The Sun Always Shines On TV

My friend G-Days has just bought himself an £850 tv set. I don't usually devote entire posts to my friends' activities, but since I don't have anything particularly interesting to report by way of events, thoughts or issues, and his buying this tv is clearly an alarming event and points towards some serious lack of thought issues, it seems a worthy replacement.

Who in their right mind buys an £850 tv set? The four of us discussed this over supper last night and came up with a list of all the (much more worthwhile) things one can do with £850:

1. Buy two return tickets to Cape Town off season (give or take £50)
2. Buy one return ticket to Cape Town and use the rest of the money to have a moerse jol
3. Go on a weekend break to Prague - twice (and that's for a couple)
4. Go on a Victoria Beckham style shopping spree (ok, it would be a VB style spree to us, since us spending £850 on a day's shopping is like her spending £8500)
5. Buy three really good tvs - one for the lounge and each bedroom

The guys were bandying about phrases like 'sony bravia' and 'superfast refresh rate', none of which mean anything to me but apparently explain why G-Days thought it necessary to part with that much cash for a telly. It's HD compatible, but that comes with its own set of problems, such as the need to buy a £200 Sky TV box that supports HD, which he is now planning to do. I certainly hope for his sake that it makes the movie characters come to life in his lounge, otherwise I can't help but feel he has pissed his money down the proverbial drain. He's not even staying in the UK permanently!

I just had a phone call from someone at FabricLive, the UK's most well known electro club. I applied for the role of Club Secretary a while ago, but hadn't heard back from them so I'd forgotten all about it. The PA to the Director had just three questions for me: Have I been to Fabric before (yes, once last NYE), What did I think of it (Fantastic, awesome atmosphere and really good music - now this was a lie, because it sucked, but I figure only because we chose the worst night of the year to go. I therefore think that had it been any other night I would have enjoyed myself, and elected to project my feelings about any future nights at Fabric rather than the night I actually went) and Did I know about their record label (Yes, having looked it up on the website when I first applied for the role). Incidentally, the record label thing was why I applied in the first place. Getting into music is even harder than getting into tv or film, at least with my luck, so I didn't think I actually had a shot. The PA told me that's all she needed to know, and she'd be in touch.

Why can't all interviews be that easy! ;-)

Desecration Smile

I didn't get the job. My agent phoned yesterday afternoon just before I left work. Apparently I am overqualified. The HR manager said it is clear I am looking for the opportunity to develop and advance, and that coupled with my experience and capabilities means that I would be bored, as the role is simple, straightforward PA position.

So on the way home, as I sunk into a pit of self-loathing and humiliation, I wondered to Shoes if I shouldn't just take accept the offer of going permanent in my current job. Cons: there is no room for growth and it would pretty much seal the deal that I'll be a PA for the rest of life. But pros: I'd have security, £500 a year more than I get now, holidays (they go overboard here - staff get 30 days annual leave), sick leave and of course, being able to stop this seemingly pointless and very unsuccessful job hunt. I was so down, so despairing, that for just a couple of minutes I made the decision to come in here today and tell them I'd take it.

I just got in right now, but I'd already changed my mind.

After the initial shock had worn off - I was 100% certain I'd get to the second round on this one - I got pissed off. What gets to me more than anything is that the HR manager made a choice that I feel should have been mine. I knew what the job entailed before I went for the interview. If I'm fine with doing it, and have shown enthusiasm and the required experience, who is she to tell me I would be bored? That should be my cross to bear. She acted like she was doing me a favour. I think it's just a cover; a cop out for whatever the real reason is that I didn't get it. I'm struggling to believe that's all there is to it.

When I got home, after burbling to Shoes for the whole journey, I decided against going to gym; when one is upset, exercise becomes entirely optional. Of course, I knew I could have pounded out my frustration on the treadmill, because that is a fool-proof way to release tension. However, I decided to take the time honoured woman's tradition in hand instead - comfort food. Shoes went to gym, I went straight to the chocolate cupboard. As my hand reached for the M&Ms, I saw my unopened box of garlic and herb crackers and remembered the sizable chunk of brie in the fridge. After giving myself a brief talking to ("You know exactly what you're about to do. If you do this, I forbid you from feeling guilty afterwards and thereby making the situation worse. If you open this box, you will enjoy every moment, especially the empty space where the guilt would have been were you not such a rational person."), I ripped open the packaging and devoured half the crackers and nearly all the brie in about 5 minutes flat. Felt a bit better. After that I finished my book, and then, since no-one was home, decided to play mournful songs on my guitar, as I could wail along in peace without my housemates shooting concerned looks at each other and making discreet calls to the men in white coats. I wailed away for a while (songs included Cigarettes by the Wreckers, which has the following lyrics: Someday maybe somebody will love me like I need / Someday I won't have to prove to somebody who'll see all my worth / But until then I'll do just fine on my own / With my cigarettes and this old dirt road - Oh yes, I can be quite melodramatic when it suits me, makes me wish I still smoked so I could suck deeply on a ciggy whilst staring moodily out the window), and then finally Eyes came home and I thought I'd spare him my abject misery, so I stopped.

