I spent the week before Christmas in New York. It was a gift from my parents - not that they were banishing me or anything (although, at times I'm sure that would have been preferable for them), it was a family holiday.
It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.
In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.
On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:
Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"
This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".
Oh ... my ... God!!!!
On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.
I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Police, camera, satisfaction
Dinner with Katie last Saturday didn't go quite to plan. I'd arranged to go through to Glasgow and stay over at hers. When I called on Saturday morning, Katie was suffering the after effects of a photographers' bash the night before. I offered to bring through some quality food and cook it. Katie sounded both pleased and relieved when she said "Thanks, Lisa."
I headed off to Real Foods to stock up on the various seeds and oils not abundant in my diet. The herbalist had recommended I swap regular tea for nettle tea. I told her there was no chance of me doing that. She laughed and agreed nettle tea was definitely an acquired taste. I left the store weighed down with bags of pumpkin seeds, linseeds, flax seed oil, and porridge oats, and went to meet my mum in John Lewis.
The plan had been to get some food from M&S and get over to Glasgow in time to watch Strictly Come Dancing. It was now an hour before the programme was to start and I still hadn't been to M&S. I told my mum I'd take the car rather than the train because I was going to be late. I stopped back at the flat to pick up a bottle of Vive Cliquot I'd bagged with 40% off at Thresher, and the car.
As I was driving out past the airport on my way to join the M8, I stopped at some traffic lights. It looked as if there was steam coming out of the bonnet. I rationalised that this was probably just due to the heat of the engine in relation to the cold air outside - like being able to see your breath on cold mornings. I drove on.
About a minute later, the car started to make a weird noise when I pushed down on the accelerator. I knew this wasn't good. I then clocked the temperature guage and noticed it was at boiling point (the temperature guage has never worked and normally sits firmly at freezing point so I never have cause to pay it any attention). Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'd just started on the M8 so I swung my car over towards the sliproad at Hermiston Gate. I was losing power, steam was definitely rising from the bonnet and the car was crying out. Then it just died, and I drifted to the edge of the road - about half way up the slip road.
The amount of steam now had me convinced that the car was going to blow up at any second, so I got out. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next. All I knew was that I wasn't a member of the AA or the RAC.
I'd like to point out that I'm in no way a pathetic or stupid girl, and I can change a tyre in 25 minutes. But I honestly didn't know what to do. So I called my mum. She didn't answer. I phoned my Granddad. He didn't answer. I phoned my uncle Sean - no answer. I called my brother. Thankfully he did answer. He told me he was in the pub and couldn't come to get me. I explained that I wasn't expecting anyone to come across to get me, I just wasn't clued up on breakdown etiquette. He asked me a few questions and I mentioned that there hadn't been any hot air coming from the blower. "You've got no water, you muppet." Liam said he'd keep trying to call mum for me.
Then my uncle Sean phoned back. I told him my story and he said: "You've blown your enginge. You'll need to get the car towed." I was absolutely freezing so I got back in the car. I called Katie and explained the situation and told her I still planned to get there.
Just at that, the police pulled up behind me. "Have you called anyone?", the policeman asked. "I phoned my mum." "Is she a mechanic like?", he laughed. "No, but she knows ... stuff," I said, a bit sheepishly.
They explained that they had to get my car over to the hard shoulder and pushed it across the road. They asked if I wanted to wait in their car and won me over with the mention of a working heater.
Because I was a 'code 25', officers Davie & Mark waited with me until the tow truck arrived. They were really helpful and talked me through what I should do if I find myself in a similar situation in future. They were so nice and friendly that I had to forgive them for playing back the video footage of me leaving my car so they could laugh at my red wellies.
The tow truck arrived and the police drove me back to Haymarket station just in time for the 9:04pm train to Queen Street.
Katie picked me up at the other end and we sat down to dinner at 10pm. I popped the cork on the champagne, saying that life was too short not to have champagne on a Saturday night. We toasted to: "making it against the odds", "crazy flatmates and not having to live with them" and "great friendships second time around."
It was worth the hassle.
