What Hell Is Like For a PA....

I am a PA. Well, that's what I call myself anyway. But I had a good think about it the other day, and a PA is, let's face it, just a glorified secretary. The lowly and much underestimated secretary types out documents, makes copies of obscenely high piles of paper, answers endless calls and fetches tea, lunch and post on a person's/people's whim(s). A PA, while snobbishly highlighting in bold the PA part of their e-mail signature, does exactly the same thing, except usually for one person. They might think they're far more indispensable than a mere secretary, but at the end of the day, if their boss is hungry, who do you think is going out to get that sandwich? And if Boss is in meeting all day and can't pick up their freshly dry-cleaned suit for Mrs Poen's Party tonight, who's going to be hauling coathangers of jackets and shirts around London?

So it was with my tongue firmly in my cheek that I accepted the title of team PA, creatively invented by the previous person holding this post. The official title, I've since discovered, is team administrator, which is more appropriate of course, as PA refers to personal assistant - not people's assistant - and I have a team of 10. However, there is a golden rule in London - actually, there are two: number 1 is NEVER EVER, no matter what you actually did in a job, admit to being a receptionist. This is even worse than a secretary, and leads to a career DOA. Receptionists are treated as if they have learning problems - there is no more humiliating event in one's life than to have to admit at a social event that you are a receptionist. Rule number 2 is always embellish your title, and consequently elevate how important you are to your company. This of course does not only apply in London - it's an age old device that has street sweepers calling themselves Parkway Sanitation Executives and other grossly verbose titles. But it seems to be especially imprtant in London, where appearances and title/reputable company have far more value than what you actually do. And so, I am a PA, not an administrator, because PA simply looks and sounds better on my CV.

But even self-proclaimed PA's, for all that they have a more glamorous title than secretaries, can find themselves in office admin hell. This has been my experience both this morning and on Friday afternoon. Specifically, I have been in meeting room hell. Meeting room hell is a place where most or all of your team all have the most urgent meetings in the world that need to be set up yesterday and therefore need venues in which to take place. The venues need to be one of the 20 internal rooms which have to be booked way, way in advance of said meetings. So, you can see how, when TK or KM has a little flap about a meeting being organised today for tomorrow, I might have a small problem. I am the meeting room merchant, a room shark or dealer in vices, wheeling and dealing, cajoling and threatening to get the venue I have been commanded to find. And so far so good - I have not yet missed one meeting venue. Touch wood. I am becoming familiar with the who's who of regulars booked into the meeting room grid, and I'm starting to know who is soft-hearted enough to bend over backwards to help me out and who's likely to sniff disdainfully in my direction, indicating clearly that my lack of foresight is an impediment to my job (apparently I am supposed to be psychic and smell that people will need a room for 8 from 11am - 2pm with a premier lunch ordered for 20voetsek). However, despite this madness, I am still very much enjoying this job, while on the hunt for permanent work. Apparently there is a chance my role may become permanent, but I'm not sure if I'd take it - it falls short by £1000 of what I want to get paid (per year obviously, I'm not that lost in my own ego).

This weekend past was a pretty good one. We went to a braai (I hate saying BBQ, but seriously no-one in this new company has ever heard the word braai before) at OJ and Neutrino's house - the last one before they move out at the end of May. Trouble with psychotic neighbours who jump over the wall and wave knives in their faces when they hear trance music has understandably forced all housemates to seek alternative accommodation, stat. The plan was to to have some drinks, make some burgers and then move onto a random's party (friend of a friend of a friend....) at a pub somwhere, but we ended up having so much fun we ditched the party idea and went to buy more booze for our own soiree. Well, maybe soiree is overstating the matter a bit - drunken carousing would be more appropriate. Some of the other housemates arrived home later on, bringing an army of Australians with them. Now, since we're not getting on very well against Oz in the cricket (or anyone else for that matter, but that's another story) and we were careless enough to allow a handful of Aussies and a handful of Saffas to gather together under one roof with several bottles of vodka down, you know we needed a way to diffuse the tension. And really, what better way than a football match - a sport in which we both suck. It was heated, and both sides were fighting hard for the coveted title of Backyard Champions, but in the end it was our Saffa boys who triumphed, while the girls.... well, what did we do? I just know there was a lot of skinner and what we like to call dosing involved - it's when you have a really intense conversation that feels afterwards a bit like you've been force fed, in the nicest way possible of course! We honoured the age old SA tradition of boys and girls firmly separated for most of the day; after all, what would we want with a footie ball, and why would they want to discuss in great detail who's pissing who off and who's shocking secrets have recently come to light? To borrow a line from my esteemed ex-schoolmate and fellow blogger, it's what makes me so terribly glad to be a girl!