I feel slightly better today; at least well enough to be driven by the rejection to increase my intensity in the job search. It still stings, and I don't get it, and I'm hard pressed to believe I'll ever get anywhere at this stage, but I haven't quite given up yet. I'm sort of hanging in between thinking they're just idiots, and a place where my self doubt in growing alarmingly by the minute; a place where I question whether I do in fact have anything to offer that anybody is actually ever going to want. I've only had two interviews, but I've been looking on and off for 6 months now, and of the 5 or so agencies I've joined and the 50 odd jobs I've applied for, all I have to show for it are 2 rejections in first round interviews. It's a shit track record, there's no getting around it, and while I'll keep looking and keep hoping because I simply don't have any other choice, it's not as easy to believe in myself as it was before I came to London.

I'm With Stupid

Aaarggh, Monday mornings at Woolwich train station. Nightmare. Woolwich is a nightmare at any time - think Woodstock in CT but with no evident drug trade and just a handful of reported murders as opposed to a multitude - but it goes out of its way to be unpleasant on Monday mornings. There are never enough station staff, the trains are always overpacked ("Move down please, MOVE DOWN!" should become the South Eastern line's motto) and it smells even worse on Mondays than any other day of the week, although how that's possible it's hard to say.

We have long since gotten over the seductive charm of our modern, spacious apartment, and can no longer overlook the fact that the town we live in is an absolute shit hole. Of course, we've known this for ages now. Whenever we're bringing a hapless guest to our house for the first time, we do the stock standard introduction to Woolwich: "Welcome to Woolwich, please excuse the mess / delapidation / lack of middle or upper class people, but wait til you see our flat darling, it's just divine, so worth putting up with the surrounding crap." The fact is, as nice as our apartment may be, we've been deluding ourselves, because last May when we signed our lease for another year, we were too lazy to bother with the rigamarole of moving. How we do regret our apathy of 6 months yonder.

This morning the trains were delayed outside London Bridge for half an hour due to signalling problems. There is nothing I can say about this that has not been lamented about at extraordinary lengths in the British press. The poms just love to alas! about their transport woes. So I got to work late, which was just the start of what has been a slightly irritating day, but for no reason I can put my finger on. So I'll drop it.

Saturday night I went out with my cousins, Chatterbox and ArtyOne. I say went out, but actually we went to Chatterbox's boyfriend's house, where I proceeded to stay perfectly sober in my fledgling programme of Drinking with Moderation and Class. Falling over, crying, permanently injuring myself and blacking out are a thing of the past: I am now a Grown Up and as such will remain either sober or pleasantly tipsy at all times when exposed to alcohol. I have decided to maintain decorum when in the midst of boozing, something which I believe has always eluded me due to a mutated gene: I am not an addict, but I am incapable to getting pissed like a normal, well-adjusted person - it always ends in tears.

So there I was, sitting very high on my horse, surveying the potential for catastrophy around me and smugly congratulating myself on how wise I have become. However, there's always one that has to fly the family flag high, and whilst I know Mini-Me has been doing me proud in CT, it was inevitable that someone had to do their part on this side of the pond too. On this night it was ArtyOne, the one person I know in London who does not regularly drink herself into oblivion. To be fair, she'd barely eaten the entire day (rookie mistake) and when she did get pissed, it was cute and giggly, the kind of pissed I have always wished I could be. If I could get pissed like that, I'd never be sober - what's the point?! Ok, that was a joke, no lectures please.

