Agent of Distraction ….

A few moons ago the universe did something pretty funky. Venus was in Pluto, the Sun was in retrograde, the stars had aligned and got me an agent; my own personal Charon to slide me down that dulcet river of advertising.

I’d always hoped my agent would be a short, elderly gentleman, preferably Jewish and in New York, but beggars can’t be choosers. I have a kismet bulge, who, as a mystical buffer I assume to be proficient in telepathy and other forms of subversive communication. My kismet bulge did however, say she’d just call me to get in touch.

From this I deduced that all I had to do for my life to miraculously change, for gold to rain down from the happy heavens was, wait for her to call me and get me a job. I waited, and one week later she called me.

She’d got me a casting.

Having been a producer in a past life, and therefore on the other side of castings, I was aware of the potential to be ridiculed at this casting, and so I felt a little trepidation, but came to the conclusion that the ridicule was worth it for all that bullion I was about to get. I confirmed my attendance.

The night before the casting I went to bed early and listened to the closest thing I have to whale song, Norse Myths and Legends (awesome). I slept soundly, and by soundly I mean badly. The next morning revolved entirely around the casting, nothing else mattered, this was definitely a big deal. I turned up to the Spotlight Casting rooms early, looking as preened as I’ve ever looked (I bought hair serum) and sat down to fill out the form I was given by the receptionist (I had had to alert her to my presence, she wasn’t very tuned in, universally speaking).

I waited not nervously, but anxiously for about 10 minutes, then a faceless voice called from the next room  …

“JADE FITTON.”

“Shit. I’ve got that name, that’s probably me,” I thought.

I got up and was guided in to the steamy bowels of the casting room by a young gentleman who will be partaking in this experience with me. I hadn’t been forewarned I was going to be interacting with someone from the opposite sex, but I’m a really versatile actress, so I took it in my stride.

The young gentleman was quite good looking but because he was at this casting I found him so depressing I could’ve cried.

Casting Number One – Orange

This first casting was for an Orange advert being released in Romania and I was being cast as an ‘Amelie-esque’ character, aka ‘cute and clumsy’.  The casting director informed me that the young gentleman was to be my boyfriend, lucky guy. In order to showcase our relationship we had to do all the things couples normally do; we had to mime smelling roses, mime looking at ducks and hardest of all, mime an atmosphere of the most divine and mystical of the worlds occurrences, love.

Oh no sorry, I forgot, I had to mime cycling a bike.

I didn’t get the job. I did take it personally. This awkward experience was an orgasm compared to what was to come ….

Casting Two – Heinz Tomato Soup

They were looking for another “Amelie-esque “ character (who knew I as so ‘cute and clumsy’). In the mood board they’d insinuated this was to be a real classy advert, Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffanies’ was the reference. I walked in to the casting room looking the part, class incarnate baby. Hire me UP.

In the room a rather large woman sits on a large blue sofa. Another woman sits a few feet away on a stool, camera angled in my direction. The large woman says …

“Hi Jade, if you could stand on the green cross.”

I am blind and nervous and can’t see the green cross so just stand in the vague direction her eyes jutted at (not the green cross).

“No, on the green cross please.”

“Sorry I’m a little blind, where is the green cross?”

“Right there.”

She points again with her eyes and this time I see it. It’s about two feet to my left. I stand on it and am instructed to go through the motions. Name, agent, profiles, side to side. I do this. It’s going well. Next she indicates to a bowl on the other side of the room …

“We brought a bowl in because we thought it’d be helpful…”

“For mime eating soup” I think.

“… If you could actually wet your face, as if you’d been in the rain.”

“So I’m, like, apple bobbing?”

“No, no. If you just splash your face a bit …”

“Oh ok”

I splash my face a bit; I think I’m pretty wet.

“Is this ok?”

“No, really wet your face!”

I feel a failure already. I didn’t splash enough water on my face. She must think I’m a ridiculous pussy. So in an effort to redeem myself I really go to town with the water, now my face is dripping. She instructs me to go over to the corner of the room and I become aware I am craning my chin forward to avoid wetting the mac, kind of defeating the purpose of wearing a mac, but some strange instinct comes in to play and renders me incapable of allowing any drips to fall on me. I imagine I looked a lot like Keira Knightly in ‘A Dangerous Method’ for the first few minutes.

She instructs me to go over to the other corner of the room and …

“Walk in to your house, relishing the novelty of the rain outside and the warmth inside, then take off your mac and leave it on the chair.”

I do this and feel I do this rather brilliantly. Rain relished, hands rubbed, coat on chair.

“Now look in to the camera and pretend it’s a mirror. You see your reflection and are surprised yet amused at your appearance, your mascara’s a bit smeared but let’s have fun with it.”

Oh man I love fun, but this isn’t fun, I am starting to find the experience embarrassing. I look in to the black shark-like eye of the camera lens and have as much fun looking at it as I possibly can.

“Great, now start making faces at yourself,” she says.

I start making faces at the camera, I don’t like making faces. I’m starting to find this experience really embarrassing.

“Now if you could take off your top as you get ready to go in to the bath”.

Oh great. This sounds familiar. Make me feel real small then ask me to take off my clothes.

I don’t require much persuasion and I take off my top. I am wearing a bra today, thank Christ.

“Now, you look in the mirror”

I look at the bastard camera.

“And you start playing with your body.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just play with your body”.

“Oh. Ok. Right. Like … move around?”

“Yeah but really play with yourself, then the mirror will turn in to one of those fair ground mirrors and you play with that.”

I stare in to the black hole of the camera lense, it’s vacuum sucking my soul out of my terrorized eyes.

Fuck.ing.hell.

“Ok. Yeah. Sure.” I hear myself say. My soul has left my body and is watching my mouth moving from the corner of the room, and it’s cringing. My fucking soul is cringing.

I start wiggling around in my bra. I hate wiggling around in my bra. I get so embarrassed I don’t know what to do and before I know it. I’ve just pulled double guns out of my pockets and shot them at the camera.

“Ok. Thank you. That’s enough now.”

“Sure, sure.”

The director and camerawoman ignore me and start talking about what coffee they had for lunch, I don’t know if I’m supposed to leave straight away …

“Can I put my top on?”

Of course I can put my top on.

I scramble to put my top on, getting arm in the wrong sleeve, brain slowly destroying any confidence I have left as I leave the room.

The director blows me a kiss. I mean, what the fuck?

I bump in to the doorframe as I leave. Then smoke two cigarettes one after the other. (Friends and family, this was before I quit, still not a puff).

I saw the advert on television recently. At no point does the majority of that happen.

Casting Three – Post Office

Fate and public transport ensured I successfully made it to the grotty Hackney casting rooms for this next casting. This one should be simple. I’m just playing a girl watching T.V.

