I checked my watch - don't be late, don't be late, try not to be late - I was late. Luckily however, so was she. I slowed down, figuring I could take my time. She sped up, not wanting to be even later and we bumped into each other on the way to the venue.
The venue itself was quite a chic and intimate little bar underneath Tower Bridge and the event was a first date. I stopped dating for much of last year - the austerity from not working such as it was. This was my first date since last October - the date of 20 hours, more of which I'll tell you about another time ... or maybe I won't. Whilst this blog can be very personal at times, it isn’t meant to be a completely open book.
Anyway, back to this particular evening, which was with someone I had met at a party the week before - we'll call her A. That night, in a room full of women wearing short party dresses and all screaming "look at me", this vivacious girl with big beautiful dark eyes and a wide mouth smile had captured my attention. We had barely exchanged a few sentences when her friend decided to vomit a cocktail of champagne, red wine and what looked like half a mutilated spring roll onto her shoes. After much wiping of shoes and the vomiter's dress and fetching glasses of water, A said "I’m sorry but I'm going to have to take her home". I hated her friend at that point. Wasn't there any way she could just bundle her into a cab with her flat keys? Plainly not - the girl looked like a refugee from Shameless and left to her own devices she'd give Amy Winehouse a run for her money. "Call me" said A as she got into a taxi with her friend. I did and here we were.
We sat down at a little table next to a window underneath Tower Bridge. The evening was clear, the view over the river was spectacular and the candle in the bottle between us set the perfect intimate atmosphere for a date. Any pre date nerves – any fears I may have had of the conversation drying up were dispelled in an instant, the moment we started talking. She leaned on her hand as I talked and I saw that same wide mouth smile and the deep brown eyes that had caught my attention in the first place. It felt so easy and natural and we seemed to talk and banter about anything and everything – bizarrely so in fact as we talked about things you’re not supposed to on a first date, such as ex’s – she was recently out of a long relationship in the same way as I was a couple of years ago. She was adorable and funny and sweet and beautiful. Normally on a first date my guard is up and I think of a first date as a time to work out if you want to see the person again for a second date. This girl was different though and as she talked animatedly and interestingly I knew that I wanted to see her again.
We were the last two people to leave as we headed for the walk across Tower Bridge. As much as we seemed to really get on, I still wasn’t sure what she thought of me. I needed to test the water and the best way to do this I thought, would be to link my little finger with hers. Either she’d let go of my finger or she’d hold my hand. If she let go of my finger then it wouldn’t be the end of the world exactly, but if she held my hand then it would show that she liked me and was interested. I wondered and ummed and ahhed before gingerly curling the little finger on my right hand with hers on her left. Seconds later I felt her palm close around mine.
We got to the other end of the Bridge. "So.." I said. "So..." she replied, smiling as I was due to head in one direction and she in another. Her hand brushed up and down the side of my arm as I took her left lapel in my hand and pulled her close. The kiss was every bit as good and enjoyable as I hoped it would be. We ignored the tooting of cars and the "GO ON SON!" of passers by. Well I say ignored - she smiled and giggled and in my head I was doing a little dance and punching the air on stage at Wembley stadium in front of a crowd of thousands. We kissed again and after 30 mins she said "I'd better go, I've got to be up at 6am". "Me too" I said, checking the time. "Call me" she said. "I will " I replied as I smiled and as cool as I could, turned and walked in the opposite direction. I felt elated and I looked back over my shoulder as I walked and saw her looking back. I grinned and turned back the way I was walking, taking another peek back a few minutes later, only to see her again glimpsing back.
I beamed as I carried on walking. This felt like the beginning of something exciting...
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Heroes
I know, I know, it’s been ages since you’ve had an update. All I can say is well, I’ve been a bit crap and eaten a lot over Christmas and I’ve been working a lot too – hey, who’d have thought I’d be saying that 3 months ago. More about the work situation is to come in a later blog. For the moment though, I want to tell you about something that happened to me just before Christmas.
What happened was that I met one of my heroes. A major hero since I was young and a very famous one, akin to meeting Robert DeNiro if you’re a film buff or Kerry Katona if you shop at Iceland. I saw him as I was waiting to board a tube train. He looked familiar although I wasn’t sure if it was actually him until I heard him speak to his companion and recognised the unmistakable tones that I had heard so many times throughout my life. They now sounded a little more hoarse and slightly weary with age, but unmistakable none the less. The realisation of who I was standing next to dawned on me as the train passed in and out of the next station, with people embarking and disembarking and the crowds shuffling around. I had to pinch myself as he stood right next to me – what were the chances, and more importantly what was I going to do about it? Sure, I could go back to reading my book and be able to say “Hey, guess who I saw on the train today”. I wanted to speak to him though. That said, I also had a certain amount of trepidation. What if he turned out to be a dick and what if in his dickish disposition he would break my heart and crush a million memories as to why he was a hero in the first place..? They say never meet your heroes – well here was my chance to decide whether or not to take the plunge.
If I did nothing then I would regret it – that much I knew. For me the fear of regret is the one thing that will push me on to do things that I might otherwise shy away from. There are few things more saddening than walking away from something or someone and wondering, what if I’d said this? What if I’d done that..? What if..!?
