I got off the train in West London, and saw I had 15 minutes before I had to meet her. Time enough to make sure I knew where we were meeting, and then to look for a Mexican restaurant I had received some info about in a text message.
It was a warm and sunny day, and I was in no hurry as I wandered down the road looking at the people and the buildings around me, looking for numbers on the buildings. I got as far as 300-something before I gave up, I was looking for 800-something and guessed finding it would be too long a walk. So I wandered as leisurely back to the "Chop Chop Noodle Restaurant".
I wasn't waiting long before a pretty girl with an antipodean accent was standing there speaking my name.
In a dramatic twist of fate, the girl I spent last week sulking over contacted me Saturday. Far from having lost interest, she'd just been a slacker, and said she wanted to meet up. I texted her Sunday morning after I got up, and we made plans to meet for a sort of late lunch while she was on her break from work.
Middle of last week -- at work in the pub -- I looked at the rota for this week, and saw I had been scheduled to work 12 - 7 today. I was already working 5 - 1 Saturday night/Sunday morning and despite the bank holiday Monday, wanted two actual days off. So I said to Laura "I can't work on Sunday, I made plans before the rota went up". I was a little irritated when she demanded to know what my plans were, as if they had to be judged on if they were worthy of the day off. In hindsight, she was probably just taking a friendly interest. I lied, and told her I was meeting a random girl I know from New Zealand who has just moved to London.
The week wore on, and it seemed like I wasn't going to hear from this particular young lady again, and I wondered if I'd tempted fate by making up a proposed meeting with her. It did occur to me that it was entirely possible she hadn't got my last message, or if she was just being slack it might prompt her to reply. I had given up hope and got over it by the time I got in from work at 3am on Sunday morning. And saw her email, giving my her phone number.
There's not a whole lot to say. We met and had lunch and talked and got on pretty well. She is charming, smart and funny and I enjoy her company, and she made several references to us seeing more of each other -- like how next time she'd get the bill, and maybe going out for Thai food as our next project.
It's all very new and there is my usual tendency to overthink it all. Does she like me in 'that' way? Do I like her in 'that' way? Does it even matter? Was it a date or just good company? What about next time, if there is one?
When I left her she said to send her a text later, so I did when I got home. I told her I'd got home safely and I'd enjoyed spending time with her and she was good company. I didn't hear anything back, but I think I'm starting to get an idea of what kind of a person she is -- and she's not great with answering emails and texts.
But that just means I'll have to see more of her.
Sunday, 28 May 2006
Thursday, 25 May 2006
O is the loneliest number
Is there a more disappointing message than "0 new. Displaying 0 of 0"?
The briefest spark of anticipation, of hope -- and excitement despite yourself, and then the sunken heart sensation with the almost inevitable outcome. Silence was there, and nothing more.
It's like waiting for the phone to ring, it's like waiting for the post to come. But it's harder than that, or it's worse than that, because of that damn anticipation.
You make your excuses for her. She has to go to internet cafes. She might be broke. But, deep down, you think you know; she has lost interest. And you want to ask her, what did you do wrong? Like a rejected job application, you want to ask for feedback.
Did you write too much, ramble on too much? Maybe you didn't ask her enough questions -- making up for that now, haha.
Locigally, you realise, it's probably really not you. Nothing you did wrong. Maybe it was things you did right? She could have felt bad that she didn't have the time to show you the same attention. Myabe it wasn't ever a decision consciously made -- life just got in the way, and you got left out.
Before you ever really got let in.
The briefest spark of anticipation, of hope -- and excitement despite yourself, and then the sunken heart sensation with the almost inevitable outcome. Silence was there, and nothing more.
It's like waiting for the phone to ring, it's like waiting for the post to come. But it's harder than that, or it's worse than that, because of that damn anticipation.
You make your excuses for her. She has to go to internet cafes. She might be broke. But, deep down, you think you know; she has lost interest. And you want to ask her, what did you do wrong? Like a rejected job application, you want to ask for feedback.
Did you write too much, ramble on too much? Maybe you didn't ask her enough questions -- making up for that now, haha.