I headed off to Real Foods to stock up on the various seeds and oils not abundant in my diet. The herbalist had recommended I swap regular tea for nettle tea. I told her there was no chance of me doing that. She laughed and agreed nettle tea was definitely an acquired taste. I left the store weighed down with bags of pumpkin seeds, linseeds, flax seed oil, and porridge oats, and went to meet my mum in John Lewis.
The plan had been to get some food from M&S and get over to Glasgow in time to watch Strictly Come Dancing. It was now an hour before the programme was to start and I still hadn't been to M&S. I told my mum I'd take the car rather than the train because I was going to be late. I stopped back at the flat to pick up a bottle of Vive Cliquot I'd bagged with 40% off at Thresher, and the car.
As I was driving out past the airport on my way to join the M8, I stopped at some traffic lights. It looked as if there was steam coming out of the bonnet. I rationalised that this was probably just due to the heat of the engine in relation to the cold air outside - like being able to see your breath on cold mornings. I drove on.
About a minute later, the car started to make a weird noise when I pushed down on the accelerator. I knew this wasn't good. I then clocked the temperature guage and noticed it was at boiling point (the temperature guage has never worked and normally sits firmly at freezing point so I never have cause to pay it any attention). Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'd just started on the M8 so I swung my car over towards the sliproad at Hermiston Gate. I was losing power, steam was definitely rising from the bonnet and the car was crying out. Then it just died, and I drifted to the edge of the road - about half way up the slip road.
The amount of steam now had me convinced that the car was going to blow up at any second, so I got out. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next. All I knew was that I wasn't a member of the AA or the RAC.
I'd like to point out that I'm in no way a pathetic or stupid girl, and I can change a tyre in 25 minutes. But I honestly didn't know what to do. So I called my mum. She didn't answer. I phoned my Granddad. He didn't answer. I phoned my uncle Sean - no answer. I called my brother. Thankfully he did answer. He told me he was in the pub and couldn't come to get me. I explained that I wasn't expecting anyone to come across to get me, I just wasn't clued up on breakdown etiquette. He asked me a few questions and I mentioned that there hadn't been any hot air coming from the blower. "You've got no water, you muppet." Liam said he'd keep trying to call mum for me.
Then my uncle Sean phoned back. I told him my story and he said: "You've blown your enginge. You'll need to get the car towed." I was absolutely freezing so I got back in the car. I called Katie and explained the situation and told her I still planned to get there.
Just at that, the police pulled up behind me. "Have you called anyone?", the policeman asked. "I phoned my mum." "Is she a mechanic like?", he laughed. "No, but she knows ... stuff," I said, a bit sheepishly.
They explained that they had to get my car over to the hard shoulder and pushed it across the road. They asked if I wanted to wait in their car and won me over with the mention of a working heater.
Because I was a 'code 25', officers Davie & Mark waited with me until the tow truck arrived. They were really helpful and talked me through what I should do if I find myself in a similar situation in future. They were so nice and friendly that I had to forgive them for playing back the video footage of me leaving my car so they could laugh at my red wellies.
The tow truck arrived and the police drove me back to Haymarket station just in time for the 9:04pm train to Queen Street.
Katie picked me up at the other end and we sat down to dinner at 10pm. I popped the cork on the champagne, saying that life was too short not to have champagne on a Saturday night. We toasted to: "making it against the odds", "crazy flatmates and not having to live with them" and "great friendships second time around."
It was worth the hassle.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The trouble with wellies
On Tuesday morning I opened my email at work. There was a note from my manager entitled 'Areas of improvement'. I knew it wasn't going to be good. This is what it said:
"It has recently been brought to my attention that there are certain areas of company policy that you are not following sufficiently.
Dress Code
1) Wellies are not permitted - even on casual Friday.
2) Stripey or excessively patterned tights are not permitted.
3) Crimped hair is not permitted
4) Generally, your dress on business days is too casual. Sometimes your tops are cut too low and your skirts are too short. This is not professional and does not create the right impression.
Organisation & Planning
Although you always get all your work done on time and to an exceptionally high standard, you are not organised in the way you go about it.
Please do all you can to remedy these points as soon as possible."
