It’s been a while, my friends. Somehow I’ve just not been in the zone enough, not felt funny enough or interesting enough to write anything down. I claim fay knights and ‘av ‘ad no time, guv, honest. Oh, I’ve sputtered and started in a kangaroo-petrol kind of way but not actually seen a blog post through to the end for many months.
Which is a shame really as I do enjoy my writing. And I am in particular need of therapeutic relief right now….
Our story begins aeons back when men were hairy – but not in a coiffed and trimmed metrosexual way – and women were hairier and did not yet wax. Yes, a loooong time ago.
I switched jobs – leaving a long term boss after many years and taking a job which did not, in the end, work out. I luckily got another job – my current job – and that’s really when the writing dried up. Lack of time. Lack of oomph. Lack. Basically.
A recent near death experience has started the writing juices flowing again. You know how I love to share.
So……the moment of screaming fear went like this:
I’m driving to the station and the rain is like stair rods. I’m pushing it a little because I’m late for work – so what’s new?? I am just coming up to my turn off and I hit a massive puddle literally the width of the dual carriageway. Alan – The Super Mini – goes into a total spaz tailspin and I’m suddenly careering across the road sideways heading for the side of a road bridge. Oh shit, oh shit, ooohhhhhh shiiiiiiiiit is coming out of my mouth. Luckily, the old training kicked in and I managed to steer Alan out of the spaz skid, spin it in a curving S shape around two cars who must have thought their numbers were up – sorry! – and ended up heading the right way towards the roundabout. In the meantime, my fudged up iPhone containing synchronised random music from GOD KNOWS WHO has switched into 100 Greatest Christmas Songs mode and I’m fighting for my life to the sounds of Perry Como imitating a mule accompanied by jingly bells music! It was squeaky bum time, I can tell you, but the worst of it was that in my mind I saw my dead squished body in that car and all I could think of was the shame of the emergency services prizing off the roof only to be greeted by my corpsed face stuck in a frozen grin to the plinketty-plunketty tune of “Dominic the Donkey” blaring out at 90 decibels!
Tragic. Shameful. Please care.
So the new job is based in Swiss Cottage. A strange microcosm of a place. I know Jonathan Woss waves about it but I think he’s thinking of the other Swiss Cottage? Maybe IN Switzerland? Potentially, my one has mob-up potential galore…for example, I’ve honestly never seen quite such a collection of horror wigs walking the streets. Wigs pulled firmly down the forehead to meet bushy beetling eyebrows and rendering their owners’ crinkled eyelids shut, causing visual disturbances and uncertain food purchase choices in the local Waitrose. Wigs usually resplendent in shades of “Screeching Slasher Red” or “Sad Owl in Moult”. Terrifying.
Nor quite so many hoodies worn in all seriousness by respectable women over 50. Gives a whole new meaning to the term sister-hood. Or woman-hood for that matter. None of which apply since they are mostly just scary-ass-gangster-hood with fags dangling from their lips, sitting outside the corner cafe with empty pushchairs trying to work out how to pick up their mugs of caffeine despite claw-like false nails so long they must surely prevent any decent standard of personal hygiene? Yes, I said it.
There is then the daily trauma of walking in – shock horror – a skirt and heels to the office through the Sista-hood’s manor and clocking the looks of genuine and utter confusion on their faces (“What exactly IS that?” they muse “Is it…could it be…a woman? Dressed like that? Doesn’t she get cold around her ears with no hood”.) you get the gist. I do not belong here.
Anyway….That particular morning mountain climbed and survived without too much spit down the coat or lip-curling and I arrive at the office only to find one of the land team in tears because a pigeon has flown in the open window and crapped down the front of his designer trousers. A swift leg-it to the dry-cleaner next door is the only thing that might save him from the nightmare of a client presentation held while everyone studiously tries to ignore chalky residue stains around his crutch area? Ew. Never a good look. I try not to imagine him cringing in a corner in his boxers behind Mrs Jenkinson’s plastic-wrapped Jacques Verte crepe de chine while he waits.
The day starting off this way engenders a certain sense of paranoia. Foreboding even. This morning – hideous almost-car crashes and a pigeon. This afternoon ….what? A rhino with the trots broken loose from Regents Park – a mere stone’s throw away and within summer wafting distance – and leaking all over the contract weave chosen specifically to blend with Kelly Hoppen’s complexion? (that’s trade-marked by the way – and will be available in a beautiful Matt housepaint in Autumn 2015)
I go to the window to take a calming breath. Only to be greeted by the site of the dog shrine that has appeared overnight in tribute to the next door neighbours’ dearly departed rover. The shrine has a suspicious pet-shaped hump in the middle so I fear the grave itself may not have been dug quite deep enough. Perhaps the waft is not the zoo after all??!! Yikes! On closer viewing, the planted basket-weave dog marking the grave is listing at a somewhat jaunty angle as whatever is underneath swells and emerges balloon-like from the mud. Slam window shut. Turn on computer. Do. Not. Think. About. It.
Suddenly one of the assistants bursts in through one of the closed doors. “Sarah!” She gasps. “The dishwasher is broken and there’s like….soooo much washing up!!! What should I dooo?” The panic in her eyes is reminiscent of the hostages at Entebbe Airport. Then the other door is almost ripped off its hinges as the company’s driver strides in brandishing what on first sight looks like a disturbing tickling stick with which he is going to teach that damn assistant a lesson, but turns out to be a pressure washer extension wand. “Sarah!” He cries. “This stick…me, I broke it. It piddles, not pump. I need a new one and I need it NOW!” There are tears in his eyes. Or he has hayfever. Who can tell? Real problems, people, that somehow land on MY desk before I’ve even had my first cuppa. Did I mention I do not belong here?
I make them both a soothing gin and apply Bachs Herbal Remedies to their temples as I turn them into the recovery position on the hitherto-unstained-by-escaped-rhino-or-pigeon-shit carpet. I go in search of a pair of rubber gloves. This level of crisis requires a real woman to sort it out. One in heels. With all her own hair. Who will clearly get on with her own actual job somewhat later.
So as you can see – time for writing has been short but don’t hold it against me. In the words of Arnie S, that rhino-like acting legend, I’ll be back.
DISCLAIMER: This entire blog is all made up or exaggerated by me or usually both. Please don’t take any of it seriously…I don’t!