Locigally, you realise, it's probably really not you. Nothing you did wrong. Maybe it was things you did right? She could have felt bad that she didn't have the time to show you the same attention. Myabe it wasn't ever a decision consciously made -- life just got in the way, and you got left out.
Before you ever really got let in.
Tuesday, 23 May 2006
Drinks, conversations
Late last week, San came back to London.
Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.
Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.
Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.
On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.
San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.
And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.
But I thought better of it.
Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.
Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.
Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.
On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.
San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.
And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.
But I thought better of it.
Monday, 15 May 2006
Musical Monday (#4)
I'm taking a different approach to today's Musical Monday, in part inspired by the approach taken in Melbourne Stories. Talking about specific bands you might not know isn't going to last me very long, I'm not indie enough to have a large and obscure record collection and I'd be pretty much dried up after Godspeed, You Black Emperor! -- even though I do still intend to write about their post-apocalyptic spaghetti western sound. Instead, I will this week -- and maybe in future -- base Musical Monday around songs I love.This week; Bob Dylan's Tangled Up in Blue.
First of all what I love most about the song, is everything. Then what I next love about it is the narrative -- Dylan tells a complex story of love and loss over countless years and locations, with coincidences and betrayals all interwoven.
I am inspired by the lines near the beginning of the song:
"She was married when we first met; soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess, but I used a little too much force"
I imagine him helping her get out of a possibly abusive relationship -- and accidentally using "a little too much force" on her partner. Perhaps from there they can't be together, so they "split up on a dark sad night, both agreeing it was best".
The song seems to chart how the narrator travels and lives and they coincidentally meet over the years -- like how she was working in a "topless place" when he stops in for a drink, but the two of them aren't sure they recognise each other, and he almost leaves without talking to her.
It's a song about love, he meets various women over the years but there's this one he never forgets -- the song ends with him setting off, resolved to "get to her somehow" -- although there seems a melancholy to it, like he realises he might not reach her, and they always did see it "from a different point of view". Even if it's never explained what "it" is.
Musically, the song sounds like classic Dylan -- slow, simple and folky, with Dylan's trademark strangled singing.
Sunday, 14 May 2006
Hey jealousy
"Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is."
There is Alcoholics Anonymous, for people with drinking problems. There are also similar support groups for those with gambling addictions. I expect there are probably groups or support of some kind for most vices. But I somehow doubt there are any for feelings of jealousy.
I've written before of the idea or concept of not having a soul, but this is something quite different from that -- it's darker and uglier, and I'm disturbed by my own thoughts. I jokingly make references to the dark side with PR and live journal, but this really does feel like it; there's a part of me that is still dark and angry and jealous.
I get jealous of other people's relationships; I'll find out that two coworkers are now an item, and even though I've never given either of them more than a passing thought, there's a dark stirring of resentment towards them. When I dreamed San had moved on and found someone new, there was sadness I wrote about; but there was also this feeling too.
Or how I really wanted to burn Dave's house down, because of jealousy of him and Deb -- whatever there was, or is, between them I don't know, but didn't like it.
It's not just then, at work when someone new is brought in as work experience there's a flare of animosity towards them -- before I've even spoken to them. As for my colleague on the paid work experience contract, I'll feel he is direct compeition and in my head I draw comparisons to Macbeth where his quest for power is soaked in the blood of the people above him.
It can all be very disturbing.
There is Alcoholics Anonymous, for people with drinking problems. There are also similar support groups for those with gambling addictions. I expect there are probably groups or support of some kind for most vices. But I somehow doubt there are any for feelings of jealousy.
I've written before of the idea or concept of not having a soul, but this is something quite different from that -- it's darker and uglier, and I'm disturbed by my own thoughts. I jokingly make references to the dark side with PR and live journal, but this really does feel like it; there's a part of me that is still dark and angry and jealous.
I get jealous of other people's relationships; I'll find out that two coworkers are now an item, and even though I've never given either of them more than a passing thought, there's a dark stirring of resentment towards them. When I dreamed San had moved on and found someone new, there was sadness I wrote about; but there was also this feeling too.
Or how I really wanted to burn Dave's house down, because of jealousy of him and Deb -- whatever there was, or is, between them I don't know, but didn't like it.