Oh my God. How ridiculous is that? I was stunned. There's nothing in the rules about crimped hair, patterened tights or even wellies. It's all at the manager's discretion. Admittedly, the wellies I wore the previous Friday on dress-down day may have been pushing it, but it's not like they're mucky, farm boots. They're knee-high, red rubber boots and they looked fab. The child in me now wants to find a pair of knee-high, red leather boots and wear those instead.
I immediately sent an email back, in which I stated that I believed I was one of the best put-together people in the whole department. There are a few people who wear the same clothes everyday (including the same shirt/blouse) - gross!
I went on: "One of the many problems with this company is that there are far too many people who concern themselves with being overly organised and not enough people capable of creative or independent thought. I have a different way of working, but if the job is done on time and to a satisfactory standard I don't believe there's a problem."
They continually tell me that they love the fact I'm different, but try to iron this out at every opportunity. The book is now open on how long I'll last.
"It has recently been brought to my attention that there are certain areas of company policy that you are not following sufficiently.
Dress Code
1) Wellies are not permitted - even on casual Friday.
2) Stripey or excessively patterned tights are not permitted.
3) Crimped hair is not permitted
4) Generally, your dress on business days is too casual. Sometimes your tops are cut too low and your skirts are too short. This is not professional and does not create the right impression.
Organisation & Planning
Although you always get all your work done on time and to an exceptionally high standard, you are not organised in the way you go about it.
Please do all you can to remedy these points as soon as possible."
Oh my God. How ridiculous is that? I was stunned. There's nothing in the rules about crimped hair, patterened tights or even wellies. It's all at the manager's discretion. Admittedly, the wellies I wore the previous Friday on dress-down day may have been pushing it, but it's not like they're mucky, farm boots. They're knee-high, red rubber boots and they looked fab. The child in me now wants to find a pair of knee-high, red leather boots and wear those instead.
I immediately sent an email back, in which I stated that I believed I was one of the best put-together people in the whole department. There are a few people who wear the same clothes everyday (including the same shirt/blouse) - gross!
I went on: "One of the many problems with this company is that there are far too many people who concern themselves with being overly organised and not enough people capable of creative or independent thought. I have a different way of working, but if the job is done on time and to a satisfactory standard I don't believe there's a problem."
They continually tell me that they love the fact I'm different, but try to iron this out at every opportunity. The book is now open on how long I'll last.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree
My Christmas tree has arrived. And it is spectacular. For the last few years, I've bought a real tree, but this time I've gone artificial. There are two reasons for this: First, the unavoidable pine shreddage that happens when trying to evict the real tree from my flat was something I didn't want to go through again; and, more importantly, real trees just aren't perfect enough. I like all the lights and decorations to hang exactly where I want them to and real trees just don't play ball.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
Monday, November 20, 2006
I don't feel like dancing (yeah right!)
I was supposed to have Friday off work, but deadlines (and a grumpy boss) meant that I had to drag myself in. To make things worse, I've got myself involved in some sort of crazy crimping charity challenge. A few of my colleagues have pledged very sizeable amounts of cash to charity if I can convince 10 senior managers to sport crimps before Christmas. Badges saying "Nice bit of crimpette" are already in production. My usually robust confidence has deserted me, but I don't want to walk away from a challenge. What's a girl to do?
Saturday was Scissor Sisters day and we headed to Newcastle. I met Kerry and her colleagues Sam and Alysoun at 10am, and headed for the bus station. When the time came to board, we were met by two ex-bouncers who seemed to be pissed off that they were now driving the National Express up and down to Hull everyday. "Yougothotfidinair?" the fat one asked. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was asking because I wasn't allowed hot food on the bus or because he wanted to eat it, but I was slightly offended. If the image I'm projecting is that of a girl carrying pies and pasties around in her bag then I've gone seriously wrong somewhere. "No", I managed, setting my job quite firmly. I then attempted to board the bus. "Yer bag goes in the hold hen." Clearly my (genuine) LV weekend bag was doing me no favours and I'd been identified as a chav. Kerry nudged me and started feigning shock "Don't you know who I am? This is an LV sweetie."