More than that though, I wanted a conversation and one that included a two way exchange of views and didn’t make me sound like a sycophantic muppet.
The Hero in question, in case you’re wondering, was John Cleese. How do I start a conversation with John Cleese though in the middle of a tube train during the rush hour? Think you idiot, think!! My heart was palpitating and I grew more anxious as the train carried on its way. He may get off at the next stop for all I knew and the longer I faffed, the more likely it was that I’d end up torturing myself with a lugubrious cocktail of self-recrimination and regret. Everything was in slow motion as I blocked out passenger chatter and the grinding of the train wheels on the tracks. I stared into the middle of the train at no one as I evaluated potential conversation starters.
“Hey, I loved Fawlty Towers...”
No!
“Hey, are you going to do anymore Monty Python...?”
No!!
“So, Connie Booth.. Much of a goer..?”
No No No..!!!
I was snapped out of my fixed daze by the sound of “Ooh, are those Krispy Kremes?” It was JC’s companion and she was speaking to a guy directly behind me who held a big box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in his arms and had the stature of someone who looked like he would be more than comfortable eating all of them. “Yes they are, but they’re not mine sadly” said the guy. “Aww they look delish” she replied. That was it, as I heard myself say “It’s funny, but there was a box just like that one on the desk of the girl next to me at work. It’s sort of an office ritual really”. “Oh really?” they both said in unison. “Yup, whenever it’s someone’s birthday they have to bring a box of Krispy Kremes into the office”. “I’d love to try them” said JC “but I have an intolerance to wheat”. “Oh I have a friend with the same problem” I said.
And that was it – suddenly I was engaged in a conversation with John Cleese and talking like we were old friends having a catch up. We talked and talked – films, writing, what he’s doing, what I’m doing – less exciting admittedly, and we were talking so easily that I hadn’t noticed that I had arrived at my stop. I saw the station sign as the doors opened. To quote the Clash – “should I stay or should I go?” Duh – I stayed – how often do these opportunities come around? I had no idea how far JC and his companion (she turned out to be his daughter) were going, but hey – what did I have to lose!? Finally we reached North Greenwich. “Ah this is our stop” he said. “Mine too” I said as I extended my hand “Well goodbye then, great to meet you”. “An absolute pleasure, goodbye” he said.
They walked to the exit and I walked to the opposite platform – utterly elated and like a child on Christmas morning. I had been avidly reading the book under my arm for over a week and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to get further into it. At that moment though, I had never been happier to keep a book closed.
What happened was that I met one of my heroes. A major hero since I was young and a very famous one, akin to meeting Robert DeNiro if you’re a film buff or Kerry Katona if you shop at Iceland. I saw him as I was waiting to board a tube train. He looked familiar although I wasn’t sure if it was actually him until I heard him speak to his companion and recognised the unmistakable tones that I had heard so many times throughout my life. They now sounded a little more hoarse and slightly weary with age, but unmistakable none the less. The realisation of who I was standing next to dawned on me as the train passed in and out of the next station, with people embarking and disembarking and the crowds shuffling around. I had to pinch myself as he stood right next to me – what were the chances, and more importantly what was I going to do about it? Sure, I could go back to reading my book and be able to say “Hey, guess who I saw on the train today”. I wanted to speak to him though. That said, I also had a certain amount of trepidation. What if he turned out to be a dick and what if in his dickish disposition he would break my heart and crush a million memories as to why he was a hero in the first place..? They say never meet your heroes – well here was my chance to decide whether or not to take the plunge.
If I did nothing then I would regret it – that much I knew. For me the fear of regret is the one thing that will push me on to do things that I might otherwise shy away from. There are few things more saddening than walking away from something or someone and wondering, what if I’d said this? What if I’d done that..? What if..!?
More than that though, I wanted a conversation and one that included a two way exchange of views and didn’t make me sound like a sycophantic muppet.
The Hero in question, in case you’re wondering, was John Cleese. How do I start a conversation with John Cleese though in the middle of a tube train during the rush hour? Think you idiot, think!! My heart was palpitating and I grew more anxious as the train carried on its way. He may get off at the next stop for all I knew and the longer I faffed, the more likely it was that I’d end up torturing myself with a lugubrious cocktail of self-recrimination and regret. Everything was in slow motion as I blocked out passenger chatter and the grinding of the train wheels on the tracks. I stared into the middle of the train at no one as I evaluated potential conversation starters.
“Hey, I loved Fawlty Towers...”
No!
“Hey, are you going to do anymore Monty Python...?”
No!!
“So, Connie Booth.. Much of a goer..?”
No No No..!!!
I was snapped out of my fixed daze by the sound of “Ooh, are those Krispy Kremes?” It was JC’s companion and she was speaking to a guy directly behind me who held a big box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in his arms and had the stature of someone who looked like he would be more than comfortable eating all of them. “Yes they are, but they’re not mine sadly” said the guy. “Aww they look delish” she replied. That was it, as I heard myself say “It’s funny, but there was a box just like that one on the desk of the girl next to me at work. It’s sort of an office ritual really”. “Oh really?” they both said in unison. “Yup, whenever it’s someone’s birthday they have to bring a box of Krispy Kremes into the office”. “I’d love to try them” said JC “but I have an intolerance to wheat”. “Oh I have a friend with the same problem” I said.