I go in, and am instructed to casually sit down. The director’s the first vaguely attractive director I’ve had since these started.

Must. Impress. Vaguely. Attractive. Director.

He sits down and observes my position on the chair; I have casually swung my legs over the arms of the chair. I would never do this in real life but I must at least act casual. Uptight doesn’t sell stamps; or life insurance, or whatever we’re selling here.

He approves my position and says …

“Now, pretend you’ve drifted off watching T.V then something … like an explosion … wakes you up for a few seconds then you go back to sleep”

I have done this in real life a thousand times, every time I try to watch ‘Blade Runner’ in fact. Piece of piss.

I do it.

“Yeah that’s great but if you could act a little more surprised when you wake up …”

I felt his direction was a little on the nose, but I take bad directions like a little Gretel and do it again. I am seriously surprised by the explosion.

“That was great, thanks”

That’s it? I feel used. Mediocre. I get up and move to leave as he says …

“Have you got a tattoo?”

I do. It wasn’t and never will be my finest hour.

“Oh yeah, but it’s a bit shit really…” I say as I back away towards the door.

“Let’s see …”He says insistently.

“Oh no, you don’t want to it’s just stars.”

“I’ve got stars …”

“Then you’re an idiot,” I think.

I reluctantly show him as I continue my quest for the door.

“You should cover up,” he says.

“What?” I think. Firstly, I couldn’t be wearing more clothes and secondly, you were the one who told me to roll up my sleeves. Confused indignence has obviously washed over my face as composure seems only to orbit my personality and then, once in a blue moon, eclipses itself.  Either way, it rarely sees the light of day.

“With tattoos …” he elaborates, having read the confused indignence of my face.

“Ohhhh I thought you were implying I wasn’t wearing enough clothes …” I reply.

He laughs, so does the girl in the corner with the camera. I turn red and walk out the door. Another successful casting under my belt. Yes.

 

Casting Four – Pepsi

Somewhere in the universe stars are exploding, planets are forming, comets are colliding; I am back at the Spotlight Casting Rooms and in the waiting room on a surprisingly warm late September afternoon. I am being cast for the part of ‘Traveler Girl’. How hip and cool of me. For I have been traveling, I am a girl, I am wearing denim cut offs again; you’d never know when I went to India I didn’t find myself.

I wait.

They’re running very late, which was good news as so was I. So late though, that when it comes to the last 4 girls (of which I am one) we are all called in to the room to be given our directions at the same time, to save time, but the time is already lost.

We are then called back in to the room one by one. I am third. Lucky for some.

I go through the motions, name, agent, profiles. Then have the instructions repeated to me – she sees potential. She hasn’t seen me in motion yet.

“So now you’re looking across the scenery and you follow a trail of Chinese tourists with your eye line, then you see what we will be the drink vending machine and a wishing well, and you react with surprise and then excitedly tell your friends.”

This could go awfully wrong I think. Ignore the casual racism. Be casual. Underplay it. I mime scanning the Brazilian horizon, searching, following those Chinese tourists and then I see the machine and the well and mime excitement …

“Oh fuck” I hear myself saying, excitedly.

The casting director interrupts me now excitedly smiling at my imaginary friends.

“Yes, no, you can’t say fuck”.

“God no sorry, got a bit carried away”.

She laughs.

“No that’s fine, so if we can do it again and just look excited, don’t actually say anything”.

“Ok sure”.

Just look excited I think. Pretend someone’s just told you marijuana’s been legalized I think.

So I’m there, scanning the horizon, checking out the Chinese tourists, there we go … and oh my god one of them’s just told me marijuana’s been legalized. I react accordingly and in my excitement mouth the words …

“Oh wow.”

I am allowed to excitedly relay this information to my imaginary friends this time. She then says.

“And one more time and this time if we can have you just not saying anything”.

It is only in writing this down I appreciate the busy woman’s patience with me.

I do it again, but take it down a notch, pretend someone’s just told you you’re having someone’s love child. So, horizon, Chinese tourists, Chinese tourists …. Chinese tourist informing me “You’re having someone’s love child, congratulations”. I allow smug surprise wash over me, and tell my friends.

“Great.” She says.

“Great.” I think.

“Now take this bottle of water and turn so we have your profile and have a few glugs of the bottle.”

I know what this is supposed to look like, I can picture it, I’ve seen the adverts. And the adverts didn’t look like this. I glug, I know it’s a little lack-luster, there wasn’t enough hunger in that thirst for Pepsi. I proceed to leave and head in to China town, I buy some Softmints.

Casting Five – Cruise Ship

I get an email from my agent, by this point I realise she is saving the telepathy for the big jobs, as this one is a casting for a cruise ship. Great. I already know I’m wrong for it but rearrange my life in order to confirm my attendance anyway, because you never know. Chance and possibility are wonderful if timid little wallflowers.

I arrive, it’s in a soulless church off Tottenham Court road, and the waiting room is a corridor. There is no receptionist to buffer me in to this world. Just a pile of paper, one of them to be mine, to pick up and fill out. I go to change first. There doesn’t appear to be any alphabetization, to them calling in so I figure I won’t miss much, or be missed. I could ask someone what I should do, but I’ve already mad e a sweeping judgment of the crowd and none of them look like people I want to engage with. So I smile and head to the bathroom to change in to some appropriately floral summer garb. The bathroom is hideous, like an old school bathroom.

I come out of the frosty toilets looking the vision of summer, then notice as I sit down and change my shoes that the nail polish on my toenails has chipped and my new shoes have given me a rather charming blister on my big toe. Good thing I’m not wearing flip flops I think.

I trudge in to the gloomy hallway and am asked by a guy with an alarmingly low V and a skin graft on his nose what my name is. I tell him. He’s had a sun bed recently I observe. He’s a fleshy red and has gelled his hair an “accidental” sideways, but probably what some people would find good looking. I am informed I’ll be doing this with a guy, and there the guy is, a vision of vanity. He is tall, has dark hair and is very good looking, He is pale and his skin is luminous. He has plucked his eyebrows. I am instantly repulsed.

I walk in with him in to the big cavernous gym-esque room and deciding I don’t give a shit about this anyway, decide it might as well be amusing. I give them all a big “Hello” and one of my best goofy grins.

The guy and I are informed that we are playing a couple in love and on holiday, on a cruise, this is so fucking me. I look at my love interest as he professionally delivers his details and shows off his profiles. I’m about 3 feet shorter than he is and feel a little inadequate, maybe they’ll decide it’s adorable. I do the same with as much grace as I can muster. We are then instructed to imagine we are sitting on the deck of our cruise ship sun bathing and looking forward to our Sangria and Chicken Kiev supper. The whole idea is so far removed from any reality I have experienced, but I look at my shiny boyfriend and think I might as well give it a go.