I decided to challenge them and said I'd really prefer to take my bag on board. "Naw hen. Bag goes in the hold. Ye ca be drinking alcohol on the coach." Fuck - now I look like a bucky swigging, pie guzzling schemie. Don't Louis Vuitton realise the hassle their luggage causes respectable passengers on the National Express? No, right enough, it is something of a contradiction in terms. The bus then started to fill up with genuine schemies and the drivers revelled in the opportunity to be bouncers once again. One guy was asked to get back off the bus, whereupon the drivers told him that he had to "get onto this bus like a human being and not an eejit". Kerry started laughing and remarked that it was like being on a school trip. "Do you know what would be great," I said. "What?" "If instead of a book and this week's Economist in my bag, I had a little stove and a wok. Why no Mr Bus Driver, I don't have any hot food - (aside) not yet anyway, mwahahaha!"
We got into Newcastle at 1pm and got settled into the Hotel - which meant that Kerry and I had a snooze and ignored Sam knocking at our room door.My new Decleor eye mask went down a treat. Whereas Sinead had previously told me to refrain from wearing eye masks when rooming with her ("I can't sleep when I know you're wearing that weirdo eye mask, it's freaking me out."), Kerry laughed and said: "Check you, Joan Collins!"
After consuming a bottle of wine with dinner and ordering about 10 taxis to take us to the arena, we were there. The French Maid sketch from Tittybangbang ('Don't look at me, I'm shy!) had caught on as a source of great hilarity in the group. We repeated ad nauseum in our merry state. Upon seeing large numbers of gay and lesbian couples in the foyer at the gig, I altered this to: "Don't look at me, I'm bisexual, lesbian or gay." Kerry was mortified. "Shhhhh!"
The show was great with an excellent finale of 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' and 'Filthy Gorgeous.' The audience interaction was really good with lots of laughs - 'Laura' was dedicated to Laura Bush, and Ana Matronic wished every woman in the audience 45 minutes of uninterrupted cunnilingus. She wasn't clear about whether this was during the gig or afterwards, but I was touched by what I'm sure was a very genuine thought. And Jake was far too fanciable for very gay man. I'm beginning to worry about myself.
From the arena we took the slowest taxi ride ever to Buffalo Joe's. I wasn't expecting a great deal, but ended up having the best night out I've had in ages. The place was heaving, but there was plenty of bar staff. It was even better when four sexy half naked guys got up onto the bar and started dancing. I was shockingly thirsty and ordered the first soft drink I spied, which turned out to be 'Shark' energy drink. What the hey, it went down quickly and was very refreshing.
Upstairs there was enough room to dance. Dangerous given my penchant for shaking it all about, being merry from the wine and wired from the Shark. I went for it, unashamedly. Some people who were also dancing stopped to give me more space, then started cheering me on. Kerry and the others were bent double with laughter. At one point, a bald guy approached me. I stopped him short with one hand and said: "Don't look at me, I'm shy."
A little while later, a very nice Dubliner called Graham came over to tell me that I was "very, very lovely." He gave it a good go keeping up with me and didn't seem to be put off by my dancing like an absolute arse. If anything, he seemed to really like it. At about 01:30 we decided to head back to the hotel. Graham pleaded with me to stay and he made some excellent points in his argument. Alas, I decided it was not the night to claim Ana's kind wish for me.
Back in the room, Kerry and I chatted over our brilliant night. "When we come back next year, I bet they'll all be dancing like that," she laughed. I'd love to find out. Another trip is definitely on the cards for next year.
Saturday was Scissor Sisters day and we headed to Newcastle. I met Kerry and her colleagues Sam and Alysoun at 10am, and headed for the bus station. When the time came to board, we were met by two ex-bouncers who seemed to be pissed off that they were now driving the National Express up and down to Hull everyday. "Yougothotfidinair?" the fat one asked. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was asking because I wasn't allowed hot food on the bus or because he wanted to eat it, but I was slightly offended. If the image I'm projecting is that of a girl carrying pies and pasties around in her bag then I've gone seriously wrong somewhere. "No", I managed, setting my job quite firmly. I then attempted to board the bus. "Yer bag goes in the hold hen." Clearly my (genuine) LV weekend bag was doing me no favours and I'd been identified as a chav. Kerry nudged me and started feigning shock "Don't you know who I am? This is an LV sweetie."