And that was it – suddenly I was engaged in a conversation with John Cleese and talking like we were old friends having a catch up. We talked and talked – films, writing, what he’s doing, what I’m doing – less exciting admittedly, and we were talking so easily that I hadn’t noticed that I had arrived at my stop. I saw the station sign as the doors opened. To quote the Clash – “should I stay or should I go?” Duh – I stayed – how often do these opportunities come around? I had no idea how far JC and his companion (she turned out to be his daughter) were going, but hey – what did I have to lose!? Finally we reached North Greenwich. “Ah this is our stop” he said. “Mine too” I said as I extended my hand “Well goodbye then, great to meet you”. “An absolute pleasure, goodbye” he said.
They walked to the exit and I walked to the opposite platform – utterly elated and like a child on Christmas morning. I had been avidly reading the book under my arm for over a week and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to get further into it. At that moment though, I had never been happier to keep a book closed.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
The New Flatmate
You may remember that I mentioned the new rule of thumb for finding flatmates – ie, that would I like to have a beer with this person, had resulted in me finding just the right flatmate? Yes, well he was a recent-ish graduate who was looking to move into London. Well I’m not going to talk you through the viewing, but he liked what he saw and wanted to move in. He said that it was just what he was looking for, although there was a slight issue. This was that he wouldn’t be able to move in for two weeks but he paid me a £500 deposit to keep the room. This worked out quite well as the ex flatmate still had a week to go before moving out and so I’d have plenty of time to give the room a clean. The ex-flatmate by the way, you know, the one who was asthmatic and wanted to clean her freshly cleaned room when she moved in? Yes her - as it turns out she didn’t clean her room at all during her two month stay. She didn’t dust, didn’t change her sheets, didn’t vacuum and when you looked at the window sill, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the room had passed through an Icelandic ash cloud.
And then suddenly my first flatmate had gone and I was relieved to come back from work to find the spare room my own again as I threw my overcoat onto the spare bed. The new guy would be moving into the flat in a week’s time. That’s plenty of time to indulge in naked cooking time free of interruption.
So moving day came, and I realised that the flat was less tidy than I thought and so I went through the same backbreaking and sweat ridden cleaning routine that I went through before – well, first impressions and all that, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he’d had to go abroad with work for two weeks but that was he really looking forward to moving in when he got back. Oh well, at least I had a clean flat and wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pants on to make a cup of tea in the morning for the next fortnight.
I took advantage of the two week period and had friends over to stay. I never really had friends stay over before I had a flatmate, but now that the spare room looks rather pretty, it sort of seems rude not to. So much so that I almost began to resent the impending moving in date, which came around in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he flew back the day before and was organising stuff and he was sorry to keep me hanging on, but was looking forward to moving in and would pick the key up in the week – he didn’t.
I almost wanted to call him and tell him to fuck off and that I was letting the room to someone else. I spoke to G though who reassured me that he was probably just having a manic time of it, “I’ve been like that before and he did leave you a £500 deposit don’t forget”. Maybe she’s right I thought and maybe I was being slightly harsh, but I wanted reliability though and I had a nagging doubt. In my mind a conversation was playing over and over which went something like “Oh hi, er.. sorry. I’m a bit brassic this month, can I pay you extra next month.”
He texted me to say he’d be over on the Saturday afternoon, but I was out and so suggested that he stopped by in the week. He didn’t reply. By this time I knew that I was going to resent him living with me and resent his ugly girlfriend staying over at weekends, eating off my plates, drinking coffee in my kitchen and generally breathing my air. Ok, I don’t know she’s ugly, but she’s going out with him and he was proving himself to be a dick and she obviously likes going out with a dick, which means she’s ugly. I all but decided that life would be much easier and more pleasurable if he didn’t move in and I gave him back his deposit. There was a problem though – I’d spent his deposit and so any handing back of monies meant dipping into savings as I hadn’t been paid in the new job yet. My phone rang.
“Oh h..hi. it’s Andy. I’m afraid that I’ve had some bad news today. I’ve been made redundant with immediate effect and I won’t be able to move into the flat now.”
I knew it, I fucking knew it.
“You just found out today? Is that why you’ve been unreliable?”
“Er... It’s my boss. He’s gone into meltdown and everyone’s been made redundant. You can keep the deposit if you like”
“Can I? that’s very sweet of you. Do you have any idea how many people I turned away because I said the room was taken? Do you have any idea how stressful it is and...and....”
I wanted to be angry and even slightly nasty. Truth be told though I wasn’t desperately angry. You can’t really fake anger, you have to mean it and I didn’t and so I opted for sarcasm and emotional guilt. I was annoyed at his unreliability but also relieved. The man had paid me £500 to ensure that I live on my own for a month - part of me even felt faintly smug.
Will I get another flatmate? Perhaps, but for the moment I am enjoying the fact that I am working again and have discovered a new found love for enjoying the uninterrupted space of my own little castle.
And then suddenly my first flatmate had gone and I was relieved to come back from work to find the spare room my own again as I threw my overcoat onto the spare bed. The new guy would be moving into the flat in a week’s time. That’s plenty of time to indulge in naked cooking time free of interruption.
