovely’. Every phonecall ended with ‘lovely’ (apart from the nasty ones, those ended in tears).
Anyhoo. Today was her last day. I went over to say goodbye. Next thing I know she had burst into tears and is crying on me. I think this was her first job ever. She said she would miss everyone (I doubt that! She is off to work on a cruiseship in the Mediterranean sun, why would you miss rainy London?). I nearly cried myself. Just out of solidarity.
#2
Was with us for a couple of months, but didn’t get a permanent position so her temping agency found her another job. That pays better. Apart from constant singing/sighing, she also delighted with a bewildering array of Darth Vader breathing noses (once her cold had cleared up this stopped) and some very strong opinions on God. She tried to convince everyone to visit her church. Hm. No thanks. We bought a cake for her today. The idea was for her to share it with the rest of the team. We even gave her a little knife with the cake. Somehow, she missed the point, thanked us profusely and proceeded to stuff the whole cake box and the knife into her bag. How awkward. For a split second I toyed with the idea of mentioning to her that she was supposed to share the cake with us. Then I thought of the major embarrassment this would cause, so the cake stayed in her handbag. I hope she is enjoying it as we speak.
#3
A very sudden demise. It is Friday afternoon and she announces via email that she won’t be back on Monday. The email was worryingly entitled ‘News Flash – This Social Butterfly Is Leaving’. Is being a ‘social butterfly’ something to boast about, when you turn up at work in miniskirts and fuck-me-boots on a regular basis? The social butterfly also indulged in overzealous greeting procedures (normal work greetings are somewhere between a friendly grunt and ‘morning!’). HEY HUN! HOW ARE YOU, BABES?. First thing Monday morning, that is a lot to take in. And Hun always makes me think of Attila. Today someone suggested I should have hired an actual Attila The Hun outfit and greeted her back with ‘yes, that’s right’, before offering to make a cup of tea. Worse still, she also called everyone ‘HEY BEAUTIFUL!’. I wasn’t beautiful last time I checked and adding ‘hey’ won’t change that fact either, I’m afraid. And don’t get me started on ‘TA BABES!’. I have left the baby stage about 28 years ago. I am not a baby. Let alone a ‘babe’. Like in ‘A Pig Named Babe’, maybe but in a screeching, belching, stinking and gargling newborn sense of the word. I think not. A rather nasty person suggested drawing a butterfly being squashed with a large hammer on her leaving card. But that would be just plain nasty. So nobody did.
Of course they all promised to stay in touch. Yeah right, as if. I’ve only ever stayed in touch with people from work if I actually liked them. Which is why I sometimes go for lunch with a girl I temped with years ago. That’s because she is good fun and I have a lot of respect for her. I would never stay in touch with work people for the sheer sake of it. I don’t even want them on my Facebook if I don’t actually like them on a social level.
And if I have to ever see another ‘Forever Friends’ greeting card, I am going to kill somebody.
#1
Celebrated her 22nd birthday in the Office by crying because she missed her mum. Her mum was back in South Africa. I got her a miniature pack of crayons for her birthday, she was very impressed. Once I swapped her over to someone else’s team (she was petrified of nasty phonecalls, which doesn’t help when you’re supposed to be manning the enquiries line of a large-ish Government body), she was eternally grateful. I also equipped her with Monster. Monster came in a Happy Meal and cheered her up no end. One we put her in charge of filing, the stationery order and away from horrible callers, she was having a lovely time at work. In fact, everything was ‘lovely’. Every phonecall ended with ‘lovely’ (apart from the nasty ones, those ended in tears).
Anyhoo. Today was her last day. I went over to say goodbye. Next thing I know she had burst into tears and is crying on me. I think this was her first job ever. She said she would miss everyone (I doubt that! She is off to work on a cruiseship in the Mediterranean sun, why would you miss rainy London?). I nearly cried myself. Just out of solidarity.
#2
Was with us for a couple of months, but didn’t get a permanent position so her temping agency found her another job. That pays better. Apart from constant singing/sighing, she also delighted with a bewildering array of Darth Vader breathing noses (once her cold had cleared up this stopped) and some very strong opinions on God. She tried to convince everyone to visit her church. Hm. No thanks. We bought a cake for her today. The idea was for her to share it with the rest of the team. We even gave her a little knife with the cake. Somehow, she missed the point, thanked us profusely and proceeded to stuff the whole cake box and the knife into her bag. How awkward. For a split second I toyed with the idea of mentioning to her that she was supposed to share the cake with us. Then I thought of the major embarrassment this would cause, so the cake stayed in her handbag. I hope she is enjoying it as we speak.
#3
A very sudden demise. It is Friday afternoon and she announces via email that she won’t be back on Monday. The email was worryingly entitled ‘News Flash – This Social Butterfly Is Leaving’. Is being a ‘social butterfly’ something to boast about, when you turn up at work in miniskirts and fuck-me-boots on a regular basis? The social butterfly also indulged in overzealous greeting procedures (normal work greetings are somewhere between a friendly grunt and ‘morning!’). HEY HUN! HOW ARE YOU, BABES?. First thing Monday morning, that is a lot to take in. And Hun always makes me think of Attila. Today someone suggested I should have hired an actual Attila The Hun outfit and greeted her back with ‘yes, that’s right’, before offering to make a cup of tea. Worse still, she also called everyone ‘HEY BEAUTIFUL!’. I wasn’t beautiful last time I checked and adding ‘hey’ won’t change that fact either, I’m afraid. And don’t get me started on ‘TA BABES!’. I have left the baby stage about 28 years ago. I am not a baby. Let alone a ‘babe’. Like in ‘A Pig Named Babe’, maybe but in a screeching, belching, stinking and gargling newborn sense of the word. I think not. A rather nasty person suggested drawing a butterfly being squashed with a large hammer on her leaving card. But that would be just plain nasty. So nobody did.