I recline and imagine the buzzing strobe light above me is the hot sun my alabaster skin has been longing for. I close my eyes to enjoy it’s warmth.

I hear my boyfriend chatting about cocktails and shit.

“Mmmm … yes darling, did you bring the factor 50?” I interrupt.

The room laughs. Really?

“No I don’t think so” He replies and moves on “Look at that, not a cloud in the sky …”

“Ok well maybe little Manuel can get a hold of some,” I continue. I open my eyes and pretend to look at the sea. “Oh and look, dolphins, darling, just for us …”

He takes the dolphin line and runs with it. I switch off and smile serenely.

Then we’re instructed to look in to each others eyes with a loving understanding that we are having the best time and have probably had a lot of sex on this fantastic ship of dreams and glory. I look at him and feel depressed. I look at him and smile, my eyes trying to find his but faltering over his gleaming skin and around his perfect eyebrows.

They say ‘the look’ is great and ask me to take off my shoes because the director has a “foot fetish”. Not for long mate. I take them off. In the harsh light of the strobe they do not look good. If you’ve ever seen Roal Dahl’s Witches, you’ll understand my problem here.

We’re told we’re done and can leave. My boyfriend mutters in his silky voice if “They always have to be this embarrassing”. “It would appear so” I reply but he’s not listening, not really anyway. I get changed and look at the long line of people waiting for their opportunity. I smile at all of them.

Casting Six  – Blue Dragon

My agent contacts me, she chooses to use an official medium again, email.  BORING.

I do, of course, have to rearrange some things in order to go to the casting, but that’s fine. This feels like destiny. They’re asking for a rock chic, I’m wearing leather trousers. Hello! This one is in the bag.

I arrive 10 minutes before I am scheduled to in order to give me enough time to fill out forms. I arrive to find a very small room completely packed with Chinese women. I look around. Something about this is not quite right – I head up to the pretty receptionist who is midst buffering three excitable Chinese women. I am not a Chinese woman.

“Hi, I’m here for the audition, the Blue Dragon thing,” I say.

“Oh yeah, hi sorry, we’re running an 45 minutes late.”

“Forty FIVE?” (I accentuate the wrong word, making it sound like had they been forty-two or forty-eight minutes late I would have been fine with it).

“Yeah sorry about that. If you come back in about an hour that would be great”.

Sure. I don’t have a life, I’m not supposed to be working. My life revolves around infinitesimal possibilities such as this. I will waste an hour of it doing nothing productive and return.

I try on a fantastic leopard print jacket, but don’t buy it. The hour was, as I had anticipated, unproductive.

I return, the casting room is now filled with pretty young white girls with varying interpretations of what a rock chick should look like. Some of them appear to have confused rock chick with prostitute, but whatever.

I go back over to the receptionist and inform her I have returned, that’s right, me. I’m back. You want me?

“We’re still running an hour behind.”

“What?”

“Yeah sorry”

I’m about to get huffy as a woman who is evidently the casting director leans over to the receptionist next to me. I’m not sure if she senses my drama queen vibe but says to me,”I’m so sorry we’re normally so on time.”

I switch to charming in front of the receptionist, I feel a fraud

“Oh no it’s fine, I’ve been making the most of it perusing new coats. It’s been very productive.”

“Oh great …” then she starts talking about Christmas shopping and I switch off and look through her.

I stand waiting in the packed room full of young girls, who, like young girls have started chatting inanely to each other. Some of them keep smiling at me, inviting a smile back, I don’t return the smiles. I just look away.  Having established myself as queen bitch and completely unapproachable to all these amiable young ladies I am finally called in, with two other girls.

The advert has a ‘Wok God, John Smith’ in it. We are his wannabe groupies. It’s a room full of people and it’s quite hot. We face them. They’ve been eating sushi, I smile at one of the better-looking men, happily aware the most he can do is smile back. No opportunity for inane chatter here. We are here for their entertainment. It’s been a long day and they look like they couldn’t give a fuck. You know what, I’ve been waiting for two hours to do this and I’m starting to feel the same way, but I’ll hold on a little longer.

The director is a nice enough middle-aged man and he explains this will be like a news report and we talk in to the camera with the responses to his questions. We’re very excited to be there. The other girls seem quite quiet. We give our names, agents and profiles. I’m the tallest which is nice.

The director asks the first question …

“How did you hear about John Smith’s, Wok God’s sauce?”

I can feel the girl next to me bubbling up, effervescent with saccharine excitement and then the foaming sweet bile comes out of her mouth and I turn, something inside me has flipped, hope and joy have just been switched off. I hate her …

“Oh god, I just heard it on the radio! And I was like! Oh my God! I HAVE to come DOOOWN! I, I love him SO much!”

The other girl starts bubbling up. My mouth is wide open. I can’t believe this is happening. I will not be joining in.

Girl 2: “Oh yeah no, I was with my friends in a pub and they told me and we were like “Let’s all come down TOGETHER!!”

There’s a pause. This is where I’m supposed to come in. I look in to camera and there’s a bit of me that thinks, be smart, do what they want, but the other part of me knows I can’t do it without being sarcastic. So I don’t smile, I look into camera and say, “Er, yeah I wasn’t invited. I’m not really welcome here…”

There’s a laugh from the director. The laugh descends into a chuckle from the rest of the room.

“There’s always the next question,” I think, “I can bring this back.”

The director asks the next question: “And what will you do if you meet John Smith?”

Girl 1:  “Oh god I don’t know. Kiss him …”

Girl 2:  “No I will kiss him!”

They actually start arguing about who’s going to kiss him, I stand there for a minute and can’t help but giggle. I can’t do this. It’s too fucking mad. So I just stand there. Gob-smacked.

Then the director turns to me and asks, “And what would you do?”

I look at the camera, and slightly more deadpan than I’d intended I reply, “Die.” He looks a little alarmed by this comment so I extend it, “I don’t know … eat his food? Kiss him?”

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

There’s chuckles again.  This lot are pretty willing to giggle I think. Fuck it. I’m going to be stupid. I’ve already blown it.

“Where have you come from?”

Girl 1: “East London.”

Girl 2: “Shepherds Bush.”

Me “Bognor Regis.” I couldn’t think of anywhere funnier, still everyone laughs.

The director then asks, “And how long have you been here? Some people we here for hours…”

Girl 2:  “Yeah I …”

Girl 1 interrupts: “I’ve been here since dawn …”

Screw you bitch, this shit gettin’ NASTY.

I interrupt “I’ve been here all week. Camping. Outside his door.”

Girl 1 interrupts me “I …”

I interrupt her back “I haven’t washed in a week”.

Now everyone’s laughing, quite a lot.

