Thursday night is my reluctant leaving-do, one day early. I agree to it only if I can tag along to a colleague's birthday drinks because I don't want the fuss of a separate event. This is how I end up in a trendy cocktail bar with a stupid name rather than a pub with sofas and proper beer. Still, I reason, it's not really my night so I can slip off early. Only once I get there, it's unexpectedly lovely. People I've only spoken to in passing make a point of coming over to wish me well. Jon gives me a hug and says he wishes we'd got to know each other earlier on. I tell him to resign, he's too good for the place. I'm talking too loudly and my editor looks over. I don't care.
I've been in the unusual position of sobering up throughout the night as, after a boozy lunch, I don't want to drink any more and risk a hangover tomorrow. I accept a couple of gin and tonics and pass them to Sam, who has kept me sane over the last few chaotic months. She is giggling and busily conducting a straw poll to see which of our male colleagues is tallest when SleazyExTeamLeader walks in, so she doesn't notice him cosy up to me on the suddenly too small sofa. He "casually" slides his arm along the back of it, makes unnerving eye contact and tells me how much he'll miss me. I don't bother to point out that he left work over a year ago. He manages to lean closer and tells me I should get a job presenting on Nuts TV. I ignore him. He repeats it, apparently believing this is the acme of chat-up lines. Finally, Sam looks over and oh, is that the time, we really have to go and make sure we don't miss the last tube. It's 9.30pm. We exit.
Friday morning, my last day. I am late in due to a glitter-related incident (I end up having to comb it out of my hair) but still the first of my team to show up. Punctuality is not anyone's strong point. I finish my last piece of work, writing about the legal system in Monaco, and by the time I'm done everyone else has trickled in. "What are you going to do next?" someone asks. I tell him I'm going away for the weekend and then I plan to do lots of baking, deliberately misinterpreting his question. "No, what job are you going to?" I tell him I have nothing lined up and force a smile as he looks concerned. "It's fine. Something will turn up," I say. This has become my mantra of late. I don't know if I really believe it or if it's just a self-comforting empty phrase.
By early afternoon, there is a sense of barely reined in hysteria amongst my team mates. Richard does a reverse pterodactyl impression and we collapse into disproportionate laughter, eager to break the weird tension. We laugh more genuinely as we realise an interviewee for my position walked past at the exact moment he stood on his chair and let out an "aw-awwwk!" There is something in the air, something seismic is happening. I am not so arrogant as to think this all rests on my shoulders. I am the first of a mass exodus of leavers. The rats are leaving the sinking ship, far faster than the actual rats are leaving the building.
Going against tradition, I asked not to have a speech or a presentation because OH GOD, the mortification. I just want to slip away. Nonetheless, at 3pm my team gathers quietly around my desk and hands me a card, signed by everyone in the office, and a book - a graphic novel based on the songs of Belle & Sebastian (geeky and twee - how did they know?). It is thoughtful and kind and I am suddenly more moved than I thought I'd be. I open the card but can't read the messages for fear I might cry.
Why am I getting upset at leaving a job I've despised? It's the unexpected kindness of my colleagues, a theme continued by MaverickEditor striding over and offering to take me for a drink. That decides it - I'm leaving now. I clear my internet history, delete some pictures of ponies, empty my inbox and log off. I say goodbye to my team, thank them for the present, and walk out. A few others notice me leaving and shout goodbyes across the room. I close the door behind me. My departure has barely caused a ripple, which is just how I wanted it.
MaverickEditor takes me to a lovely tiny pub across the road and buys me wine. "So, why are you leaving?" he asks as we loiter outside in the sunshine while he smokes. "Hit the glass ceiling of £25k?" I laugh and tell him what I was earning. He is shocked. Even more so when I tell him what I was on six months previously before my token pay rise. "Fucking bastards," he says, nodding hello to yet another local he recognises. "Fucking shitty nepotistic bastards," I agree, and laugh again, this time without the bitterness. My impotent railing against the system won't change anything now but still, it feels good.
We spend longer talking than either of us intended, exchanging gossip and chatting idly. He pulls a face as his mobile rings - it's his manager, wondering where he's vanished to. He has to go. We walk outside where I shake his hand and tell him he's one of the reasons I've been able to stick it out for so long. I genuinely mean it, and he is genuinely touched. We make no false promises to keep in touch. He crosses one road to return to work, I cross another to get to the station.