So moving day came, and I realised that the flat was less tidy than I thought and so I went through the same backbreaking and sweat ridden cleaning routine that I went through before – well, first impressions and all that, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he’d had to go abroad with work for two weeks but that was he really looking forward to moving in when he got back. Oh well, at least I had a clean flat and wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pants on to make a cup of tea in the morning for the next fortnight.
I took advantage of the two week period and had friends over to stay. I never really had friends stay over before I had a flatmate, but now that the spare room looks rather pretty, it sort of seems rude not to. So much so that I almost began to resent the impending moving in date, which came around in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he flew back the day before and was organising stuff and he was sorry to keep me hanging on, but was looking forward to moving in and would pick the key up in the week – he didn’t.
I almost wanted to call him and tell him to fuck off and that I was letting the room to someone else. I spoke to G though who reassured me that he was probably just having a manic time of it, “I’ve been like that before and he did leave you a £500 deposit don’t forget”. Maybe she’s right I thought and maybe I was being slightly harsh, but I wanted reliability though and I had a nagging doubt. In my mind a conversation was playing over and over which went something like “Oh hi, er.. sorry. I’m a bit brassic this month, can I pay you extra next month.”
He texted me to say he’d be over on the Saturday afternoon, but I was out and so suggested that he stopped by in the week. He didn’t reply. By this time I knew that I was going to resent him living with me and resent his ugly girlfriend staying over at weekends, eating off my plates, drinking coffee in my kitchen and generally breathing my air. Ok, I don’t know she’s ugly, but she’s going out with him and he was proving himself to be a dick and she obviously likes going out with a dick, which means she’s ugly. I all but decided that life would be much easier and more pleasurable if he didn’t move in and I gave him back his deposit. There was a problem though – I’d spent his deposit and so any handing back of monies meant dipping into savings as I hadn’t been paid in the new job yet. My phone rang.
“Oh h..hi. it’s Andy. I’m afraid that I’ve had some bad news today. I’ve been made redundant with immediate effect and I won’t be able to move into the flat now.”
I knew it, I fucking knew it.
“You just found out today? Is that why you’ve been unreliable?”
“Er... It’s my boss. He’s gone into meltdown and everyone’s been made redundant. You can keep the deposit if you like”
“Can I? that’s very sweet of you. Do you have any idea how many people I turned away because I said the room was taken? Do you have any idea how stressful it is and...and....”
I wanted to be angry and even slightly nasty. Truth be told though I wasn’t desperately angry. You can’t really fake anger, you have to mean it and I didn’t and so I opted for sarcasm and emotional guilt. I was annoyed at his unreliability but also relieved. The man had paid me £500 to ensure that I live on my own for a month - part of me even felt faintly smug.
Will I get another flatmate? Perhaps, but for the moment I am enjoying the fact that I am working again and have discovered a new found love for enjoying the uninterrupted space of my own little castle.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
The Interview
Hmm.. Blue or red perhaps, I thought as I held up two ties against my collar in front of the mirror. I settled on one which was a fairly conservative mix of both against a white shirt and a navy 3 piece suit. I had done my prep and was relaxed and ready to go. I was now in a pragmatic frame of mind regarding interviews. Experience had taught me not to get ahead of myself.
Things were different a month earlier. Then I had had three interviews in one week and I’d submitted an application for a job which was the permanent version of a role I did as a contractor two years earlier. The job was mine surely. I knew a lot of the people there and I knew the processes and everything that it involved. It must just be a shoe-in mustn’t it? I was feeling optimistic that one of the interviews was bound to come through and go my way. So much so in fact that I had decided to buy some new shirts and was making plans for when I started one of the roles. I’m cringing even as I type at the naivety of it. One by one the phone calls came in. “I’m sorry, but they thought you lacked experience of x and y”, “They liked you but they really want someone who’s a certified practitioner of blah”, “They thought you lacked knowledge of certain particular stuff”. I couldn’t believe it, as I walked in the rain and ended the third call. I was almost home and would check my emails and boil a kettle. I consoled myself that at least I still had the shoe-in role which would be just a matter of getting through the interview. This would be quite straight forward, I thought seeing as I’d already done the job.
I made a cup of tea and logged into my email. A response came in regarding my application just as I was scrolling through the latest updates from job sites. “Thank you for your recent application. Unfortunately on this occasion blah blah...”. The possibility of not even being called for an interview hadn’t entered my mind. I was devastated and furious and slightly numb at the unfairness of it. I paced the lounge and berated myself for being so stupidly over optimistic and complacent. I started to feel sorry for myself, before literally slapping myself across the face and going for a run. However low I felt, I was not going to cry – I had done that on red letter day.
Red letter day was a month or so before and came in the form of a tax demand. At that time I was nervous of hearing the clatter of the letter box in case it was someone demanding money. I opened the envelope to discover the letter with ‘DEMAND’ in red and 10 days to pay it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the money. I was frightened and panicked and couldn’t think straight. In my mind I would lose my house and be declared bankrupt. I visited a friend to talk and ended up blubbing on her shoulder.
Going back to the interview though, I was feeling relaxed as I headed out of the tube station and walked towards the shiny new offices ahead of me. The recruitment agent phoned me just before I entered the building to make sure everything was ok and that I knew where the place was – apparently someone had got lost the day before. I reassured her that I was fine and she told me she’d phone the moment she had feedback. I finished the call and went in.
