After one of the most hectic, stress-threatening yet undeniably exhilirating weeks since my university days, I am on a well-deserved high. Ridiculously tight deadlines all met (client suitably impressed), 'disappointed' boss somewhat happier (she returned my greeting of 'Good Morning' on three occasions last week), requests to do freelance writing in addition to my new 'day' job (extra cash potential is massive), good party on Friday night (the gang was all there), recovery on Saturday wasn't too painful, and Sunday was both indulgent and relaxing.
Driving home from work on Friday, I was waiting behind another car to turn off Leith Walk and into McDonald Road. The car in front had, in my opinion, overshot the junction. Everyone makes mistakes, so I didn't pay too much attention and continued singing along to 'Tennage Kicks' on the radio. The lights turned red to halt the flow of traffic coming down Leith Walk and we were free to make our move into McDonald road. Annoyingly, the car in front didn't move. Problem: when the lights turn red, you have mere moments before the other traffic starts moving and collides with you. The car still wasn't moving so I (not having overshot the junction) made a split second decision to undercut it. Needless to say, as I made my move the car in front started to swing back in and the driver, finding my car beside his in the same side of the road, slammed on the brakes and peeped his horn quickly and repeatedly.
Seconds later, I came upon the traffic calming measures on McDonald road. I, again, found myself behind another car as we waited for a break in the flow of traffic from the other direction. The car in front made its move and I followed only to be peeped at again by a car speeding towards me.
Two peeps in almost as many seconds. That hasn't happened since I crossed a road on a windy day in Leith wearing my ridiculously short charcoal kilt, black micro-fishnet stockings and red lacy knickers. Verdict: on both occasions I was asking for it.
Alasdair, Sam, Louise and Anotnio's belated Burns' Night celebration on Friday evening was a resounding success. The haggis, neeps and tatties were all cooked to perfection and the water of life flowed freely. There was a good turnout too and I found myself happily chatting with Tim, Keith, Alasdair, Zoe and Cedric before Katie and her new man - Marc - turned up and I chatted to them. I also met Katie's ex-boyfriend Kenny for the first time, as did her new boyfriend (Marc) - ooooh the drama! Alex was there too - talking about his sexual exploits and ex-girlfriends.
Saturday and Sunday were mellow and largely people-free. I did my own thing on both days with almost no interruptions. Sheer heaven!
Let's just hope my driving improves this week or Heaven may become an everyday thing.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Things my colleague has said to annoy me this week
I luuuuuvvvvvve soya milk
I luuuuuuvvvvvve wheat-free pasta
Basically, he luuuuvvvves me
Basically, she luuuuvvves me
We met with the marquee stagers for the wedding
my wedding
my wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding
I want a bay-ay-bee
I'd luuuuuvvvvve to have a bay-ay-bee
baby, baby, baby, bay-ay-bee
I luuuuuuvvvvvve wheat-free pasta
Basically, he luuuuvvvves me
Basically, she luuuuvvves me
We met with the marquee stagers for the wedding
my wedding
my wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding
I want a bay-ay-bee
I'd luuuuuvvvvve to have a bay-ay-bee
baby, baby, baby, bay-ay-bee
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Business busyness
Not so easy to say when sober, which I am - for a change. As the title cleverly suggests (hey, I'm getting good at this writing stuff), my working week has been busy. Maybe I'm being punished for last Friday's frightfully lethargic performance. I certainly hope so because I deserve it.
I finally got to hand in my notice this week. It did not go down well. My boss said she was "very disappointed in me". Of course she is. She's disappointed that I finally motivated myself to take my 'career' seriously enough to realise that my present situation is shit and is never going to change - unless, of course, I get off my arse and change it myself; which I have - hence the handing in of the notice. Now my four week notice period will be spent making trips down to the scary basement and filing her corns. Ewwwww!
Today I was out of the office working with a major client. I had to interview the MD and two of the Regional MD's as well as organise some 'quirky' photography. It all went very well and I was pleased to be able to secure Tim's photography expertise. Tim is a friend of a friend's brother and it was nice to be able to give him some work. Cronyism - in my world - is a very, very good thing. Hey, January is a long, (climatically and financially) cold month and if I can throw some cash a friend's way it gives me a lovely warm glow inside (at least I'm pretty sure that's what gives me the glow. Mind you, I did spend most of my formative years in the vicinity of a power station - not nuclear though. Hmmmm).
Just before lunch, I found myself having to get assertive with a very rude designer. Designers can be so bloody precious about their ideas, and I understand that I know nothing about design aesthetics but there really was no need for her to be so rude. I made a SUGGESTION - a CASUAL one - and she reacted as if I had just told her I'd enjoyed the fois gras of a human baby for lunch. We proceeded to enter into a female pissing contest - which differs from the male version in that we continue to smile sweetly, bat our eyelids and speak very softly. She was so rude though, that I had to actually sit up straight in my chair. I was suitably forceful (which doesn't usually happen outside of the bedroom) and spoke confidently from behind the protective shield of my pink pashmina(*). Oh yes, behold the power of the pashmina(*)!
(*) I would like to point out that I am not, and have never been, a member of the 'yah' party.
I finally got to hand in my notice this week. It did not go down well. My boss said she was "very disappointed in me". Of course she is. She's disappointed that I finally motivated myself to take my 'career' seriously enough to realise that my present situation is shit and is never going to change - unless, of course, I get off my arse and change it myself; which I have - hence the handing in of the notice. Now my four week notice period will be spent making trips down to the scary basement and filing her corns. Ewwwww!