I am lightheaded from afternoon drinking and have to concentrate hard to make it to Victoria to meet Jef. We catch a train to Brighton, to the sea, to where it all began, to where it will begin again. I remember leaving this town and not knowing what would happen next but in a terrible, confusing, empty way. Now I've taken another step into the unknown but this time a weight has been lifted, not added. Someone told me you don't realise how much a bad job is weighing you down until you leave it, and it's true. Everything is better now. I can think and write again. Somehow, against the odds, I am joyous and hopeful. 2008 has already given me so much and I don't believe that will stop. Everything will be ok.
Last night, Kate and I met up for an evening of fabulousness. PREVIEW: this entry contains dresses, cheese and secret bars.
We started in Beyond Retro in Soho, which was like entering a cellar full of awesome. There were dresses and underskirts and negligees and clutch bags a go go. We seriously debating buying jumpsuits for DJing purposes (it's London Loves this Saturday! I had my eye on a yellow towelling number) but Kate managed to get away with just two dresses while I scampered home with this one, which makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland:
Ah, what better way to usher in a new era of unemployment than with wanton profligacy?
On for dinner of bread, cheese and more cheese. Total calories: 17,356. That sound you hear is Paul McKenna shooting himself just so he can spin in his grave. We managed to stop ourselves ordering another loaf of walnut bread to mop up the excess Gruyere because we had to dash off to a gig in an old Fitzrovian department store (twee factor: 3 billion).
And thus I discovered my new favourite place in London: Bourne & Hollingsworth. We descended a narrow metal staircase to the bar and entered 1945. The venue was about the size of a living room with peeling floral wallpaper, candles in tea cups and a fireplace covered in champagne bottles against which one could lean rakishly. And there were rakish men with shiny hair and improper thoughts everywhere. We contemplated ordering some Sebastian Martinis but instead holed up in a corner with vodka and wine, watching an endearingly ramshackle line-up of bands rattle through songs from The Village Green Preservation Society.
(Incidentally, there was a courting couple at the table beside us and we correctly guessed that (a) it was their first date and (b) they'd met through Guardian Soulmates. He talked too much, she was uncomfortable with his arm around her, things fell flat when he suggested a trip to Basingstoke. They left early and we both craned around to see if they stopped for a kiss under the red light at the bottom of the stairs. They didn't. I don't see a future for those kids.)
We were flagging by 10.30pm and headed off. It was something of a disappointment to join the real world and find that it was still 2008. Part of me was hoping that the sirens would still be sounding and we'd have to hole up in there all night, singing There'll Always Be An England and comforting the children with gin.
A selection of texts from last night:
"OMG - Boris!"
"Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt"
"I'm genuinely in complete shock. Even yesterday I couldn't believe people would actually have voted for him. I'm feeling really depressed."
It's like I've woken up in the 1980s. Only the death of Thatcher could cheer me up today.
Hello! And thank goodness it's Friday. I'm not doing this again. I've come to terms with the fact that I am a sporadic blogger rather than a regular one. This blog will be quality and not quantity in the future. At least the second part of that sentence is true. I was going to write about how happiness is the biggest hurdle to overcome when it comes to finding an incentive to blog; how I'm not sure if I've compromised my childhood dreams or just realised they were never right for me; how I don't know if these are coffee grains or mouse droppings all over my desk... ...but I think I'll just leave you, in the best traditions of the internet, with a picture of a cat: Have awesome weekends, everyone. I am going O-U-T tonight and I can't wait. Roll on 6pm.
Hello! It's me again. I can't remember why I decided to blog every day this week. That was a really stupid idea. How do people manage it? I haven't even managed to wash and groom myself every day. Anyway, in contrast to my blog title, here are some things I DO care about. Stuff that's rocking my boat today includes: - Cross-stitch. The world of crafting is a dark and dangerous one. Look how quickly I've slipped from knitting to cross-stitching. It'll be appliqué and papier mâché next if I'm not careful. - My dad's DIY haircut. He has taken another step along the road to Crazyville and decided to cut his own hair. He seems to have set his new clippers to "length: random" and also decided to use a pair of scissors to style the sides. Oh, and did I mention he's nearly blind? The resulting mess would go down a storm in Hoxton, but my mum is refusing to be seen with him in public. - Living back in Leyton, after staying in Ealing and Brentford and suffering a fuck-stupid commute. Leyton, I will never leave you again. Until tomorrow. - Deciding to train to be a librarian. It seems the obvious career choice, given my tweeness and fondness for books and slightly obsessive desire to put things in order. And shush people. - My housemate baking me cakes.