I decided to challenge them and said I'd really prefer to take my bag on board. "Naw hen. Bag goes in the hold. Ye ca be drinking alcohol on the coach." Fuck - now I look like a bucky swigging, pie guzzling schemie. Don't Louis Vuitton realise the hassle their luggage causes respectable passengers on the National Express? No, right enough, it is something of a contradiction in terms. The bus then started to fill up with genuine schemies and the drivers revelled in the opportunity to be bouncers once again. One guy was asked to get back off the bus, whereupon the drivers told him that he had to "get onto this bus like a human being and not an eejit". Kerry started laughing and remarked that it was like being on a school trip. "Do you know what would be great," I said. "What?" "If instead of a book and this week's Economist in my bag, I had a little stove and a wok. Why no Mr Bus Driver, I don't have any hot food - (aside) not yet anyway, mwahahaha!"
We got into Newcastle at 1pm and got settled into the Hotel - which meant that Kerry and I had a snooze and ignored Sam knocking at our room door.My new Decleor eye mask went down a treat. Whereas Sinead had previously told me to refrain from wearing eye masks when rooming with her ("I can't sleep when I know you're wearing that weirdo eye mask, it's freaking me out."), Kerry laughed and said: "Check you, Joan Collins!"
After consuming a bottle of wine with dinner and ordering about 10 taxis to take us to the arena, we were there. The French Maid sketch from Tittybangbang ('Don't look at me, I'm shy!) had caught on as a source of great hilarity in the group. We repeated ad nauseum in our merry state. Upon seeing large numbers of gay and lesbian couples in the foyer at the gig, I altered this to: "Don't look at me, I'm bisexual, lesbian or gay." Kerry was mortified. "Shhhhh!"
The show was great with an excellent finale of 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' and 'Filthy Gorgeous.' The audience interaction was really good with lots of laughs - 'Laura' was dedicated to Laura Bush, and Ana Matronic wished every woman in the audience 45 minutes of uninterrupted cunnilingus. She wasn't clear about whether this was during the gig or afterwards, but I was touched by what I'm sure was a very genuine thought. And Jake was far too fanciable for very gay man. I'm beginning to worry about myself.
From the arena we took the slowest taxi ride ever to Buffalo Joe's. I wasn't expecting a great deal, but ended up having the best night out I've had in ages. The place was heaving, but there was plenty of bar staff. It was even better when four sexy half naked guys got up onto the bar and started dancing. I was shockingly thirsty and ordered the first soft drink I spied, which turned out to be 'Shark' energy drink. What the hey, it went down quickly and was very refreshing.
Upstairs there was enough room to dance. Dangerous given my penchant for shaking it all about, being merry from the wine and wired from the Shark. I went for it, unashamedly. Some people who were also dancing stopped to give me more space, then started cheering me on. Kerry and the others were bent double with laughter. At one point, a bald guy approached me. I stopped him short with one hand and said: "Don't look at me, I'm shy."
A little while later, a very nice Dubliner called Graham came over to tell me that I was "very, very lovely." He gave it a good go keeping up with me and didn't seem to be put off by my dancing like an absolute arse. If anything, he seemed to really like it. At about 01:30 we decided to head back to the hotel. Graham pleaded with me to stay and he made some excellent points in his argument. Alas, I decided it was not the night to claim Ana's kind wish for me.
Back in the room, Kerry and I chatted over our brilliant night. "When we come back next year, I bet they'll all be dancing like that," she laughed. I'd love to find out. Another trip is definitely on the cards for next year.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Au revoir Ambassador
Apparently the Ambassador isn't having a dinner party this year.
He's packed up and gone, without even the hint of a goodbye. I must say, I never expected such bad manners from an old-school gent of the Ambassador's calibre. And what do we have in his place? Some Bondesque silhouettes vaulting GM Ferrero Rocher to a Cilla Black tune (no, not Surprise Surprise - though I think that might have been more fitting. The unexpected certainly hit me between the eyes. That's the surprise you see ... enough).
