(A reader writes: "After being drip-fed the ins and
outs of your life, I've run out. Nothing for November and it's nearly
December!! Don't stop when I've just found you, puullease. What's going
on? Have you found a nest yet? What's that thin and languid ex of yours
doing? Tell, tell, tell..."
[Suits You, Ma'am (work-safe)]
Oh my, you shoulda seen me. No makeup, obviously, I mean I haven't even
got washed today - who needs to get washed when they're working from home,
reviewing records and writing about nerdy white hip-hop boys and taking
the newspapers to the recycling and emptying the bin and going to the
supermarket and doing the washing-up? And the hair was curiously and unusually
flattened, because yesterday after washing it I put it in plaits when
it was still damp, and they've smoothed it down. But still. I rocked this
interview suit trial session like a motherfucker. High heels (I hate heels),
black trousers artfully cut, (it's a job interview, they want normal,
they want a black suit, that's what they'll get then) a black sleeveless
slash-cut top with a diagonal dark green slender stripe, a fitted black
jacket. Black black black as the ace of spades and my heart. So I'm rockin'
the trial suit look and my sister is complainin' that her sister has been
abducted, and someone's put this post Trinny and Susanna makeover victim
in her place. Oh and this bag. This black bag my grandma gave me, with
a silver clasp. It's big enough for a notebook or even my i-book to slip
into, but small enough not to look like everything and the kitchen sink
So here I am rockin' the look like a motherfuckin' freak. it's so odd
to look 'professional lady' instead of 'freelance tramp'. And Phillip
has said he wants to meet me in the suit and I was thinking "no way
dude" but when i was twisting and turning in front of the mirror
i thought, my god, in a suit like this I could do anything. I could be
Wendy Kroy, you know, Linda Fiorentina in the Last Seduction, all over
a boy like a praying mantis, pinning him obscenely to a wire fence.
But then I came to the computer and read the job description again and
noticed that you need immense familiarity with some Microsoft Content
Management System (why can't they use Dreamweaver like everyone else,
the fucks?) that I can't even download due to being on a far superior
Macintosh, so now I can't even blag it, and now I'm thinking, suit or
no suit, Trinny and Susanna stylee or none, I ain't travellin' down to
East Mofo Grinstead for some interview I ain't got a rat's ass in hell's
chance to get. Damn.
[yeah, very funny ha ha]
Ha ha. You can wear the best suit in the world to your job interview in
East Mofo Grinstead, and you can chat on the phone on the way down like
some rich bitch, and you can break your ankles in heels all you like,
but either you're the kind of person who will stand up after the interview
is over to shake hands with the interviewers with your flies open, or
you ain't. And I, of course, am. And not only that but you're either the
type of person who will then skillfully button your long jacket or subtly
hold your bag in front of said open fly and just style it out, or you're
the kind of person who will yell 'OH WHOOPS! MY FLIES ARE UNDONE! HA HA!'
and do them up in full view of your interviewers. Heh. I am such
[nag nag nag, bitch whine moan, whinge and groan. AGAIN.]
So join me as we groove towards the FOURTH chequeless week of my life.
Freelancing, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME? I have been forced to become
the freelance hellraiser. That chick in accounts must be so sick of this
futile little-girl voice pouring into her ear down the telephone wire,
demanding to know the whereabouts of invoice motherfucking twenty-eight.
Have you ever laid around and fantastised about shopping? I'm not talking
fantasising about those Gucci heeled sandals with the ribbons that wind
to your knees. I'm just talking about fantasising about going to the fucking
supermarket and buying things: bread with seeds in, a few bottles
of wine, some aubergines and sweet potatoes and peppers. Some moisturiser
to replace the Netto own-brand shite that gives you redness and tingling
and pain and spots. Your favourite brand of Charles Worthington hair mousse,
instead of some Salon Selectives stuff you dug out the back of the bathroom
cabinet at your ex-boyfriend's house - but we're not gonna talk about
the ex-boyfriend's house because right now, we're all about the cat-possessed
council estate flat. Last night at De La Soul they wanted us to sing 'I
love my life, I love myself' - bless their cotton, smiley, fatboy little
rapper socks - and I just stood there with my arms crossed and my lips
pursed. Fuck that! I don't love my life! I hate the motherfucker! Loving
my life right now would be like the most obscene masochistic pathetic
shit, and I ain't down with that. Fuck that. Fuck my life, in the ass,
without lube, extremely hard. B O L L O C K S.