It's not just then, at work when someone new is brought in as work experience there's a flare of animosity towards them -- before I've even spoken to them. As for my colleague on the paid work experience contract, I'll feel he is direct compeition and in my head I draw comparisons to Macbeth where his quest for power is soaked in the blood of the people above him.
It can all be very disturbing.
Serial Killer Sunday
I realise these last couple of weeks I have sort of dropped the ball on Serial Killer Sunday -- not because of a lack of interest, either on my part or on the part of any readers, but because I'm not sure where to take it. The original idea for it was to be a kind of approach like Musical Monday, drawing on the idea from Natural Born Killers; with the media making killers into celebrities. When it started though, I decided to play it straighter than that -- real people's lives have been affected, and it would be wrong to joke about it. However, what I am doing with it isn't very original -- it's nothing you can't find anywhere else on the web, except for the occasional commentary from me.
While I want to continue with it, I'm not sure what it should be. Straight accounts of each of the individuals and their crimes are available on countless sites, from wikipedia to various serial killer pages and books. But it would be wrong to 'promote' the killers too (as opposed to promoting The Killers, who probably have a very dedicated PR team), even in a semi-ironic way. This leaves me looking for a third option, if I am to continue with the straight reporting then I need to be bringing more of myself and my own writing into it -- more personal commentary or reaction perhaps.
Anyway, last week's absent Musical Monday was not related to this; I just didn't get round to it.
Monday, 8 May 2006
You'll be in my dreams today
Last night I dreamed San had a new boyfriend. I presume it was a boyfriend, but now that I think of it, I don't remember that it was actually specified. I don't remember meeting this other person, or actually being told about them.
I do remember, though, asking San; "But what about us?"
And even now, I can clearly visualise how she looked in my dream. She looked at me with such genuine sadness -- but it was sad because she knew it hurt me, and didn't want to hurt me.
And she said: "You know there is no 'us'."
And that's it, that's all I remember of the dream -- probably all there was, because that brief exchange said everything it needed to. I still felt sad today, at work, I knew it wasn't real but at the same time; it kind of is. There isn't really an "us" any more, even if we make plans for the summer involving zoos and late night jazz clubs and movies and stuff, and even if we spend time together and feels like back when we were together and thingd were good. Despite all of that, the not wanting to acknowledge it and not wanting to try and label it, there is still no us -- she still could say, "Sorry I can't meet you that day, I'm going out with my boyfriend".
I have that same option, of course. And as I've said before, I'm certainly not in love with San if I am fantasising about other girls, or chasing other girls or even just not even being sure of wanting to be with her. San has broken my heart and messed up my head too many times for me to ever be sure we could make it work.
"I no longer love her, that's certain. But maybe I love her?
Love is so short; forgetting is so long."
I'm trying to work out what it is then. Is it just the thought of an ex moving on? Instead of them becoming a nun and never going outside again, instead choosing to take a vow of silence, in mourning for what is lost. Or perhaps it is just not wanting to be the one who is single when she's moved on? Maybe it's just sad having to admit when something is really, finally over.
Though that said, I was planning to write a post along the lines of; "How do you know when your last kiss is the last for good?" until I mentioned it to my friends, and they said except in circumstances involving death, how can you ever be sure it was the last? I'm pretty sure the last time I kissed Fiona will have been the last ever, but who can say what might happen in 50 years? So it's hard to write something off as completely over. Plus, generally when I accept someone is gone and get over it, they come back again. But when you're still secretly hoping they might, they won't, because you've not accepted it yet.
Incidentally, I wanted to tell San all day about the dream -- but was scared she'd say it was true. Until she mentioned making friends with some girl she met in the library, who wanted to fix San up with her friend. She didn't specify male or female -- so a bit like in my dream. So in response I did tell her.
In reply she merely said "Dreams are funny things. *hug*..." and proceeded to ask if her new man was perhaps David Duchovney.
There's not really any clever way to tie this all together at the end, no great realisation that I don't already know, no great epiphany. I know that I have to let her go emotionally, and probably that until I do I won't be able to move on. But what's new there?
I do remember, though, asking San; "But what about us?"
And even now, I can clearly visualise how she looked in my dream. She looked at me with such genuine sadness -- but it was sad because she knew it hurt me, and didn't want to hurt me.