Yes it's much cooler, but I loved the cheese. Besides, there's no conclusion to the Ambassador's story. I mean, did he die? At one of his renowned parties? Admittedly, his character was severely under-developed, but I would have at least liked some conclusion. Now I'll be forever wondering whether or not anyone ever said: "Monsieur, with these Ferrero Rocher you are really taking de piss."
Everyone's gone Bond this season. What about that M&S ad? Twiggy, snowmobiles, Ice Bars and Dame Shirley doing Pink - fantastic.With this advert M&S are really spoiling us. That said, I still don't get the story of Twiggy and the younger models. I voiced this at work earlier this week. Anne assures me they're all just friends, but I'm not convinced. To me, and I've thought this from the very first ads, there's just something slightly off about Twiggy and all those younger women. I see Twiggy as a Fagin type character overseeing her younger charges. I think they're thieves. The new ad just proves that they've exhausted the pockets and purses of the American tourists on the London buses and have moved on to bigger and better things. High class jewel thieves - that's what they've graduated to. I tell you, Dame Shirley left the ice bar sans earrings that night! Twiggy? A jewel thief mastermind? Who'd have thought it?
He's packed up and gone, without even the hint of a goodbye. I must say, I never expected such bad manners from an old-school gent of the Ambassador's calibre. And what do we have in his place? Some Bondesque silhouettes vaulting GM Ferrero Rocher to a Cilla Black tune (no, not Surprise Surprise - though I think that might have been more fitting. The unexpected certainly hit me between the eyes. That's the surprise you see ... enough).
Yes it's much cooler, but I loved the cheese. Besides, there's no conclusion to the Ambassador's story. I mean, did he die? At one of his renowned parties? Admittedly, his character was severely under-developed, but I would have at least liked some conclusion. Now I'll be forever wondering whether or not anyone ever said: "Monsieur, with these Ferrero Rocher you are really taking de piss."
Everyone's gone Bond this season. What about that M&S ad? Twiggy, snowmobiles, Ice Bars and Dame Shirley doing Pink - fantastic.With this advert M&S are really spoiling us. That said, I still don't get the story of Twiggy and the younger models. I voiced this at work earlier this week. Anne assures me they're all just friends, but I'm not convinced. To me, and I've thought this from the very first ads, there's just something slightly off about Twiggy and all those younger women. I see Twiggy as a Fagin type character overseeing her younger charges. I think they're thieves. The new ad just proves that they've exhausted the pockets and purses of the American tourists on the London buses and have moved on to bigger and better things. High class jewel thieves - that's what they've graduated to. I tell you, Dame Shirley left the ice bar sans earrings that night! Twiggy? A jewel thief mastermind? Who'd have thought it?
Friday, November 10, 2006
Claws and crimps
Life? Manic? Yes! And not in the good way. Work has been so crazy that I've taken to avoiding my email and my phone like the plague. In some ways it's good because it's only ever pishy little stuff that comes via those channels, but in others it's bad because I now have something of a 'diva' attitude towards my tasks. "If it's not even remotely interesting baby, I ain't touching it."
Yesterday I ran a future planning session for my favourite clients. It went really well and I only mentioned taking my clothes off once. Today, I was filming in Leith. Oh there's no end to the glamour. A couple of months back I'd drawn up some storyboards (complete with stick men) in response to a client's request to make a film, and today it all became reality. My left hand was required for one of the scenes. The very same left hand that had an confidence-shattering experience in this month's company magazine.
Somehow I ended up being centre-spread. There are a number of things wrong with the picture:
1) It's enormous
2) It's a cut-out and as such is bereft of context
3) The photographer shot it from below
4) My left arm is outstretched and, as a result of point 4, appears hideously disproportionate to the rest of my body
5) I am wearing a (hideously disproportionate) chunky, gold bracelet on my (hideously disproportionate)left wrist.
6) I pity da fool.
The only saving grace is that there are staples and a crease down my face so people may not know it's me (I pray. Oh dear God, do I pray).
My colleagues have now nicknamed me 'the claw' and do the full on Toy Story thing every time I open my mouth.
Anyway, I saw today's film as a chance to recover. I was required to stack £2 coins. It doesn't sound very difficult, but I hadn't factored on stage fright. My hand began shaking like Sue-Ellen in the early years. I had to do four takes - dismal.