An hour later I was sitting on a tube train on my way home. I was reasonably content with how I performed. I didn’t think there was anything I could or would have answered differently or any alternative questions I would have asked. It felt as if it could have gone either way and I didn’t have a clue as to which way that was. If I didn’t get it then I would take it on the chin and move on. One thing this whole period had given me is a thicker skin. Tomorrow would be another day.
I stood on the platform waiting for a tube connection as my phone rang. A train pulled into the station as I answered. People got on board and the train pulled out again, leaving me alone on the platform as I ended the call. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone and sobbed.
They loved me and wanted me to start on Monday.
Things were different a month earlier. Then I had had three interviews in one week and I’d submitted an application for a job which was the permanent version of a role I did as a contractor two years earlier. The job was mine surely. I knew a lot of the people there and I knew the processes and everything that it involved. It must just be a shoe-in mustn’t it? I was feeling optimistic that one of the interviews was bound to come through and go my way. So much so in fact that I had decided to buy some new shirts and was making plans for when I started one of the roles. I’m cringing even as I type at the naivety of it. One by one the phone calls came in. “I’m sorry, but they thought you lacked experience of x and y”, “They liked you but they really want someone who’s a certified practitioner of blah”, “They thought you lacked knowledge of certain particular stuff”. I couldn’t believe it, as I walked in the rain and ended the third call. I was almost home and would check my emails and boil a kettle. I consoled myself that at least I still had the shoe-in role which would be just a matter of getting through the interview. This would be quite straight forward, I thought seeing as I’d already done the job.
I made a cup of tea and logged into my email. A response came in regarding my application just as I was scrolling through the latest updates from job sites. “Thank you for your recent application. Unfortunately on this occasion blah blah...”. The possibility of not even being called for an interview hadn’t entered my mind. I was devastated and furious and slightly numb at the unfairness of it. I paced the lounge and berated myself for being so stupidly over optimistic and complacent. I started to feel sorry for myself, before literally slapping myself across the face and going for a run. However low I felt, I was not going to cry – I had done that on red letter day.
Red letter day was a month or so before and came in the form of a tax demand. At that time I was nervous of hearing the clatter of the letter box in case it was someone demanding money. I opened the envelope to discover the letter with ‘DEMAND’ in red and 10 days to pay it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the money. I was frightened and panicked and couldn’t think straight. In my mind I would lose my house and be declared bankrupt. I visited a friend to talk and ended up blubbing on her shoulder.
Going back to the interview though, I was feeling relaxed as I headed out of the tube station and walked towards the shiny new offices ahead of me. The recruitment agent phoned me just before I entered the building to make sure everything was ok and that I knew where the place was – apparently someone had got lost the day before. I reassured her that I was fine and she told me she’d phone the moment she had feedback. I finished the call and went in.
An hour later I was sitting on a tube train on my way home. I was reasonably content with how I performed. I didn’t think there was anything I could or would have answered differently or any alternative questions I would have asked. It felt as if it could have gone either way and I didn’t have a clue as to which way that was. If I didn’t get it then I would take it on the chin and move on. One thing this whole period had given me is a thicker skin. Tomorrow would be another day.
I stood on the platform waiting for a tube connection as my phone rang. A train pulled into the station as I answered. People got on board and the train pulled out again, leaving me alone on the platform as I ended the call. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone and sobbed.
They loved me and wanted me to start on Monday.
Monday, 8 November 2010
The Flatmate Part 2
I knew that there was a chance that she might move out. She had told me that she had holiday to take in November and wouldn’t want to pay a month’s rent when she’d only be here for two weeks of the month. However, I thought, or hoped at least that she’d change her mind after she’d moved in and it was plain that we were getting on quite well. I had let my optimism run away with me though which is why it felt like a shock when she told me she was moving out.
I spoke to a friend recently who told me that the moment one of her employees decides to resign, that she hates them almost immediately. They may have been a great employee, but the employer now just feels a sense of disloyalty and rightly or wrongly hears the message that “I would rather work for someone else”. The employer is also faced with the embuggerance of having to find a new employee and so in their mind they are faced with a double negative of hassle and rejection.
In my case, the hassle element was also spiked with a ladle full of fear – an irrational fear that I wouldn’t find another flatmate as good as her. That I would be faced with an army of no shows and po-faced spinsters dragging their miserable fingers along work surfaces for inspection. I must have inadvertently conveyed all of this in my look, as the flatmate spent the rest of the evening in her room. Well, almost the rest of the evening.
She popped her head around the door about 20 or so minutes later. “It’s not you, you know, you’ve been great.” Oh my god, not that old chestnut! If I hadn’t felt rejected before, then I certainly felt like I was now being dumped – and in my own house as well!
With the end of all relationships though, there is a time for reflection. I spoke to a friend of mine last week who broke up with her ex boyfriend last year. She had met him for lunch recently and couldn’t believe how different he seemed now that she was no longer going out with him. “He’s just so fucking annoying. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time” she said.
It got me thinking. Just over a week ago I had been walking through the City and noticed that Stephen Fry’s new autobiography, The Fry Chronicles, (which I am loving) was on discount at Waterstones. I bought it and put it on the coffee table when I got home as I checked my emails. The flatmate got back from work shortly afterwards and sat on the sofa.