So I was chatting to her, and we were joined by a complete loser of a guy who we shall from hereon refer to as Major Prick. Major Prick found out we were from Cape Town, and he then proceeded to go into an elaborately pathetic role play where he pretended that he was gay. He seemed to think we might approve, us being from the gay capital of the world and all. I am still at a loss as to what he actually thought he was going to achieve with this charade. I can only conclude that it was a horribly misguided attempt at a pick-up from a guy with the social skills of skunk. ArtyOne was of course going with it, being naturally polite and sweet and now a little tipsy too, so she was amiable and indulgent. I was bored to the point where I was about to chew my own ears off and so I was blatantly rude to Major Prick. I told him I was really bored. I told him the conversation was completely pointless. I told him I couldn't bear to spend another second listening to him blather on like an idiot, and I stalked off to take refuge in the kitchen (only to return seconds later to rescue ArtyOne, who had begun waving frantically and making not so subtle hand gestures that I was to come straight back and rescue her, which I did). Then later, when our paths crossed again, he continued with the little joke, stopping to tell me that he really didn't mean any harm, but he really was gay and what did I have against gay people (he wasn't gay, not even close). I told him he could never be gay because a) he wasn't fashionable enough b) he had the conversational skills of a toad on crack and c) he had awful hair. I was going for the crushing an fly with a boulder effect, but all he looked was a little put out, and told me he was only taking the piss (really? noooo, I never saw that coming). Seriously, I can't remember the last time I was that rude to someone's face and they still didn't get it. Here's your sign.

Forever In Blue Jeans

I've been very busy writing personal e-mails today. Sometimes you just need to take that time out to check in with your family... and if it's your company's time, oh well, it's not like you can pick the times your family may need a word, can you? Family first, always. So sorry, dear boss, that I have not done a stitch of work since 12pm (and not all that much before 12pm either), but cultivating good relationships is important to me; it's what makes me the compassionate person that I am.... and sod it, it's Friday anyway and nobody works on Fridays!

In one of my e-mails to Shoes' sister Black Velvet, I was lamenting the fact that I can't find a decent fitting pair of jeans in this country. Now, jeans are supposed to be the staples of one's wardrobe. One should have light jeans, dark jeans, plain jeans, embroidered jeans, stonewashed jeans, jeans with stripes, jeans with rips or material patches, blue jeans, black jeans and, if you're Liz Hurley or have a figure anything like hers, white jeans (NB If you are not Liz Hurley or you do not have a figure anything like hers, avoid white jeans completely - this is not optional!).

I have always had enormous problems finding jeans that fit me properly. I am rather short and have a classic hour glass shape with just a hint of pear in the direction of the thighs, but my womanly hips are my most embattled body part, ie that is the first place I put on on weight. In all other aspects I am an easy to find UK size 10 - torso and crotch length, waist span (admittedly not a factor in hipster jeans) and buttocks width. Size 10 fits me like a glove. Except.For.The.Protruding.Hips.

If I am at my best physically, which I haven't been for at least a year now, I can slither into a size 10 and it looks fabulous. However, if I'm not, if I have just one slice of pizza too many, my hips expand by the width of a removal truck, and they snicker at me from their place of comfort hanging over the sides of my jeans. So, bitterly ignoring their evil cackling, I make my way over to the size 12s and resignedly wriggle my unbending loins into them. And of course, my hips snuggle down contentedly and drift off to a peaceful slumber. There's even room for a couple of fingers in the waistband, in case I want to hang my thumbs on the edge of my jeans to affect an unruffled, so slick right now look. However, muffled wails come through the thick fabric from the direction of my ass, which is now drowning in baggy folds, and when I look down I find the crotch of the jeans hanging almost to my knees. The thighs are rumpled, and when I sit down I look distinctly as if I am sporting an undercover penis.

I've concluded that what I need is a size 11. Either that, or I need to pay through my ass for a pair of Rock and Republic jeans, or some other high profile brand that I can get custom tailored to fit like a glove, no matter how much of an off day my hips might be having. For someone who is as deep in debt as I, paying £80 - £100 for a decent pair of jeans is simply not an option. And, from the state of my current collection, neither are £5 jeans from the market.

And so I live for the day in January when I go back to SA for a visit, and I can fling myself upon the wonder that is Truworths, they of the world's most perfectly fitting jeans, and tear up my hopefully by then not maxed out credit card. Til that day, I will continue to send my hips to coventry and wait in vain for that moment where I might stumble across That Perfect Pair in the bargain bins.

My Guitar Lies Bleeding In My Arms

This is just a quick update; for some reason I have been insanely busy today and now I've run out of time to do anything! It's been rather annoying really.