And she said: "You know there is no 'us'."
And that's it, that's all I remember of the dream -- probably all there was, because that brief exchange said everything it needed to. I still felt sad today, at work, I knew it wasn't real but at the same time; it kind of is. There isn't really an "us" any more, even if we make plans for the summer involving zoos and late night jazz clubs and movies and stuff, and even if we spend time together and feels like back when we were together and thingd were good. Despite all of that, the not wanting to acknowledge it and not wanting to try and label it, there is still no us -- she still could say, "Sorry I can't meet you that day, I'm going out with my boyfriend".
I have that same option, of course. And as I've said before, I'm certainly not in love with San if I am fantasising about other girls, or chasing other girls or even just not even being sure of wanting to be with her. San has broken my heart and messed up my head too many times for me to ever be sure we could make it work.
"I no longer love her, that's certain. But maybe I love her?
Love is so short; forgetting is so long."
I'm trying to work out what it is then. Is it just the thought of an ex moving on? Instead of them becoming a nun and never going outside again, instead choosing to take a vow of silence, in mourning for what is lost. Or perhaps it is just not wanting to be the one who is single when she's moved on? Maybe it's just sad having to admit when something is really, finally over.
Though that said, I was planning to write a post along the lines of; "How do you know when your last kiss is the last for good?" until I mentioned it to my friends, and they said except in circumstances involving death, how can you ever be sure it was the last? I'm pretty sure the last time I kissed Fiona will have been the last ever, but who can say what might happen in 50 years? So it's hard to write something off as completely over. Plus, generally when I accept someone is gone and get over it, they come back again. But when you're still secretly hoping they might, they won't, because you've not accepted it yet.
Incidentally, I wanted to tell San all day about the dream -- but was scared she'd say it was true. Until she mentioned making friends with some girl she met in the library, who wanted to fix San up with her friend. She didn't specify male or female -- so a bit like in my dream. So in response I did tell her.
In reply she merely said "Dreams are funny things. *hug*..." and proceeded to ask if her new man was perhaps David Duchovney.
There's not really any clever way to tie this all together at the end, no great realisation that I don't already know, no great epiphany. I know that I have to let her go emotionally, and probably that until I do I won't be able to move on. But what's new there?
Saturday, 6 May 2006
Thursday's interview
I mentioned early last week that I had a job interview. How it all came about, and where it went from "ok, you have an interview" was all a little strange.
The agency I contacted naturally wanted me to come in and register with them, and we would have tried to arrange some mutually convenient time. As it happened the consultant I was corresponding with said she didn't have time, and instead broke all the rules by briefing me on the job and putting me forward for the interview before I was registered -- and before we had even met.
The interview was Thursday, and since we had only arranged things to begin with on Tuesday, there hadn't been much time to get details worked out. I called Emma -- the consultant -- on Thursday and after we discussed me, what I am doing, how I have got here, what the job and the company were like, we had some of the strangest conversation I have ever had. She wanted to know what I looked like, because we are meant to have met -- and on the offchance they asked her. Would you just like me to email you a picture instead, I asked. She laughed and said sure, but I wasn't sure. So I'm sat at my desk, trying to keep my voice down, and saying
"Well...uhhh...this is weird. But...umm...I'm 5'8 with short brown hair, and grey/blue eyes..."
and she'd be saying "What? I can't hear you, it's a bad line, can you speak up?"
"I'm wearing a black suit and a blue shirt..."
It was very weird.
Then in case I should be asked, she described herself in an email for me. In her own words; 5'8 with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, slim (but more Kate Winslet than Kate Moss), and she had been told she looked like Drew Barrymore; although she didn't see it herself.
I guess that's how you get a job as a recruitment consultant; being able to sell yourself.
I turned up promptly and smartly dressed at the interview -- impressive since I was trying to tie my tie while on the tube to Leicester Square. I was kept waiting the usual few minutes and took the opportunity to look through a large portfolio left out, including press coverage of all the agency's work. After a little while I was met by a woman called Ellie. I enthusiastically shook her hand, expecting her to lead me to a room where I would then meet the interviewer. But no.