We’re all pretty confident Girl 1 gets the part but it doesn’t really matter. I had a great time right? It helped to pass the time, distracted me from the looming unknown.

And I got to be the tallest person in a room for the first time in my life.

N.B. I was fired by my kismet bulge shortly afterwards.

Bitch, please

Motherisms: Olympic Special …

 

It’s early August and there’s a party feeling in the air … the Olympics has arrived in London and down in Devon, mum’s about to have her hip replaced.  But before my mother is turned into a cyborg I went down to spend some time with her.

We are with my Godmother in her hotel room, as we wait for her to get ready for supper we watch some athletes come out ….

Mum: Ah! More beautiful boys, just in time!
Me: That’s a girl mum.

It’s the next evening and we have just had another lovely supper with my godmothers, mum is obviously chuffed with her unwavering group of friends and says …

“You see darling, the older you get, the less you have to put up with people who bore the shit out of you. And I’m bloody old”.

Mum on the subject of Wayne Rooneys “geriatric prostitutes” …

“Rooney’d go a bundle on me”.

We’re having supper with a few friends and have drunk quite a lot of wine. I can’t quite remember why I was stereotyping Italians and shouting “I gotta getta ma pasta”, but I’m afraid I was …

Mum, outraged: What?!
I repeat: I gotta getta ma pasta?
Mum: Oh! Thank God. I thought you said, “I gotta getta ma pants down”.

Hungarian wins gold in gymnastics …

Mum: Oh fantastic! Ex-communist state you see … he’s hungry!
Me: Mmm …
Mum: He’ll buy a huge house and a bullet proof Landrover now.
Me: Lovely.
Mum: He’ll need one …

Mum goes down a friends drive and tuts ….

“Someone’s brambles need a trim”.

Mother is on the phone to my Godfather, this is what I hear …

“Oh right, so you’re both trollying about starkers?”
“Are there any other nudists?”
“Aren’t they cold?”
“Are they attractive?”
“No, didn’t think so. Very selfish activity”.

Mum is admiring another Olympian with a rather fantastic profile, if you like a big ol’ nose.

“He’ll get fat though … big meal, big car, many women”.

In order to succeed in my desired career, I have been told I need to be veiner, or at least  brush my hair … I have heeded this advice and am preening myself in the mirror …

Mum: What are you doing?

Me: Working on my vanity …

Mum: Don’t work too hard.

Watching the men’s 100 meters heats, there is a minute Japanese guy in with herds of gigantic adonises. As it turns out, the little lad’s pretty speedy …

“Look at the Japanese guy go! GO!! GO, YOU BEAUTIFUL FAIRY!!”

We are watching Morse, mum has her operation on the brain …

“Old people are a lot like children, but at the same time, you know with children it might get better, with old people it will only get worse … now, turn it up, there’s bound to be a body before we leave”.

Mo Farah wins the 10,000 meters … as we watch a number of close ups mum says …

“Beautifully shaped head …. Just look at those cheek bones!”

Usain Bolt wins the 100m, mum admires his physique as we watch him run again in very slow motion…

“Fucking poetry in motion, man.”

Bolt is shaking hands with the crowd, a mascot is chasing him arond the track brandishing a miniature golden mascot at him …

Me: Run!
Mum: What the hell is that?!
Me: A mascot.
Mum: Oh my God! Get rid of it Bolt! Knock it out!

We are driving around the moors trying to find the riding stables, but out of the few signs that there are, none of them indicate towards our destination. We have gone around in a giant circle twice already, it’s only 9am ….

Mum: Imagine how exciting it would have been when they turned all the signs around to dupe the Germans!

An american athlete has just missed out on an opportunity to run in the finals, distraught, he is herded towards an interviewer, we do not approve …

Mum: It’s all this reality tv. This sentimentalising of everything. They want to see you cry. Cry for the public you poor bastard, otherwise we’re not interested!

The weather comes on ….

Weather man: Wednesday it will dry up, brighten up, heat up.
Mum: Just in time for me to go to hospital. Great!

We are in the car on the way to the train station, mum starts indicating left, but keeps going straight on …

Me: Are you going left?
Mum: No.
Me: That’ll dupe the Germans.
Mum: Exactly.

I’m sorry I didn’t get to watch the rest of the Olympics with you mum. I’m also sorry I’m not with you for the operation tomorrow but I am, as is everyone I know, sending you all my love and can’t wait to see you marching along the moors again x x x

 
Still from Peter Whitehead’s ‘Let’s All Make Love In London’

Career Girls, The Unorthodox Guide To …

Career girls, they’re young, they’re smart, they’re pretty, they’re successful.
Career girls are pretty great.
I serve career girls every day. As I serve them coffee and they talk about money that isn’t theirs and what their next “move” is, they look at me as if I have no idea what they’re talking about. I am a waitress, therefore I am a student or a blogger (ahem, I have credentials now, I prefer the term ‘writer’) and it’s very likely I don’t have a brain in my head, because if I did, surely I would be a career girl, not a waitress.

The thing is, I do know what they’re talking about. I’ve talked that bullshit, I’ve cocked that walk.

There are many things I haven’t experienced in this life, being 6ft tall, having wings, an addiction to pharmaceutical drugs, the crusades; but being a career girl, I have. However, I can’t point out to them that at one point in time I was a producer at one of the best productions companies in the UK producing adverts for Cadburys, Kelloggs, Burberry, bla bla bla …. I can’t tell them this as I hand them what they haven’t ordered, because it would seem very insecure, not to mention a little unnecessary.
Instead I add up their bill in my head to annoy them. I’ve gotten it wrong once, but the girl was too busy looking through me to notice.
I don’t mind much, I’ve done it. Because when you’re a career girl you have so much on your mind: you’ve missed a deadline, you have to fire someone, you’re in charge of hundreds of thousands of pounds and yet you’re behind on rent. You need to get your change and get the hell out of there, but not before …
“Oh, and a skinny latte.”
“Single or double?” I ask automatically.
“Double.”
They say this as if they’re being naughty; little do they know I’ve already had four fucking doubles and I’ll probably have two more.
Uh huh, and a cigarette. Bad to the bone, baby.
I have friends who are career girls, but they are fantastic at it, they glide through it. They’re the career girls that make you want to be a career girl. Their progress is effortless and elegant. I always had a rather clumsy air. I felt an imposter, and no one else seemed to find the whole experience totally surreal.
“You mean I can say yes to a goat being in a pantyliner advert that millions and millions of girls in Russia will watch?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fantastic. Get the goat my friend, that we can afford.”
Unfortunately, the majority of the time it’s incredibly dull and I didn’t have the patience for it. I would usually be found throwing satsumas at models or smoking whatever was going round the back. After witnessing a director punch his fist through a wall and an after effects guy have a mental breakdown (on the same job), I decided it was probably time to start winding the producing down a bit.
If you are not doing what you want to be doing. So should you.
Even if you, like me, absolutely hate your career girl vocation, leaving the security of a high profile and or well paid job takes a combination of balls, blind faith and stupidity. But if jumping off a ladder you don’t want to be on in order to snake your way up the one you really care about is what is necessary, then that is what you must do.
The following steps may not be the orthodox route to the top, but I’m not aiming this at those after orthodox careers …