Hello! I'm back again! Everyone has been blogging about food and I hate being left out, so I'm going to belatedly join in for One Entry Only. I was ***HIGHBROW CULTURE ALERT!*** watching Freaky Eaters on BBC3 last week and it was busily condemning a woman who only ate bread. I felt a jolt of recognition because, until relatively recently, that was me. Actually, her diet was more varied than mine because she supplemented it with exotic tinned delicacies like Spaghetti Hoops and soup whereas I used to live on bread and potatoes and biscuits. Protein was no friend of mine, and fruit and vegetables were scary strangers. I didn't like food with lumpy bits or stringy bits, or food where I didn't know exactly what was in it, or green food. Or red or blue or orange food, unless it was cake. I was an expert in mashing food around the plate and hiding most of it under my fork. I had to be in control of what I ate, and if that meant having two potato waffles every day for dinner, then so be it. I am s-l-o-w-l-y becoming more adventurous. Yes, I am underweight - I'm officially too small to give blood, which is a shame because injections don't bother me (although the nurse had to use the premature baby needle last time I needed one because my arms were too scrawny for the Big Girl's needle. I was 26 years old). No, I don't have an eating disorder although I probably ticked all the boxes for "Most Likely To Acquire One" in my youth. I enjoy food, and I bloody love cooking. I've changed my hours at work so I have more time to make my tea in the evenings. I've become the sort of person who reads recipe books in bed. We have 51 in the flat so that's almost one for every week. There has been dark talk of throwing a dinner party. My pockets are always full of shopping lists. And my mum is in shock. All those years of worrying that I would waste away and trying everything to make me eat new foods - from rewarding me with gold stars to, in one moment of severe frustration, tipping a plate over my head - and suddenly, something has clicked in my head and [Food Is Good]. I am still adding new foods to my diet. Here are some things I have tried for the first time this year: 1) Blueberries. Like tiny jewels exploding with...blueness. The only thing that puts me off is the thought that somewhere, "Dr" Gillian McKeith is approving of my diet. 2) Grapes. Aren't they crunchy! Are they meant to be crunchy? 3) Mushrooms a) In a vegetarian burger: yum! b) In a risotto: groo. There is still some work to be done there.
Hello again! In an attempt to get my blogging mojo back, I am aiming to blog every day this week. It'll probably peter out by this afternoon, but now I have The Cure lyrics as my blog titles I have some incentive to keep going til Friday so I can finish the verse. (Early heads-up: I won't mean Thursday's title. I love you guys.) Here is a song I've been listening to an awful lot this week, thanks to the magic that is Hype Machine. If you haven't discovered it yet, you are missing out - it streams music from various blogs and houses a scarily wide range of songs. And none of that scary "downloading" business either! Let's leave that to the young people. Anyway, I'm rambling. A random search threw up Bill Cosby's cover of Reach Out (I'll Be There) - yes, that's the comedian Bill Cosby, taken from his ludicrous album Bill Cosby Sings Hooray For The Salvation Army Band. Clearly realising he'd never be taken seriously as a singer, he's adopted a somewhat tongue-in-cheek approach and doesn't so much reinterpret the song as rugby tackle it to the ground and kick it into submission with his brand-new lyrics and distracted singing style. My favourite bit is right at the start when he bellows "Hello!" like a crazy old man at a bus stop shouting at cars. Anyway - go listen.
Friday night: Girl on the bus, talking animatedly on her mobile: "Mmm, we've got a good relationship. He carries me home when I'm paralytic and I patch him up when he gets beaten up... Right, so meet me outside the shop where I robbed the Lambrini, yeah?" Saturday night: "So a rhombus can fit inside any shape? A rhombus is the slag of the shape world!" "I like the Northern line. It's like a drunken uncle where you're not sure if he abused you as a child or not." Sunday night: Playing a new game called How Do You Solve A Problem Called "The Flatmate's Ex Who Refuses To Leave?" (Answer: stop dropping hints and just ask her to go already.) Monday morning: The discovery that the Waterloo & City line is the strangest line of all to board in the mornings. Commuters use their Tube Sense to divine where the doors are and line up exactly in place for them. The second, less revelatory, discovery that getting to work within an hour of waking up (when your commute is 50 minutes) leaves you feeling discombobulated and unravelled. No amount of tea will cure me today.