It seems God has a sense of humour; if I thought I was unprepared having only had one evening to prepare, it turned out they were expecting me on Friday -- and the woman I was meant to see was in a meeting. I also thought originally the interview had been arranged for Friday as well, until I had checked the confirmation when it arrived and seen it was Thursday. I decided it best not to mention this, in case I looked unprofessional turning up on the wrong day.
The interview went reasonably well. I was told to play up my creative side, because it was something they put a lot of importance on, and I impressed them when they asked why I wanted to work there and I was able to talk about being project based and it's a bold move that is paying off. Ellie looked very pleased and perhaps a little proud of her company and said yes, it was working very well. I'd also been told to be enthusiastic, and "bouncing off the walls" -- enthusiasm I can do, within reason, but short of having too much cherry coke I was never going to bounce off the walls. Incidentally, I once wrote a poem which included the lines "gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling" which was about having too much cherry coke.
I just reread the poem and found it also included the line "got my mask to hide my feelings". It's surprising sometimes to look back at something like that and realise how unhappy you were. Or when I emailed the girl I mention in my karma post, and she made reference to being glad I was still alive -- I was so intense when she had known me and seemed likely to self destruct.
Anyway, after the interview I called Emma the consultant and she assured me the company had been told I was coming on Thursday. I expected to hear something on Friday, some kind of initial reaction even it was just that they wanted to see me again when they were expecting me, but I didn't hear a word. Either way, I am going to be staying at my company now until at least until the end of May -- and the longer I stay working there, the more employable I will.
I wish I had done this years ago, but back then I didn't realise I would want to work in PR. It's funny how these things go, if anything it's reassuring me that life might not ever work out the way you expect or plan it, but that's not necessarily bad.
The agency I contacted naturally wanted me to come in and register with them, and we would have tried to arrange some mutually convenient time. As it happened the consultant I was corresponding with said she didn't have time, and instead broke all the rules by briefing me on the job and putting me forward for the interview before I was registered -- and before we had even met.
The interview was Thursday, and since we had only arranged things to begin with on Tuesday, there hadn't been much time to get details worked out. I called Emma -- the consultant -- on Thursday and after we discussed me, what I am doing, how I have got here, what the job and the company were like, we had some of the strangest conversation I have ever had. She wanted to know what I looked like, because we are meant to have met -- and on the offchance they asked her. Would you just like me to email you a picture instead, I asked. She laughed and said sure, but I wasn't sure. So I'm sat at my desk, trying to keep my voice down, and saying
"Well...uhhh...this is weird. But...umm...I'm 5'8 with short brown hair, and grey/blue eyes..."
and she'd be saying "What? I can't hear you, it's a bad line, can you speak up?"
"I'm wearing a black suit and a blue shirt..."
It was very weird.
Then in case I should be asked, she described herself in an email for me. In her own words; 5'8 with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, slim (but more Kate Winslet than Kate Moss), and she had been told she looked like Drew Barrymore; although she didn't see it herself.
I guess that's how you get a job as a recruitment consultant; being able to sell yourself.
I turned up promptly and smartly dressed at the interview -- impressive since I was trying to tie my tie while on the tube to Leicester Square. I was kept waiting the usual few minutes and took the opportunity to look through a large portfolio left out, including press coverage of all the agency's work. After a little while I was met by a woman called Ellie. I enthusiastically shook her hand, expecting her to lead me to a room where I would then meet the interviewer. But no.
It seems God has a sense of humour; if I thought I was unprepared having only had one evening to prepare, it turned out they were expecting me on Friday -- and the woman I was meant to see was in a meeting. I also thought originally the interview had been arranged for Friday as well, until I had checked the confirmation when it arrived and seen it was Thursday. I decided it best not to mention this, in case I looked unprofessional turning up on the wrong day.
The interview went reasonably well. I was told to play up my creative side, because it was something they put a lot of importance on, and I impressed them when they asked why I wanted to work there and I was able to talk about being project based and it's a bold move that is paying off. Ellie looked very pleased and perhaps a little proud of her company and said yes, it was working very well. I'd also been told to be enthusiastic, and "bouncing off the walls" -- enthusiasm I can do, within reason, but short of having too much cherry coke I was never going to bounce off the walls. Incidentally, I once wrote a poem which included the lines "gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling" which was about having too much cherry coke.