Flatmate - Oh, have you bought yourself a book?
Me - Yeah, it’s Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography.
Flatmate – (munching on crisps) Who’s that? Some politician?
Me – it’s Stephen Fry, the comedian. You know.. Fry and Laurie? Blackadder? QI?
Flatmate – What are they?
Me – (thinking, What the fuck!!??)
Me – You seriously haven’t heard of Stephen Fry or any of those programmes?
Flatmate – No, they must be pretty old.
And with that she went to her room to finish her crisps, leaving me incredulous at the conversation we had just had. This wasn’t to be a one off though. A couple of days later we were watching the evening news as the story broke concerning Lady Ga Ga giving her ‘Prime Rib’ speech in protest at the US policy towards gays in the military. “Because I’m gay, I don’t get to enjoy the greatest cut of meat that my country has to offer.” She said.
Flatmate – Is Lady Ga Ga gay then?
Me – It would seem so.
Flatmate – Oh. Why did she decide to be gay?
Me – (rolls eyes) It’s a new LA thing. That’s why she wore a meat dress last week.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – Absolutely, Madonna came out last week too and she wore a meat trouser suit yesterday at a press conference – didn’t you see it?
Flatmate – No, I didn’t buy a paper yesterday.
Me – Oh well, I hear that Topshop are reproducing it and using Heston Blumenthal as a consultant in case you get bored wearing it.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – No.
When I first decided to get myself a flatmate and rent the spare room, it was done out of necessity. I decided that it was the wise thing to do, given the fact that I was out of work. With no job offer in sight I had to consider how I was going to pay the mortgage. I was concerned and anxious and even more so because the advert I placed, initially at least, did not yield the responses I had hoped for. So when the first person who showed interest said, “I’d like to take the room” I bit her hand off all the way down to her ankle. It’s been an interesting experience but ideally I want someone who has an outside chance of being a mate as well as a flatmate.
I re-advertised. This time however London’s student community being back at university has resulted in many more people looking for places to live and responses have been very good this time. I’d like to say that I now have a screening process of sorts. “Would I like to have a beer with this person?” is the new rule of thumb and having used it, I think I may now just have found the right person.
I spoke to a friend recently who told me that the moment one of her employees decides to resign, that she hates them almost immediately. They may have been a great employee, but the employer now just feels a sense of disloyalty and rightly or wrongly hears the message that “I would rather work for someone else”. The employer is also faced with the embuggerance of having to find a new employee and so in their mind they are faced with a double negative of hassle and rejection.
In my case, the hassle element was also spiked with a ladle full of fear – an irrational fear that I wouldn’t find another flatmate as good as her. That I would be faced with an army of no shows and po-faced spinsters dragging their miserable fingers along work surfaces for inspection. I must have inadvertently conveyed all of this in my look, as the flatmate spent the rest of the evening in her room. Well, almost the rest of the evening.
She popped her head around the door about 20 or so minutes later. “It’s not you, you know, you’ve been great.” Oh my god, not that old chestnut! If I hadn’t felt rejected before, then I certainly felt like I was now being dumped – and in my own house as well!
With the end of all relationships though, there is a time for reflection. I spoke to a friend of mine last week who broke up with her ex boyfriend last year. She had met him for lunch recently and couldn’t believe how different he seemed now that she was no longer going out with him. “He’s just so fucking annoying. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time” she said.
It got me thinking. Just over a week ago I had been walking through the City and noticed that Stephen Fry’s new autobiography, The Fry Chronicles, (which I am loving) was on discount at Waterstones. I bought it and put it on the coffee table when I got home as I checked my emails. The flatmate got back from work shortly afterwards and sat on the sofa.
Flatmate - Oh, have you bought yourself a book?
Me - Yeah, it’s Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography.
Flatmate – (munching on crisps) Who’s that? Some politician?
Me – it’s Stephen Fry, the comedian. You know.. Fry and Laurie? Blackadder? QI?
Flatmate – What are they?
Me – (thinking, What the fuck!!??)
Me – You seriously haven’t heard of Stephen Fry or any of those programmes?
Flatmate – No, they must be pretty old.
And with that she went to her room to finish her crisps, leaving me incredulous at the conversation we had just had. This wasn’t to be a one off though. A couple of days later we were watching the evening news as the story broke concerning Lady Ga Ga giving her ‘Prime Rib’ speech in protest at the US policy towards gays in the military. “Because I’m gay, I don’t get to enjoy the greatest cut of meat that my country has to offer.” She said.
Flatmate – Is Lady Ga Ga gay then?
Me – It would seem so.
Flatmate – Oh. Why did she decide to be gay?
Me – (rolls eyes) It’s a new LA thing. That’s why she wore a meat dress last week.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – Absolutely, Madonna came out last week too and she wore a meat trouser suit yesterday at a press conference – didn’t you see it?
Flatmate – No, I didn’t buy a paper yesterday.
Me – Oh well, I hear that Topshop are reproducing it and using Heston Blumenthal as a consultant in case you get bored wearing it.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – No.