Get a mindless part time job ….
However hard you try you cannot avoid the necessity of money (believe me, I’ve tried) but you also want the most time possible to work at your new career. Having a part-time job, a la student, gives you the time you need to put your all in to your new career and just enough money to survive. If your gut instinct was right (as it usually is) and what you really want to do is what you’re really good at, you want to have done two years work in a year, a year and half max; and jump on the new ladder a fair few steps up. In order to do this you have to be prepared to put in the hours, without the hindrance of out of office responsibilities. Having a mildly degrading job will also do wonders for your ego, having been working as a very important career girl at quite a young age you will inevitably have a slightly inflated sense of self-worth, no matter how hard you try not to. Chicken soup is good for a cold, humble pie is good for the soul.

Put yourself out there …

Take initiative, do some of your own projects so you have something to show for yourself and make sure they’re as good as you could possibly make them. When people ask what you do, do NOT say you are your part time job. Don’t be afraid to tell people what you are, or you are trying to be no matter how many stigmas are attached to your desired profession.

Be prepared to work for free …

… Only at the beginning. I know this is controvesial and in an ideal world we would not have to. But take a look around you, anything seem ideal here? Console yourself with the knowledge that if you get to the top, you can change this. And I would recommend asking for basic ammenities at the very least — food, travel, etc. if they aren’t paying you a proper wage. Appreciate any opportunities given to you while you’re getting started, accept all of them and do them to the best of your abilities. Once you start to progress in your new career you can become more discerning as to which free jobs you accept. There will soon come a time when you are offered one paying real, actual money and if not, know when to start asking for some.

Stay motivated …

This is what you have chosen to do, it is an exciting period of your life. There will be weeks and even months (years!) where it may feel like you are treading water, but stay hungry and have patience. The most exciting jobs are the toughest in which to succeed, it’s a good way of separating the wheat from the chaff.

Time’s a tickin’, so no matter what your job, if it’s not what you want to be doing and doesn’t make you happy then get out of there and start again. Don’t just settle for the money or the stability if doesn’t make you happy. Let’s have it all, shall we?

Take a deep breath and take a walk on the wild side, and prepare for it to be a long one. You keep at it, and you’ll get there.

Motherisms Feat. Vajazzling …

 

Having had the sensation recently that London had worn away my funny bone, I decided it was time to head down to Devon for the weekend for some regeneration. This is in the wake of my mother discovering life’s daily grind has worn away her hip bone, and will require some sort of robotic replacement.

The following is a summary of the sunny Sunday afternoon …..

We are at the beach getting a coffee, sitting and watching the masses. Mother spots a baby wearing a bib and says sanctimoniously and only half joking …

“You never wore your bib in public”.

We are sitting upon the cliff edge reading the Sunday papers, mother remarks, I assume in response to me donning a rather nice pair of floral shorts …

“After my hip replacement I’ll have to vajazzle my crutches for the beach”.

I wash my hands with some cheap, indescribably pungent peach handwash, I feel my mother should experience the stench …

Me: Smell that ..

Mum: Good god! That’s incredibly strong. It’s terrible!

Me: I believe it is “atomic peach”.

We are going past a house with some particularly appalling net curtains. Mum looks at them and says …

“If I were prime minister, I’d charge them, like a new window tax, they can pay for their hideous paranoia”.

Mum points at, from what I can see, is just a hedge …

“That’s where I got our chainsaw”.

I am a saint, and have recently given up sugar. Having eaten two tones of Turkish Delight in 6 months, my teeth had mysteriously started to hurt. I want to buy some coconut water, to further purify my soul …

Me: I’d like to see if they’ve got some coconut water.

Mum: I know why you want that, it’s the sugar.

Me: It is not the sugar! It’s the isotonics.

Mum: Whatever. I don’t care. Drink what you want. Some people drink their own urine.

 

We are driving back from the beach. Mum obviously has vajazzling on the brain …

Mum: What is vajazzling, I hear a lot about people getting vajazzled.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

Mum: Is it just covering yourself in Sworovski crystals?

Me: Um … Yes.

Mum is reading a restaurant review by AA Gil aloud …

“With virginal rice … that could only have been exciting if we’d shoved it up our arses. NO! NOSES! Sorry, noses”.

Mother is reading another review by AA Gil, and applauding him for his genius (because he says the same stuff she does …)

Mum: Ahhh but I shouldn’t like to meet him. You should never meet your heroes. They’re always a disappointment …. No, not always.

Me: Who wasn’t?

Mum: Leonard Cohen. Funniest man alive. Totally, totally cool.

I have given mum some food made by The Grocery, which has she devoured with relish.

Mum: That place is seriously good. You should open a branch on the beach in Devon and manage it.

Me: I can’t imagine anything worse.

Mum: No, quite right. Get someone else to manage it. We’ll just sit on the beach and bitch about people.

 

A man on the radio says “He refused to give officials information”.

Me: I thought he said “he refused to give a fish-horse information”.

Mum: What a magnificent creature that would be.

Me: A bit like a sea horse.

 

I am admiring the David Hockney postcard I sent to mother. I then spot someone else has sent her one, my Godfather …

Me: Oh, I see Jocq sent you a David Hockney as well.

Mum: Everyone’s sending me David Hockneys. I am having to fend them off!

I look at the two postcards for a minute and then remark.

Me: Mine’s bigger.

Mum is talking about her hip replacement again …

Mum: I’m having a heart transplant.

I laugh …

Mum: A hip transplant, whatever is it, I have to have a new body part.

Me: Mumbot

Mum: Yes, robomum. I might ask them to give me a pair of those spring legs while they’re at it. You know, those blades? I wouldn’t need a car, I could just leap to the beach. They should just give all old people those blades, let them spring in to the sunset.

 

Mum has a “new” car. It is shooting along the motorway …

Me: Yes, this is good. It doesn’t sound like it’s struggling going up hill, which the other one did.

Mum: Well, that one had an enormous crack in the exhaust pipe. You can get it fixed.

Me: Yeah, I would assume most people do.

 

We are driving to the train station, we don’t know how to use the radio in the “new” car …

Mum: Let’s play ‘Spot the Next Dead Animal’ to alleviate the boredom.

Me: Ok, I guess pheasant.