It was really interesting seeing the film come together. I also had to sit in on the voice-over recording which was really cool. The guy had an amazingly smooth voice, which reminded me of just how nasal mine is.
The last few weeks have been really good for catching up with my friends. Jen (who incidentally was pished at her work today)and I had a marathon phone sesh which was cynical yet optimistic. I also spoke to Kerry, who informed me that one of her budgies has 'croaked'and that she'd bought a replacement which is 'much brawer like'. We're heading off to see the Scissor Sisters in Newcastle next week and are trying to decide what to wear. I'm definitely going to crimp my hair. I've had crimped hair every day this week and it's been attracting a lot of attention. Jayne said:"Oh my goodness. I've not seen a crimp since 1987." To which I replied avec great gusto: "Well Jayne, you'll be seeing lot more of them as it's a key part of the look for this season. And as everyone around here takes their fashion leads from me, expect to see plenty more crimped heads around here next week." She laughed, but in a nervous kind of way.
Sinead emailed with a subject heading of "Colin Fry - Mon 13th, Playhouse", so we're going to see him. I'm looking forward to hearing repeated use of the word "passed-over". On the phone last night, Sinead told me that she'd sent the same email to Joleen and she'd written back saying: "Great! When & where?" Prone to Hulkesque outbursts, Sinead resisted and replied: "Mon 13th :) at the Playhouse :)". Well done that girl!
That's enough from me. I'm off to work on my fireside tartan.
Yesterday I ran a future planning session for my favourite clients. It went really well and I only mentioned taking my clothes off once. Today, I was filming in Leith. Oh there's no end to the glamour. A couple of months back I'd drawn up some storyboards (complete with stick men) in response to a client's request to make a film, and today it all became reality. My left hand was required for one of the scenes. The very same left hand that had an confidence-shattering experience in this month's company magazine.
Somehow I ended up being centre-spread. There are a number of things wrong with the picture:
1) It's enormous
2) It's a cut-out and as such is bereft of context
3) The photographer shot it from below
4) My left arm is outstretched and, as a result of point 4, appears hideously disproportionate to the rest of my body
5) I am wearing a (hideously disproportionate) chunky, gold bracelet on my (hideously disproportionate)left wrist.
6) I pity da fool.
The only saving grace is that there are staples and a crease down my face so people may not know it's me (I pray. Oh dear God, do I pray).
My colleagues have now nicknamed me 'the claw' and do the full on Toy Story thing every time I open my mouth.
Anyway, I saw today's film as a chance to recover. I was required to stack £2 coins. It doesn't sound very difficult, but I hadn't factored on stage fright. My hand began shaking like Sue-Ellen in the early years. I had to do four takes - dismal.
It was really interesting seeing the film come together. I also had to sit in on the voice-over recording which was really cool. The guy had an amazingly smooth voice, which reminded me of just how nasal mine is.
The last few weeks have been really good for catching up with my friends. Jen (who incidentally was pished at her work today)and I had a marathon phone sesh which was cynical yet optimistic. I also spoke to Kerry, who informed me that one of her budgies has 'croaked'and that she'd bought a replacement which is 'much brawer like'. We're heading off to see the Scissor Sisters in Newcastle next week and are trying to decide what to wear. I'm definitely going to crimp my hair. I've had crimped hair every day this week and it's been attracting a lot of attention. Jayne said:"Oh my goodness. I've not seen a crimp since 1987." To which I replied avec great gusto: "Well Jayne, you'll be seeing lot more of them as it's a key part of the look for this season. And as everyone around here takes their fashion leads from me, expect to see plenty more crimped heads around here next week." She laughed, but in a nervous kind of way.
Sinead emailed with a subject heading of "Colin Fry - Mon 13th, Playhouse", so we're going to see him. I'm looking forward to hearing repeated use of the word "passed-over". On the phone last night, Sinead told me that she'd sent the same email to Joleen and she'd written back saying: "Great! When & where?" Prone to Hulkesque outbursts, Sinead resisted and replied: "Mon 13th :) at the Playhouse :)". Well done that girl!
That's enough from me. I'm off to work on my fireside tartan.
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