(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..."

[2002-11-14@11:01 p.m.]
[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 type thang.

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.

[2002-11-17@2:23 p.m.]
[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 an asshole!

[2002-11-18@11:32 a.m.]
[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.

[2002-11-18@1:51 p.m.]
[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!!!!

[2002-11-28@9:56 a.m.]
[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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