Mum: I guess badger.

There’s nothing for about three minutes.

Me: There aren’t any dead animals.

Mum: Hold tight, The Killing Fields are coming up …

I lose interest and possibly start inspecting myself in the wing-mirror …

Mum: AH! DEAD ANIMAL!

Me: It was a pheasant.

Mum: It was a pigeon.

Me: Pheasant.

Mum: Well, I saw it first.

We pass some hideous wind turbines, mum says wistfully …

“We should vajazzle the pylons. What a wonderful word, vajazzle. What does it mean?  Where does it originate? The Vajazzled Pylons of North Devon …. hmmm … PHEASANT!”

There is some rubbish on the side of the road. Mum is horrified.

“Where is your head at to just throw your rubbish out of the window. There should be patrols to shoot them. I’d man one. Get out of it, go home and take your trans-fat packaging with you”.

We are listening to the constant robotic apologies for the delayed train that, it turned out, was because of a bomb scare in Dawlish.

Me: Why’s it delayed? Because it’s sunny?

Mum: Sun on the line darling.

 

Mum is quoting a line as we wait patiently …

Mum: “If you want someone you don’t have to talk to, bring me Lady Jane”…

Me: Lady Jane Grey? The Queen?

Mum: No, this is Bob Dylan. Lady Jane …

Me: So, she was still queen, she was queen for nine days.

Mum: Yes, but Lady Jane is also a term for marijuana.

Mum: Oh. Yeah.

I don’t want to leave the car and go on the platform because I am seated and basking in the warm glow of the setting sun …

Me: But I have this lovely radiance here.

I look to mum, who has no sun in the driver’s seat.

Mum: Yes, you see why I want to move? I have been cast to the shadows and it’s no fun.

I have found a ‘To Do List for 2012’ I responsibly/optimistically drafted at the beginning of the year and am reading it to mother. It contains … Read more, get showreel cut, more writing, more money, relearn piano, try stand up, learn the basics of Latin ….

Mum: Will you add “Give yourself a break, just calm the fuck down, love mum”.

Mother, my funny bone is fully regenerated. I couldn’t bare to tell you, partly because I couldn’t bring myself to utter it and partly because you just throwing it around was amusing me greatly but, the definition of “vajazalling” is …

“To give the female genitals a sparkly makeover with crystals so as to enhance their appearance.”

I think you’d struggle with the wind turbines ….

An Hour

Fall in to the day, exhale the haze. Ashes of Arabic hashes oak smoked the tongue. Cycle the streets, chew on strawberry gum. Lukewarm, shades on, black lenses blanket senses, blinker the sun storm. Hasidic Jews crackle in black, a Kippa replaces December’s precarious hat. Soft drinks and ice cream and premature cider, trickled and dribbled and mingled inside her. Watch wintered branches shadowed in March’s sallow sun. Pop another strawberry gum. Slow steps race the sunset, through dusty windows watch its final blaze, light ignite this passive gaze.

Image

 

 

Yes, hello hello little mice.

As routine as disappointment, but hopefully less disappointing, it’s time for another round of Motherisms! Wahey!

Mum has just picked me up from the station, we are in the car. (FYI – neither of us would be considered as religious) …

Mum: I’m starting to get very angry with Richard Dawkins.

Me: I got angry with him years ago. It’s this arrogance he has I don’t like.

Mum: Me too, all atheists have it. How does he know, think you’re so smart Dawkins then how come the more physicists learn the less they understand fractals?

Me: Er .. yeah.

We are going past houses that that have been engulfed by luminous inflatable “santas” and epilepsy-inducing fairy lights, mum looks at them and says …

“Smells, bells and all in Latin. That’s what Christmas should be.”

My friend Jack, mum and I are now talking about the Frozen Planet polar bear debacle …

Me: I can sort of see why they’re a bit miffed, but I don’t understand how they can value it as something worth spending time complaining about.

Mum: Exactly. And more to the point, if a parent polar bear sees a predator they eat their babies.

Me: Polar bears eat their babies so the predators can’t?

Jack: Yeah.

Mum: Yeah.

Me: How does that make sense?

Mum: It just does.

We’re watching the choir sing carols at King’s College on television  …

Mum: Look at that stained glass, it’s to die for.

Me: Mmm …

Mum: We used to go tripping in there, great place to go tripping.

I force mum to go to Midnight mass with me as I feel I should have experienced it once in my life. There is a moment where everyone is told to turn around, shake hands and say “pleased to meet you” to each-other. Having completed this ritual with a few parishioners I turn to mum as people are starting to hug each other. I am verging on a freak-out …

Me: Well, can I say “pleased to meet you.”

Mum: It’s “peace be with you” darling. And no, this is all alarmingly tactile and Christian, I’m not used to it.

Later in Midnight Mass I have confused what I am supposed to be doing – asking for a blessing not taking holy communion. I realise this after I’ve drunk the wine. I run back to our pew, damned for sure.

Me: I drank the wine! You didn’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to drink the wine! Oh God.

Mum: I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Jesus was pretty big on forgiveness.

Completely out of the blue ..

Mum: I’m ashamed to admit it but I just love Happy Feet. If I ever go ga-ga and put in a home, will you make sure that’s on a loop?

Me: Yes mum.

We’re in the car, obviously not the most flattering lighting for me …

Mum: You’re very pale and spotty.

Me: Thanks, mum.

Mum: Well darling all London girls are.

Me: No they’re not.

Mum: Let’s not focus on that.

We’re peeling vegetables for Christmas lunch.  Dancing In The Street is on the cd player.

Mum: Now this is a good funeral song.

Me: Oh God! I thought I might at least escape your death on Jesus’ birth.

Mum: Nope. Sorry. No one’s stopping this party.

I am in charge of stuffing …

Mum: The stuffing’s awfully presented.

Me: It’s artisan stuffing.

Mum: Fuck off.

Christmas lunch is finally cooking, it’s time to take mums friends dogs for a walk …

Mum: Right! Let’s go dogging!

I look at mum in amused horror. She’s already turned to talk to the cat, in a baby voice …

Mum: That’s right Bob, we’re off dogging!

I am now in hysterics.

Mum: What?

Me: You know dogging has two meanings …

Mum: Oh yes. No, I do. Dogging’s quite big in Devon, people leave their boots on trees. Paul told me.

I am tidying up …

Mum: Did you hear they’d changed the voice-over woman on Master Chef who sounded like she was having sex with vegetables.

Me: No.

Mum: Now they’ve got a man who sounds like he’s having sex with vegetables. I blame Nigella.

We are watching a Christmas University Challenge ..

Jeremy Paxman: What quotes itself as being “gossip, fashion, and sex for the contemporary woman.”

Mum: A Kardashian.