So, my interview yesterday went well, I think. I am fully aware that what I think is successful might be just the opposite, as evidenced by my last experience with this, so I'm not getting too hopeful, or indeed anticipating much at all. It was only the first round anyway; if I get through to the second, I'll meet with the two Directors I would be supporting. The interview this time was with the HR manager, who was lovely but most employers tend to come across as congenial on first meeting; it doesn't mean anything. She said she hoped to be able to tell me by the end of this week if I had made the cut or not, so perhaps I will hear back tomorrow.

Last night the others were all watching footie, and I had some to kill so I decided to pick up my abandoned guitar. I've had it since January, and like anything novel, I couldn't put it down for the first few months, as I listened to Eric Clapton make his magic on my mp3 player and imagined myself wowing the world with my incredible skill. Then, as with anything else that requires major effort, I sort of lost interest once I realised I would have to practice every single day, and do boring things like scales and strumming patterns if I wanted to play properly. I am of the instant gratification generation; when I want things I want them now, not in 6 months time. Patience is not my strong suit, and it annoyed me to find that even if I practiced religiously every day for 3 weeks, the improvements at first are very marginal, and I didn't pick up my guitar one day and find I was suddenly pinky perfect.

Everyone has a rock star fantasy. In some people's dreams they are the singers; until recently so was I. However, let's face it - playing the guitar really well lends a moody, rebellious nature to the musician, plus they have a claim to fame that few can dispute. There are no guitar players on stage today who cannot play, while there are many singers who cannot sing. It's infinitely harder to fake playing an instrument. I should probably mention here that my guitar is acoustic, so it's not exactly dripping rock n roll. But you can't run before you can walk, and acoustic is the easiest thing to learn on.. plus, if I'm honest, I doubt I will ever find it in myself to devote enough time to this hobby to warrant the purchase of an electric guitar.

Both my parents are musical. My mom plays piano and sings, my dad plays acoustic and bass. I had piano lessons when I was younger, and if I remember correctly, my teacher told my parents I had talent but, surprise surprise, I was lazy and wouldn't get anywhere because I didn't practice. Even as a wee lass I wasn't interested if it required hours of repetition. In fact, that is very much a theme throughout my life, which possibly explains my penchant for last minute cramming during exams, projects only started the night before the deadline and why I like alcohol so much - it doesn't require an awful lot of repetition to get to where you want to be.

Anyway. So I really do want to play the guitar well. Not brilliantly, but passably enough so that if someone walks into the room and I am wailing along to my plucking and strumming, they might stay and listen and nod thoughtfully instead of look at me in horror and dive for the ear plugs. So last night I played, I'd like to say til my fingers bled, but that would be a lie - it was more like til they went rather pink and puffy looking. This didn't take long, as the slight callouses I built up 6 months ago are long gone, and it stings like a bitch while you try to build them up again. My problem at the moment is trying to get a strumming rhythm right according to the song I am playing, while still changing chords and singing the right words. It's like rubbing your stomach and patting your head - when you manage to get the pattern right you realise you are two chords behind and you're singing the chorus when your fingers are trying to play the first verse. I must say, I am grateful for the fountains in our pond that mask the cacophony; we've just made friends with our neighbours and I wouldn't want to be responsible for the erosion of good will.

Jailhouse Rock

I have a job interview! I know I'm not supposed to get overly excited about this, given my atrocious track record with job hunting (unhelpful covens, cvs put forward but no interviews, then finally an interview which I thought went great but they gave me an almost instant no), but once again I can't help it. I suppose when you apply for so many jobs and never hear back from 90% of them, when someone finally shows interest you can't help but be the dog wagging it's tail joyfully at the sprinkling of crumbs from the table.

The position is for PA to the joint MDs of a TV production company, and the interview is tomorrow afternoon. That's all I'll say for now; heaven help me if I've jinxed it already just by mentioning it, but since I'm not superstitious I'll take my chances. And I'll wag my tail in delight until the outcome, when my luck will either change or prove yet again that I am obviously a test case: how long can one person stay motivated and retain her self respect whilst getting knocked back over and over again for no apparently good reason. To be continued.....

Last night we watched the second episode of Prison Break Season 2. The plotlines are as nailbiting as ever, if no longer quite so unique. We were trying to imagine what the writers will come up with for Season 4: "After breaking out of Sona, Scofield goes on the run while attempting to clear his name and expose the sinister group behind his incarceration; during which he is betrayed by one of his Fox Rover cronies and gets banged up in Thailand's notorious Bangkwang prison from which he is forced to escape on pain of losing family member/loved one/former prisonmate."