Of course they all promised to stay in touch. Yeah right, as if. I’ve only ever stayed in touch with people from work if I actually liked them. Which is why I sometimes go for lunch with a girl I temped with years ago. That’s because she is good fun and I have a lot of respect for her. I would never stay in touch with work people for the sheer sake of it. I don’t even want them on my Facebook if I don’t actually like them on a social level.
And if I have to ever see another ‘Forever Friends’ greeting card, I am going to kill somebody.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Even more on estate agents ....
Dear Mr and Mrs Estate Agent,
(… or shall I say ‘Dear Mr and Mrs I. Diot’?)
THANK YOU!
Thank you for taking a massive holding deposit off me on the proviso that I would indeed be allowed to kill myself in the privacy of my own home via cigarette smoke. Thank you for assuring me of this fact in your letter I received last week. I do appreciate the fact you assured me this was not going to be a problem, when I asked you about this three times. Thank you for offering to remove the non-smoking clause from your lovely prefab tenancy agreement.
And thank you for then turning round, a week before I’m meant to move in, and announcing that you’re now not so sure about that part of the contract. Gosh, aren’t you ACE? Thank you for reminding me I am a filthy nicotine junkie and crazed addictive personality. And thanks for putting my holding deposit at stake here. Gee, I do love you for this.
THANK YOU!
Thank you for sending me a long letter about checking out of my old flat. Thanks for reminding me I should really splash out on having the carpets professionally steamcleaned. Despite the fact they were not freshly steamcleaned when I moved in (you helpfully stated on the inventory they were cleaned six months before I even set foot in the place) and despite the fact your amazing contract merely states that I have to pay for them to be cleaned if they are ‘soiled’, whilst at the same time assuring me that ‘reasonable wear and tear’ is not a problem. And thanks for recommending a whole host of cleaning products to me (we recommend that you use products such as Hob Brite for cleaning ceramics and Shiny Sinks for stainless steel sinks). What would I do without you? I’d be polishing off the windows with toothpaste. And thanks for reminding me that you will retain £250+ of my deposit if I don’t have the carpets steamcleaned. You even provide me with the mobile number of your nephew, who happens to be in the carpet steam cleaning trade.
THANK YOU!
And thank you for patronising me over the last year and a half. Thanks to you I know the dangers of suspect leeks in my bathroom. I also know to be alert at all times, because your staff just love to pay a surprise visit. It’s nice to nip downstairs to make some tea to find one of you is already in my kitchen. He even helpfully asked me what I was doing there. Thanks for reminding me that I do still live here. And thanks for your lovely follow-up email to this unannounced viewing exercise. Gee, I had no idea one can utilise a Hoover for anything other than pest control. And a big thank you for losing my original contract and then asking me to hand over my own original copy to you. That’s way better than having to lug four pages of A4 paper to the recycling bin. It really has helped me a lot.
It makes me very sad that our fantastic partnership won’t last for much longer, because, unfortunately, I will have to gauge out your eyeballs with a wooden spoon now. Terribly sorry, but the voices in my head make me do strange things sometimes.
(… or shall I say ‘Dear Mr and Mrs I. Diot’?)
THANK YOU!
Thank you for taking a massive holding deposit off me on the proviso that I would indeed be allowed to kill myself in the privacy of my own home via cigarette smoke. Thank you for assuring me of this fact in your letter I received last week. I do appreciate the fact you assured me this was not going to be a problem, when I asked you about this three times. Thank you for offering to remove the non-smoking clause from your lovely prefab tenancy agreement.
And thank you for then turning round, a week before I’m meant to move in, and announcing that you’re now not so sure about that part of the contract. Gosh, aren’t you ACE? Thank you for reminding me I am a filthy nicotine junkie and crazed addictive personality. And thanks for putting my holding deposit at stake here. Gee, I do love you for this.
THANK YOU!
Thank you for sending me a long letter about checking out of my old flat. Thanks for reminding me I should really splash out on having the carpets professionally steamcleaned. Despite the fact they were not freshly steamcleaned when I moved in (you helpfully stated on the inventory they were cleaned six months before I even set foot in the place) and despite the fact your amazing contract merely states that I have to pay for them to be cleaned if they are ‘soiled’, whilst at the same time assuring me that ‘reasonable wear and tear’ is not a problem. And thanks for recommending a whole host of cleaning products to me (we recommend that you use products such as Hob Brite for cleaning ceramics and Shiny Sinks for stainless steel sinks). What would I do without you? I’d be polishing off the windows with toothpaste. And thanks for reminding me that you will retain £250+ of my deposit if I don’t have the carpets steamcleaned. You even provide me with the mobile number of your nephew, who happens to be in the carpet steam cleaning trade.
THANK YOU!
And thank you for patronising me over the last year and a half. Thanks to you I know the dangers of suspect leeks in my bathroom. I also know to be alert at all times, because your staff just love to pay a surprise visit. It’s nice to nip downstairs to make some tea to find one of you is already in my kitchen. He even helpfully asked me what I was doing there. Thanks for reminding me that I do still live here. And thanks for your lovely follow-up email to this unannounced viewing exercise. Gee, I had no idea one can utilise a Hoover for anything other than pest control. And a big thank you for losing my original contract and then asking me to hand over my own original copy to you. That’s way better than having to lug four pages of A4 paper to the recycling bin. It really has helped me a lot.
It makes me very sad that our fantastic partnership won’t last for much longer, because, unfortunately, I will have to gauge out your eyeballs with a wooden spoon now. Terribly sorry, but the voices in my head make me do strange things sometimes.
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