Another University Challenge …

Jeremy Paxman: Name the city highlighted in red …

Me: Lincoln!

Jeremy Paxman: Beijing.

Mum: Nearly there darling!

I am trying on an odd cardigan …

Me: I don’t understand why they’ve cut off half of the back of it.

Mum: Who cares, you’ve got a great bum.

Me: Wow. Ok.

Mum: And it’s Nicole Farhi.

I’ve told the maintenance man to turn on the taps so the boiler doesn’t explode, mum doesn’t trust I have or he has, having driven off five minutes ago, she forces us to return ….

Me: I do wish you’d have a bit more faith in people.

Mum: Yes, well it’s never been justified in the past.

I put on Frasier …

Mum: I just love Frasier, if I ever go ga-ga and put in a home, will you make sure this is on a loop?

Me: Yes mum.

 

Mum’s reversed, not entirely concentrating. She accelerates to drive off. There’s a crunch ….

Mum: What’s that noise?

Me: We’re attached to the fence.

I had the most wonderful time mother, I’m sorry we argued on Christmas Day, but I’ve done some research and it turns out everyone did. We’re normal!

Make Poverty Hysterical (or mildly less agonizing….)

Poverty is the zeitgeist, it is just so. fucking. now.

So, ever the prophet of what is ‘in’ I have been experimenting with poverty for years.

Fortunately I’ve had just enough sporadic bouts of wealth to make sure I don’t end up sleeping in a doorway on Mare Street; but who knows what the future holds.

Much like segways, being poor can have an eccentric mystique, but it can also be quite hard to handle.

Here are some truths on the realities of poverty, and how to do it well.

There is nothing romantic about being poor …

Candles are surprisingly expensive.

 

You are a fountain of wealth …

Now, I’ll be perfectly honest here, no one wants to hear about how miserable your life is for longer than 10 minutes (max). End your tale of woe with a punch line and save your tears for a vial, when full, sell them on eBay as Jeremy Paxman’s.

 

Where there’s a Will there’s a way …

Get in with the rich and the old, and advise against a flu jab.

 

Like a leper …

Ok, you probably don’t have leprosy, which is a great start, but you will feel on the fringe of society when you are lacking funds. Money is a strange thing and without it you find yourself watching everyone else with different eyes, in its absence you see it’s overwhelming presence in our distorted version of this world. It’s become so habitual it’s almost innate. Retain this knowledge when your pot is full, you’ll be the wiser for it.

 

Tattered rags to rugs ….

A delightful shag-pile rug can be fashioned from your last shreds of dignity.

 

Seek refuge with the religious (and the homeless) …

As impious as you may be, churches are a sanctuary of silence and among the most reassuring places you can go when you are poor. Light a candle for whatever you want (I suggest hope) and relax. No ones trying to sell you anything you ‘aint buying here.

 

The world isn’t against you …

It just doesn’t really care.

 

Inanimate objects however, are against you and are prejudice against the poor …

The coffee you spilled, the table that you stubbed your toe on, the bike pedal that hit your shin, again, the cup you smashed; they’re all out to get you. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re overreacting when these things bring tears of fury to your eyes. They’ve probably got money, and didn’t see the way that coffee looked at you.

 

Do whatever it takes to pay your rent …

With a roof over your head, you’re less likely to lose it.

Save the pennies ….

You never know when you’ll need a pound for the electric.

 

Soup kitchen …

A bag of lentils, some garlic, onion, stock, carrot and potato could feed the 5,000 and cost less than £5. Invite round Dirty Mike and the boys and you’ve got a dinner party, you trendy prole. Just make sure they know it’s BYO.

 

You will inevitably draw the short straw at one point in time …

And the likelihood will be it’s the final one. Take whatever it is as personal attack form the heavens above. This moment in time will only be amusing in hindsight, when you’re rich. Promptly buy yourself a packet of high tar cigarettes and smoke as many as you can. Why prolong your stay at Bleak House?

 

Every morning dress in mourning ….

Show life the grim respect it’s due and dress in black, it’s the best friend of the beggared. Better to look somber than cheap.

 

This isn’t a myth ….

There really are people all over the world dying and starving. Unless you’re doing both take your situation with a pinch of salt, then add it to your plain rice supper.

 

Losing weight? Become a well rounded person …

If you’re doing poor well, you’re spending your last 99p on refined literature not refined sugar and are therefore approaching ultimate wisdom (and emaciation.) Without a job you find a lot of time on your hands, don’t let them become idle. Take this opportunity to add to your attributes. Learn to play the piano, bake bread, write a short story (not a novel – you’re not planning on being poor that long) watch all of The Empire 500, read the poor greats (there are many of them). Do whatever you feel improves yourself. The work will come and who knows, it might come from one of these.

 

If all else fails just lie on the floor and wait for something to happen …

Invariably it does, just do it at home so it doesn’t involve a rapist. 

 

Make light of your situation…

Nothing brightens up a little squat hole like a few fairy lights. Shove them on your dead tree that you couldn’t afford (be bothered) to water and bask in its warm glow, saves on heating too.

 

Waste not want not …

If you’re on the breadline, why on earth aren’t you eating it?

 

“Awight gowgus?”

Next time a builder asks you this, stop and explain all of the reasons why you’re not. He won’t cost a penny and is therefore much cheaper than a therapist. So, offload on him, he’s used to a weight on his shoulders.  

 

You are not a failure …

And if someone calls you one, take it personally but do not get offended. Poor and angry is common (trust me). Hope they didn’t mean it and have enough faith in yourself to know that you’re not.

 

You’re making headlines …

You’re one of a record breaking 3 million unemployed! Congratulations! Bet your friends with jobs aren’t on the news.

 

“Take a load on me” ….

Learn from my mistakes. As hard as your situation may be, as many bad things that hit you one after another, if you are incredibly lucky, and have someone who loves you enough to share some of your burden (make you feel safe, feed you, keep you warm, make you smile  at your most morose…) stop wallowing and thank your lucky stars you have them. In reality that is a lot more than most people. But because humans are stupid and self-engrossed, we tend only to realize this when they’re gone.

 

Move to Zimbabwe …

You’ll be a billionaire.

Once you’ve exhausted this list, it might be time to swallow the pride, the ego, whatever it is and just get any job. There is always one going somewhere and it will invariably be more interesting, in whatever variation, than the dole.

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Motherisms Feat. Daughter …

Twenty-five years ago today I arrived on this planet with no idea what it had in store for me, or what the hundreds of other little people on it had in store for me. With no notion of what an idea even was, the sole thing I knew was my mother. So,  fresh out of a week in the womb, what better day for some Motherisms ….

We’ve had a birthday bottle of wine, I am rather pissed in the shop  …

Me: I need dried fruit, then I wont bemoan the lack of chocolate.