[time to bust out the special champagne, fah sheezy!]
They were petrified there'd be bootleggers, so instead of sending
out the Snoop Dogg album, they decided to hold a listening party at a
bar in Soho. He said there would be free drinks and snacks so we went.
We didn't even notice the record was playing, so busy were were sipping
giant goblet-sized glasses of red wine and licking the satay-grease from
our fingertips. A man with glasses and a Morrisey quiff and a checked
shirt - he probably worked for Q or Uncut or Mojo or some other old-man
mag - told us to 'shhhh!' We were aghast. 'Y-you mean this is the album?
You mean someone actually cares?' We moved down the other end of the bar
and proceeded to abuse the facilities and the free drinks and the suedette
banquettes we were perched upon.
Then despite being slightly intoxicated I had to go and write a short
thing about why I was so suitable for the big yuppie career job, so we
went to an internet cafe where Phillip promptly fell asleep. When i read
back my proposal it was like this weird hybrid of professionalism and
Miss AMP-speak: I'd spelled 'experience' with an x and no e at the beginning,
and inserted extra, faux-naive 'the' s all over the place: 'I am very
xperienced at the writing of the effective copy'. DOH. So professional.
Anyway, then there was the flies thing, and there was the me fucking up
the test they gave me thing, and just blethering my way through it. And
there was me confessing to being 'Miss AMP' and Bizarre being this fetish
mag and Seethru being this total drugs trip, and what kind of squareass
website wants some drugs fetish miss amp biznatch toning and honing their
copy and hassling their old men for updates? But somehow, fuck knows how,
unless it's a cosmic joke, or, as I suspected this afternoon, a VERY LONG
DREAM.... then, as of 2nd December, I am employed to work for a highly
naff organisation in wheredafuck East mofo Grinstead, for the not-very-meagre-sum
of let's just say TONS. whup whup!!!!
[It's Round Robin Time!]
When you haven't updated for a while, the temptation is to do
a round robin, isn't there? Must. Resist. (Thus spake the girl who just
smoked a cigarette in bed. Thus spake the girl who ate a Crunchie yesterday
on the way back from the post office when she wasn't even hungry. (I know!
like, *gasp*.) Thus spake the girl who cannot resist going into every
WHSmiths she sees to peek at her feature in The Face or to just stand
there and idly read the cover lines and think 'I did that.' Thus spake
the girl who spent a grand total of fifty pounds in charity shops in East
Grinstead and West Ealing over the space of two days. Thus spake a ginormass
hypocrite, because I'm just about to...)
Ok. Start with what you know. Start from where you are. I'm still in bed
at 10.30 (yyyesss!) and am listening to the Hot Hot Heat album, which
was just delivered through my letterbox. I have just eaten a bowl of the
attractively named Fruit'n'Fibre. The kittens are on the balcony. My face
bears a glaring red scratch from the tabby who decided to run across my
head about fifty times this morning. Thanks m7.
I have just rec'd a phone call from a client informing me that they cannot
pay me my cheque because they 'lost' it, which is kinda not particularly
skill because if I don't pay BT £150 TODAY they will cut us off.
ARGH FUCKING FREELANCE BOLLOCKS HELL. Freelancing sucks. Don't let anyone
tell you it don't. Yeah, sure, you don't have to get up at some ungodly
hour and if you wanna get trashed on record company money on any night
of the week you can - but all that really means is MISERY, POVERTY, PENURY,
DEPRESSION AND TEARS. So don't buy it.
Luckily for me I now have a dandy brand spanking new OFFICE JOB. I have
worked there for two days and start properly on Monday 02 Dec. This office
job is dead goddamn easy Web Editing shit (god bless the internet for
giving me a career and a job title! 'Experienced Web Editor And Copywriter'
my CV sez), the same shit as I was doing at the breast cancer charity
for six months (chasing copy, generating editing copy, populating a website),
only for loads more money! Damn!
It's amazing how being ludicrously highly paid can erase any doubts you
may previously have had about working in an office, or travelling to the
middle of the countryside on the 8.08 train (or even the 7.22, earlyness
fanz!) or wearing a smart black suit and high heels instead of jeans and
Converse. Fuck yeah. I hereby demand to be extremely highly paid for all
my jobs in the future. Fuck 10p a word, fuck being too poor to even go
to the CHAZZA. Fuck sleeping on my sister's floor. Fuck looking like a
tramp. Fuck getting the phone cut off. Fuck begging clients for my pay
every single time. I'm going to be rich. Yippee!
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