Good, exciting stuff - the first time, anyway, and quite possibly even the second, to a lesser degree. But really, they have to know that unless they change the name of the show to Serial Prison Breaker, they aren't too many hours of fun left for Scofield and friends. Perhaps they should have a spin-off show, the classic move when writers have run out ideas for their main ensemble cast (think Joey from Friends and Private Practice from Grey's Anatomy). We could have a brand series called Linc the Sink, in which Lincoln Burrows attempts to cast off his former criminal self and learns to button his shirt using all the buttons, instead of just the middle one. Or perhaps Sarah In Chains, where Sarah Tankrety flees her current captives and opens a clinic for drug addicts who have served their time in jail. The possibilities are endless.

Vogue

Gwen Stefani rocked the house on Friday night - Scarf and I are now officially her biggest fans. One and a half hours, a 7 piece band, 6 Harajuku dancers and one remarkably tiny woman packing some huge punches.... we have a new saying: "No-one is cooler than Gwen." Is it ok to be a bit star-struck at the age of 27? I mean, I thought I was too affectedly world weary and mature for that. If I was chatting to Shoes' 14 year old sister, for example, and she started going on about how rad the Band of the Moment is and how brilliantly Elektra dances / Mos Duidelik raps / DJ Tjek-My-Tjoons mixes, I would smile indulgently and feel very grown-up and sage. Oh my good Lord, I have become my parents. Except with Gwen, I felt far closer to K's 14 than I did to my own 27. Scarf and I jumped around like morons and all you can hear in the video clips we took is us bellowing at the tops of our lungs - Gwen, microphone and all, didn't stand a chance against our trumpeting rendition of Hollaback Girl.

In what turned out to be a very chick weekend, we left the guys again on Saturday morning for our first foray into the world of London's fashion elite at the Natural History Museum. The problem is, it wasn't very elite at all; in fact, it was nothing like I expected it to be. For starters, you'd think Fashion Weekend would be very larney. Lots of fashionistas in the latest catwalk-inspired creations touting big bags of designer gear and saying things like "Daaahling, you absolutely MUST visit Crystal for your next eyebrow wax, she's just genius!" and "Have you seen the new Marc Jacobs sailor-striped muumuu, it's just faaabulous sweetie." You'd imagine the decor to be understated and elegant, yet with an obvious throwback to the days of Old Money - not ostentatious, but no shrinking violet when it comes to showing one who's boss either. What we got was a temporarily erected white (washed) plywood structure, closely resembling a marqee but with slightly more reliable walls. Still, you had cause to be grateful you were not window-shopping in the hurricane-prone Pacific, as you know you would have been the first to touch the eye of that storm. The "designer stores" were no more than hastily set up stalls a la your local Sunday flea market, and their contents were, erm, bordering on the ludicrous. I'm not sure whether the whole thing was an inside joke, as in "Let's put this over-priced junk out and see how many people accept it as the latest style." Either that, or I just do not have Designer Taste. Excuse me for wanting to look a little more classy than your average London chav or stick thin supermodel parading around with clothing schizophrenia (because let's face it, that dress may look good on THAT person at THAT angle for the magazine spread, but you and I would just look like severely misguided children playing in the school dress-up box). Maybe it was Chav Fashion Weekend, and the real deal was rather more exclusive and open only to the likes of Victoria Beckham. There was no sign of Posh - in any sense of the word - at this extravaganza, let me tell you. I needn't have worried about having no money; with the exception of a few pieces of jewellery, I didn't find a single thing I would have wanted to buy, even if I was loaded.

On Saturday night we had a braai with G-Days, OJ and Lareye. Halfway through our second bottle of wine, Scarf and I managed to convince them to go down to the offy to get more beer, and hey presto, we were free to watch Grey's! We were a bit worried about watching Grey's pissed, but luckily we managed to piece together all the major events the next day, and we caned it again on Sunday - 5 episodes throughout the course of the weekend. The reason for the hurry is that Season 4 has just started in the States, and we want to be done with Season 3 by the time it comes on Sky. We've been through a dry spell in TV land recently, what with all our favourite shows finishing and only X Factor to warm our Saturday nights (ok, we're not that sad - we go out on Saturdays and watch the taped show on Sunday). Luckily Prison Break has just premiered its third season, and Ugly Betty and America's Next Top Model are both due to start within a couple of weeks. This is good news, as with our lack of funds and the wintery weather rolling in, the need to live vicariously through others will only increase until our lives are exciting again.