Mum: You can have chocolate.

Me: Not today! As of today I am an icon of health, albeit a completely trollied one.

I stride off towards the figs.

Mum: Darling, do try not to look like a mad person.

My mother is talking about what I should do with her flat when she dies ..

Me: Must we always talk about your demise?

Mum: We’re not talking about my demise, we’re planning ahead.

Bob Dylan is on, we’ve had an arduous day ….

Bob Dylan: The answers my friend …

Mum: Are blowing in the wind? Yeah, sorry Bob. Not good enough anymore.

Kingsford The Great hits the nail on the head as usual …

“It does not matter what you do, as long as you behave honourably to those who love you.”

Mother is talking about me possibly being a boy …

Mum: I thought you were a boy for a while, then you weren’t. Still a tenacious little thing. Survived that car crash. I think it’s why you’ve got anxiety problems.

Me: Because of the crash or because I survived?

We are at lunch, it is time for dessert and my mother is eyeing the trifle suspiciously, the waitress comes over …

Mum: Does the trifle have sherry?

Waitress: Let me check ……… Yes it does.

Mum: I’ll take it.

I had been upset to the point of anger earlier in the day …

Mum: How’s the rage darling?

Me: I’ve moved on to apathetic desolation.

Mum: Impotent despair.

Me: It’s the same thing.

Mum: Sounds better.

In regards to me wanting to be a writer, it is later in the day of rage, I have gone full circle and am back at rage ...

Mum: What do you want to say?

Me: A lot. Mostly I want the people who have fucked me over to be aware that, though I may not have said anything, I know what they’ve done. And make them laugh while I’m telling them.

Mum: Riiiiiiight …. You need to make a list of these people.

Me: How’s that going to help what I write?

Mum: It wont. It’ll help me track them down.

Mum about our old house ….

“Now the garden looks like a horrible little park in Woking. The weeping willow has gone, just nasty little conifers in situ.”

It’s pissing with rain, we are zipping across the hills, my mother shouts over Bob Marley ..

“Go crap car! Go!”

Debating whether we should do the Euromillions in the hope of aiding our imminent financial crisis …

Mum: Euro millions, we should do it, I’ve won it before.

I look at mother in bemusement.

Me: You’ve won it before? The Euromillions?

Mum: Yes, £2.75.

We’re listening to the radio, the Sugarbabes come on …

Me: What does that even mean?

Mum: What?

Me: “We’ll rastafi gonna be down low.”

Mum: Only God knows darling, and even he’s not sure.

A pissed old man reverses his old 4×4 for us with verve ….

Mum: That’s what I love about Devon, it’s wild. It’s where the fairies and the gypsies live ………..

We keep driving for a few seconds then mum points ….

Mum: … and there’s where Rupert Harvey pissed in the tank of the kamikaze car, got us all the way to Iddesleigh somehow.

Me: Okkkk …. What’s the kamikaze car?

Mum: Long story, his father was an authority on dromedaries.

A woman of around 90 walks across the road …

Me: Watch out! Old woman wandering.

Mum: She’s the same age as me!

Me: She’s got a good 20 years on you mum.

Mum: Is that what I’m going to look like? I want to die.

The adverts come on ...

TV: Tampax with pearl extract. Pearl, by Tampax.

Mum: Oh wow man. That’s going to make me buy it.

Me: Mmm … complete with sea creatures.

We stride in to the cinema full of gusto, ready to watch Jane Eyre …

Mum: I will have one human and one over sixty.

Ticket man: It’s not on ’til tomorrow.

Mum: Righty ho … See you tomorrow ..

Mother bemoaning the pitfalls of writing, again …

Mum: But you won’t earn enough money doing it. See, in my day, if you were in a relationship, you were a unit and usually got a house.

Me: Times are not so simple now mother,  you can’t just expect a house. We asked for equality, we got something in-between. We’re stuck in a horrible sort of limbo.

Mum has stopped listening …

Mum: AA Gil’s very good in The Sunday Times …

About her friend taking her in his Porsche Boxster …

“Incredible thing. Like a giants ejaculation.”

Need I say more ….

15 Ways To Leave Your Lover ….

If you have been embroiled in a love malais this may help you. Once an admirer of la doleur esquise, I am now jaded by it. As a sage fishwife once said to me “all this romantic melancholy is well and good, but it doesn’t butter the parsnips.”

This how to leave, taking pain in your stride and butter those parsnips …

 

Marilyn monroe once said “A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.”

Man or woman, if you failed on the first two counts make sure you don’t on the last. Even the smart can be fooled a couple of times, but only the stupid wouldn’t notice the pattern. The leopard doesn’t change its spots.

When faced with someone who only wants you to have done wrong, you can do nothing right ...

Let them satisfy their martyr complex with false injustice. No point crying over milk you never spilled.

Don’t make a scene …

If ‘The Pocket Oracle and Art Of Prudence’ has taught me anything. You gain nothing from retaliation. The dissemination of a love should not be witnessed by the rabble. When gauded, hold your tongue, for it can be ferocious. Keep it clean to lick your wounds later.

Wear a hazmat suit …

To protect yourself from the fallout.

Treat them mean, keep them keen …

… Works a a couple of times times. Beware the game of cat and mouse. Triumph is not synonymous with power.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

If it’s never been you, at least this time it is.

Midnight break up and a dawn raid …

If for whatever reason you’ve had to leave someone you still loved, do it late and have something to distract you, the loneliness of walking the dark streets home is sweetly complimented by a battering ram through the door at 5am. 15 armed police officers should distract you from the pain, momentarily.

Dutch courage …

… Is sometimes necessary. Have a pancake, sorry whiskey, calm your nerves and say what you have to say. Don’t have too many or you will say too much.

If struggling to do what you know is best for you and what everyone else seems to know is best for you (run for the hills and never turn back) …

Think again of all they have done, and then of all they are not telling you.

Mirror, signal, maneuver …

Mirror …. Do exactly the opposite of those who’ve had their heart broken.
Signal …. People playing games always have a tell, observe the signs, they aren’t indicating anywhere pretty.
Maneuver … Now turn around and put your foot down.

If it’s as simple as you just want out  …

Don’t make it someone else’s fault if it’s not. Don’t pick holes in someone and chip away at them to dig your own way out.

Do to others as you would have done to yourself …

Force yourself to be empathetic at your most enraged. Put yourself in their shoes; if you could not forgive yourself and still think they have truly sinned, let all hell break losoe.

Hold on tightly to hope …

… There is a lot you will have to let go.

Don’t spend your life sewing a shadow on Peter Pan …

…He never grew up, and she died alone.

Close the door, raise your head and feel the breeze. It might hurt, but it’s still beating.