Today I was out of the office working with a major client. I had to interview the MD and two of the Regional MD's as well as organise some 'quirky' photography. It all went very well and I was pleased to be able to secure Tim's photography expertise. Tim is a friend of a friend's brother and it was nice to be able to give him some work. Cronyism - in my world - is a very, very good thing. Hey, January is a long, (climatically and financially) cold month and if I can throw some cash a friend's way it gives me a lovely warm glow inside (at least I'm pretty sure that's what gives me the glow. Mind you, I did spend most of my formative years in the vicinity of a power station - not nuclear though. Hmmmm).
Just before lunch, I found myself having to get assertive with a very rude designer. Designers can be so bloody precious about their ideas, and I understand that I know nothing about design aesthetics but there really was no need for her to be so rude. I made a SUGGESTION - a CASUAL one - and she reacted as if I had just told her I'd enjoyed the fois gras of a human baby for lunch. We proceeded to enter into a female pissing contest - which differs from the male version in that we continue to smile sweetly, bat our eyelids and speak very softly. She was so rude though, that I had to actually sit up straight in my chair. I was suitably forceful (which doesn't usually happen outside of the bedroom) and spoke confidently from behind the protective shield of my pink pashmina(*). Oh yes, behold the power of the pashmina(*)!
(*) I would like to point out that I am not, and have never been, a member of the 'yah' party.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Wastefulness
Work this afternoon is mind-numbingly dull. So far, I've found it impossible to motivate myself to do anything resembling work at all. As is common in such circumstances, the internet has assumed the role of fellow-addict; luring me deeper into the realms of brain-rotting, life-wasting crappity crapness. I feel sick; sick and disgusted (in the same way I do when realising, upon waking, that my level of drunkeness the night before ended in the (complete) consumption of a deep-fried pizza supper.). So far, my colleagues and I (the boss is off) have taken a number of pish internet tests. Today I found out that I am:
Drew Barrymore (Which star should play you in a film?)
Owen Wilson (the male equivalent for the above test apparently)
Red (What colour are you?)
Leo (Which star sign should you be?)
Bree (Which Desperate Houswife are you?)
Smart-sexy (What kind of 'sexy are you?)
Hera (What kind of love goddess are you?)
destined to live happily ever after (What's your Cindarella story?)
Dorothy (Which Golden Girl are you?)
Despite my being a complete waste of tax-payers' money ... no, hang on, I don't work in the public sector, it's all OK ... what have I learned this afternoon?
1. I need a new job - one that excites and motivates me, or, more realistically, one that at least keeps me busy enough not to be wooed by sad internet addictions.
Action: I have a new job and am just waiting to break the news to my boss. This makes me feel slightly better.
2. I am in possession of a multiple personality. How else could you explain someone being likened to both Drew Barrymore (drug-fuelled, rebellious wild-child) and Bree from Desperate Houswives (uptight, anal, repressed, prudish, perfectionist)? Oh yeah, that's right, these tests could just be a big bag of old shite.
Action: These tests ARE a big bag of old shite. Stop wasting your time.
3: While these tests sometimes boost your self-esteem (you are smart-sexy. A good thing, though possibly only for lesbian relationships as most men I meet seem to prefer 'you are skanky-sexy') they also diminish it (you are Dorothy from the Golden Girls. What? The one that looked and sounded like a man? Yes. Oh. That's a bit pish, isn't it? Yes, yes it is.)
Action: As above. And, seriously, would you really have been any happier if it had said you were Blanche? I remember a former colleague likening the chief executive to one of the Golden Girls as part of an exercise on a teambuilding day. She overheard him and gave him the look of death. He immediately tried to extricate himself from his fate by saying: "I mean the sexy one." To which everyone else replied: "Dude, none of them were sexy."
Next week I plan to: get a life.
Drew Barrymore (Which star should play you in a film?)
Owen Wilson (the male equivalent for the above test apparently)
Red (What colour are you?)
Leo (Which star sign should you be?)
Bree (Which Desperate Houswife are you?)
Smart-sexy (What kind of 'sexy are you?)
Hera (What kind of love goddess are you?)
destined to live happily ever after (What's your Cindarella story?)
Dorothy (Which Golden Girl are you?)
Despite my being a complete waste of tax-payers' money ... no, hang on, I don't work in the public sector, it's all OK ... what have I learned this afternoon?
1. I need a new job - one that excites and motivates me, or, more realistically, one that at least keeps me busy enough not to be wooed by sad internet addictions.
Action: I have a new job and am just waiting to break the news to my boss. This makes me feel slightly better.
2. I am in possession of a multiple personality. How else could you explain someone being likened to both Drew Barrymore (drug-fuelled, rebellious wild-child) and Bree from Desperate Houswives (uptight, anal, repressed, prudish, perfectionist)? Oh yeah, that's right, these tests could just be a big bag of old shite.
Action: These tests ARE a big bag of old shite. Stop wasting your time.
3: While these tests sometimes boost your self-esteem (you are smart-sexy. A good thing, though possibly only for lesbian relationships as most men I meet seem to prefer 'you are skanky-sexy') they also diminish it (you are Dorothy from the Golden Girls. What? The one that looked and sounded like a man? Yes. Oh. That's a bit pish, isn't it? Yes, yes it is.)
Action: As above. And, seriously, would you really have been any happier if it had said you were Blanche? I remember a former colleague likening the chief executive to one of the Golden Girls as part of an exercise on a teambuilding day. She overheard him and gave him the look of death. He immediately tried to extricate himself from his fate by saying: "I mean the sexy one." To which everyone else replied: "Dude, none of them were sexy."
Next week I plan to: get a life.
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