I just reread the poem and found it also included the line "got my mask to hide my feelings". It's surprising sometimes to look back at something like that and realise how unhappy you were. Or when I emailed the girl I mention in my karma post, and she made reference to being glad I was still alive -- I was so intense when she had known me and seemed likely to self destruct.
Anyway, after the interview I called Emma the consultant and she assured me the company had been told I was coming on Thursday. I expected to hear something on Friday, some kind of initial reaction even it was just that they wanted to see me again when they were expecting me, but I didn't hear a word. Either way, I am going to be staying at my company now until at least until the end of May -- and the longer I stay working there, the more employable I will.
I wish I had done this years ago, but back then I didn't realise I would want to work in PR. It's funny how these things go, if anything it's reassuring me that life might not ever work out the way you expect or plan it, but that's not necessarily bad.
Tuesday, 2 May 2006
Monday, May 12. 8.15pm
(copied from my moleskine notebook journal)
Week three in PR starts largely without event or remark. I pay myself on the back for making a good impression with a colleague (basically, I emailed her and asked if she needed help with stuff I had previously been working on -- despite knowing she had someone else on work experience to help her. Turned out she figured she could use some help, and was flattered I asked.)
I've got an interview with another -- possibly rival? -- PR firm later this week, and I'm excited. I might be what they are looking for, and it sounds like what I want, too. It might also interest my company, inspire them to offer me something to stay with them. It's unlikely, but an idea all the same. It would amuse me greatly if getting a job turned out to be this easy -- surely, it can't be and it won't be, but maybe the time is just right?
I need to really do my homework -- research the company and its clients and their campaigns, know my job, know myself and know why I want a job there. All during tomorrow, I have just realised.
Commuting and working in the city isn't so terrible, though I'd like to move closer perhaps, it'a not the big bad I imagined it to be.
Week three in PR starts largely without event or remark. I pay myself on the back for making a good impression with a colleague (basically, I emailed her and asked if she needed help with stuff I had previously been working on -- despite knowing she had someone else on work experience to help her. Turned out she figured she could use some help, and was flattered I asked.)
I've got an interview with another -- possibly rival? -- PR firm later this week, and I'm excited. I might be what they are looking for, and it sounds like what I want, too. It might also interest my company, inspire them to offer me something to stay with them. It's unlikely, but an idea all the same. It would amuse me greatly if getting a job turned out to be this easy -- surely, it can't be and it won't be, but maybe the time is just right?
I need to really do my homework -- research the company and its clients and their campaigns, know my job, know myself and know why I want a job there. All during tomorrow, I have just realised.
Commuting and working in the city isn't so terrible, though I'd like to move closer perhaps, it'a not the big bad I imagined it to be.
Monday, 1 May 2006
Musical Monday (#3)
Suicide Bid -- once called a "UK punk and ska super group" in the music press -- were formed in 2005 from three of the former members of punk band The Filaments. From there they were able to use their reputation and contacts to recruit members of some of the most significant punk bands of recent years, including King Prawn, Ex-Cathedra, The P.A.I.N, Inner Terrestrials, Deathskulls, Sonic Boom 6 and Operation Nailbomb.
Their debut album -- This Is The Generation -- mixes reggae punk reminiscent of the Clash with dub beats and political lyrics. Originally more of a project than an actual band, Suicide Bid have surprised themselves with interest from major labels, playing Radio 1's Maida Vale and are now recording their first full-length album.
Without sounding like a PR piece, Suicide Bid are a breath of fresh air in what sometimes seems like an industry dominated by image and bands more interested in sounding like each other than pushing boundaries.
The political content of songs like Turning a Blind Eye or Don't Lie Down ("They'll kill the planet just to make a profit/This is the generation that has to stop it") is offset by the haunting saxophone or the driving reggae bass lines. They might just be too edgy and challenging to ever really break properly into the mainstream, the poetry striking a little too close and the music too intricate to appeal to the masses. But don't let that out you off -- this is something very special.
This Is the Generation -Dont Lie Down.mp3
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