When I first decided to get myself a flatmate and rent the spare room, it was done out of necessity. I decided that it was the wise thing to do, given the fact that I was out of work. With no job offer in sight I had to consider how I was going to pay the mortgage. I was concerned and anxious and even more so because the advert I placed, initially at least, did not yield the responses I had hoped for. So when the first person who showed interest said, “I’d like to take the room” I bit her hand off all the way down to her ankle. It’s been an interesting experience but ideally I want someone who has an outside chance of being a mate as well as a flatmate.
I re-advertised. This time however London’s student community being back at university has resulted in many more people looking for places to live and responses have been very good this time. I’d like to say that I now have a screening process of sorts. “Would I like to have a beer with this person?” is the new rule of thumb and having used it, I think I may now just have found the right person.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
The Flatmate
I started to write this little update a few weeks ago but then I sat on it after I was interrupted by the subject matter at hand – namely my flatmate. Yes I have a flatmate and not the one I expected to be won over by my amateur impression of an all knowing landlord. She hardly said a word as I showed her around the flat, just nodding her head and with the occasional "uh huh" as I showed her each room. Her vocabulary didn't increase as I pointed out the local amenities from the balcony. So when she nodded again and said "Ok, well I’ll call you and let you know", I assumed that it was a dead sale. "I'm never going to hear from you again, am I!?" I wanted to say, which is why I was surprised to answer her telephone call later that night. "Hi, I liked your place, is it ok to move in next week?" I took a deep breath. It was an intense weight lifted. The pressure of not working and wondering where the next mortgage payment is coming from now greatly relieved – at least for the moment.
The day for her to move in came around very quickly. I wanted to create a good first impression and so decided to clean the flat from top to bottom, and that’s before I even started on moving my things out of the spare room.
I have never before been so thorough when cleaning. My mother and my ex girlfriend especially would be proud and in the case of my ex, would more likely have been slightly put out that I was never this thorough in the past. I opened windows and dusted and vacuumed and moved furniture and climbed over furniture and lifted furniture and cleaned under furniture and sweated and ached and coughed and sneezed – the price for not being thorough in the past.
Finally it was done. Everything that needed packing was packed, everything moved, everything cleaned and polished. The whole flat was gleaming and pristine in a way that it hadn’t been since... well since before I bought the place anyway. I’ve never been so proud of my hard work or more satisfied at having a bad back.
And then she arrived, with a big smile and a “Hiiii”. I popped into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea and to get out of her way as she moved her things in. I had just put the mug to my lips as she joined me in the kitchen. “Hi, do you have a mop at all?” “A mop? No I don’t actually. Why?”. “Oh it’s ok, I’m just a bit asthmatic and I wanted to give the room a bit of a clean.”
She has been a perfect flatmate though. A perfectly benign flatmate actually. As the weeks have passed she has been very easy to get on with. She doesn’t make any noise – she just comes home and checks her emails and watches television and that’s it. She doesn’t eat apart from cheese and crackers which means that the only person messing up my pots, my pans and my kitchen, is me. She visits family every other weekend which allows me to take full advantage of having the place to myself. All in all it has worked out very well and has given me the space to concentrate on looking for work and free my mind from a certain degree of worry. I will admit that’s it’s also been pleasant to sit at home on an evening and have someone to talk about the day with who is easygoing and quite pleasant company.
Then one night just over a week ago I was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea. I had just sent off another CV and was watching the evening news, feeling reasonably satisfied at having had a productive day. She popped her head around the door of the lounge. “Hi” she said.”You know my rent’s due tomorrow?” “Uh huh” I said with one eye on the news . “Well I just thought I’d let you know that I’m giving you a month’s notice and I’m moving out”.
The day for her to move in came around very quickly. I wanted to create a good first impression and so decided to clean the flat from top to bottom, and that’s before I even started on moving my things out of the spare room.
I have never before been so thorough when cleaning. My mother and my ex girlfriend especially would be proud and in the case of my ex, would more likely have been slightly put out that I was never this thorough in the past. I opened windows and dusted and vacuumed and moved furniture and climbed over furniture and lifted furniture and cleaned under furniture and sweated and ached and coughed and sneezed – the price for not being thorough in the past.
Finally it was done. Everything that needed packing was packed, everything moved, everything cleaned and polished. The whole flat was gleaming and pristine in a way that it hadn’t been since... well since before I bought the place anyway. I’ve never been so proud of my hard work or more satisfied at having a bad back.
And then she arrived, with a big smile and a “Hiiii”. I popped into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea and to get out of her way as she moved her things in. I had just put the mug to my lips as she joined me in the kitchen. “Hi, do you have a mop at all?” “A mop? No I don’t actually. Why?”. “Oh it’s ok, I’m just a bit asthmatic and I wanted to give the room a bit of a clean.”
She has been a perfect flatmate though. A perfectly benign flatmate actually. As the weeks have passed she has been very easy to get on with. She doesn’t make any noise – she just comes home and checks her emails and watches television and that’s it. She doesn’t eat apart from cheese and crackers which means that the only person messing up my pots, my pans and my kitchen, is me. She visits family every other weekend which allows me to take full advantage of having the place to myself. All in all it has worked out very well and has given me the space to concentrate on looking for work and free my mind from a certain degree of worry. I will admit that’s it’s also been pleasant to sit at home on an evening and have someone to talk about the day with who is easygoing and quite pleasant company.
Then one night just over a week ago I was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea. I had just sent off another CV and was watching the evening news, feeling reasonably satisfied at having had a productive day. She popped her head around the door of the lounge. “Hi” she said.”You know my rent’s due tomorrow?” “Uh huh” I said with one eye on the news . “Well I just thought I’d let you know that I’m giving you a month’s notice and I’m moving out”.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Waxing Lyrical
I never used to listen to song lyrics. It sounds silly doesn’t it, but if something sounded nice and it stuck in my head then that seemed to be enough. I had a conversation with my brother earlier this year about this very subject. He couldn’t believe that I didn't really put a huge amount of emphasis on lyrics and urged me to listen to them a lot more.
This I did and oddly enough, or obviously enough you may think, the way I looked at some songs had totally changed. For example, I used to assume that Sting's Every Breath You Take, was written about his new born child. It sounds nice when thought of in those terms doesn't it. Well I have since discovered that the song is actually about a stalker. Now listen to it again and tell me how nice it sounds.
Well a couple of nights ago I was playing around on You Tube before going to sleep and looked up different pieces of music that I hadn't heard in years. The beauty of You Tube is that half the people who post music tracks and videos, also seem to feel compelled to post the lyrics. I’ve no idea why, but to be honest I am not complaining.
I listened to the music and took in the lyrics. The result was that I had to listen to them again and again. The music becoming more resonant, the lyrics having more meaning than ever before, mainly because I hadn't really listened to them in the past, not in any meaningful sense anyway. What they did however was to take me back to memories of people, relationships, loves and places from a different time. Admittedly, with rose tinted spectacles, but the memories and the emotions they evoked were vivid. I even had to wipe a tear at one point.
I started writing. The words and the music creating clarity in my mind as my fingers hit the keyboard. Word followed word without a break. I smiled as I typed, the music playing in the background making me recount a fondness for the past and a passion for certain times. There were no pauses, no silences, no gaps between typing sentences as the words seems to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was on autopilot as I spilled everything I wanted to say on to the electronic page.
It was very late as I sat up in bed typing away, but I had to finish. I was just about there. A few more sentences and I would have it and be able to tell the tale I wanted to tell. I wasn't really looking at the keyboard as I typed and suddenly I hit three keys at once.
Restore, Minimize, flashed the tab. Fuck, what have I done, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. The screen had frozen. Nothing would move, save for the mouse arrow, not that it was highlighting anything of course. I tried clicking on a couple of icons - nothing. The internet is not responding, flashed the pop-up before the screen faded and the internet restarted. I searched and scoured but it was no good. Every word that I had put into the laptop, uninterrupted, had now gone. I hadn’t saved any of it. In the next few moments, my reaction to what was unfolding on the screen in front of me could and may for all I know, have woken up the neighbours.
I tried re-writing, but it was no good. The moment had gone. It may come back, who knows, but that's for another day. For now you'll just have to wonder at what you might have been reading now instead of this.
C’est la vie...
This I did and oddly enough, or obviously enough you may think, the way I looked at some songs had totally changed. For example, I used to assume that Sting's Every Breath You Take, was written about his new born child. It sounds nice when thought of in those terms doesn't it. Well I have since discovered that the song is actually about a stalker. Now listen to it again and tell me how nice it sounds.
Well a couple of nights ago I was playing around on You Tube before going to sleep and looked up different pieces of music that I hadn't heard in years. The beauty of You Tube is that half the people who post music tracks and videos, also seem to feel compelled to post the lyrics. I’ve no idea why, but to be honest I am not complaining.
I listened to the music and took in the lyrics. The result was that I had to listen to them again and again. The music becoming more resonant, the lyrics having more meaning than ever before, mainly because I hadn't really listened to them in the past, not in any meaningful sense anyway. What they did however was to take me back to memories of people, relationships, loves and places from a different time. Admittedly, with rose tinted spectacles, but the memories and the emotions they evoked were vivid. I even had to wipe a tear at one point.
I started writing. The words and the music creating clarity in my mind as my fingers hit the keyboard. Word followed word without a break. I smiled as I typed, the music playing in the background making me recount a fondness for the past and a passion for certain times. There were no pauses, no silences, no gaps between typing sentences as the words seems to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was on autopilot as I spilled everything I wanted to say on to the electronic page.
It was very late as I sat up in bed typing away, but I had to finish. I was just about there. A few more sentences and I would have it and be able to tell the tale I wanted to tell. I wasn't really looking at the keyboard as I typed and suddenly I hit three keys at once.
Restore, Minimize, flashed the tab. Fuck, what have I done, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. The screen had frozen. Nothing would move, save for the mouse arrow, not that it was highlighting anything of course. I tried clicking on a couple of icons - nothing. The internet is not responding, flashed the pop-up before the screen faded and the internet restarted. I searched and scoured but it was no good. Every word that I had put into the laptop, uninterrupted, had now gone. I hadn’t saved any of it. In the next few moments, my reaction to what was unfolding on the screen in front of me could and may for all I know, have woken up the neighbours.
I tried re-writing, but it was no good. The moment had gone. It may come back, who knows, but that's for another day. For now you'll just have to wonder at what you might have been reading now instead of this.
C’est la vie...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)