BOY! Am I fucked off with photoshoots. Don�t answer that, its rhetorical (that�s why I didn�t put a ?, although I suppose technically I should as its still a question. Still, Im not going back now).
I just spent a half hour or so, clicking on previously-unread diaries and adding notes to strangers who are probably even now deleting like crazy after coming over here and reading nothing more scintillating than a recipe for cut price hooch (click back! - c'mon, keep up!) and a few pictures of my middle aged cleavage. I fully expect to soon find a whole lot more locked diaries with �had to lock up � being stalked by mad Englishwoman� in their profiles. Whatever.
Apart from the mind numbing tedium of the photoshoot, there�s the little matter of a spot of bother at Twat Inc which is making my blood boil. Too boring a story for tonight (when I am in the mood for frivolity), and for once it doesn�t include a tirade on the bone-idleness of that dozy pillock Slaveboy, but it is making me Harumph a bit which can be a bit scary for the unprepared. Some other time.
On the subject of Slaveboy, he seems to be channelling Tintin at the mo, with a seriously odd hairdo thingy going on. Like a gay, posh, public school Something About Mary. If he was a friend, rather than a much-abused co-worker, I would have tried to smooth that funny bit of quiffy-fringe down by now, with a cheery �Something fucking stupid has happened to your hair, dude! Here, let me fix it, cos you look like a knob.� Then I would lick my palm and go smooth-smooooth-smooooooooth until it was all stuck down again. Can you get the sack for that?
I am astonishingly chuffed that it is Friday tomorrow. Not least because it means that bloody photoshoot will finish, but also because I can have a few scoops in the evening and get a bit overenthusiastic and generally let off some serious steam which I have had to keep capped all week, what with having to actually concentrate on what Im doing at work for a change! I guess if I actually WAS a stylist, I would find it all a piece of piss�but then I probably would also have been given some kind of budget and some kind of props for set dressing and some kind of project plan on how the shots should look etc etc etc. Instead, I have no budget, no props and the heads of 376 (ok, 4) departments all telling me what they DON�T want, without any of them being able to come up with a suggestion of what they DO want. This means I have to keep a clear head. Not because I need to do a good job � I do that anyway, even with jack-hammer hangovers and only 2 hours sleep � but because concentrating on the job in hand is the only sure fire way to stop me stabbing them all to death with the long-arm stapler and styling their still-warm corpses with a big handful of my own poo.
Once you add to that the stupid distances between the product design rooms and the photography rooms and the fact that, as we are in our building instead of in a nice studio somewhere people keep expecting us to leave our �playing about with product� and go fix the copier/pacify the irate client/find the missing file/blah the blahblah blah. There�s 4 of us on this shoot, plus the photographer, and at any given time one of us is sure to be not where we�re supposed to be cos some incompetent twat from another department has stolen us away on some moronic errand. Please tell me that there�s a benefit to all this OTHER than being able to wear jeans to work all week cos, actually, Im a bit sick of wearing jeans now and could do with popping a nice smart suit on.
In other news (Yes! Astonishingly, other things HAVE been happening in the world!), me and the lovely L are kind of getting on fine at the mo. I know I lead him an absolute dog�s life but I genuinely do feel that when we�re together (and, weirdly, we do have to be touching for this to happen � not anything pervy, just holding hands or leaning on each other on the sofa) its like being in the eye of a hurricane. Utterly peaceful and still, with the rest of the world howling and swirling around us. And the odd cow or petrol tanker flying by, obviously.
Right, that�s enough of the mushy stuff. Back to business.
We�ve been invited to a party on Saturday night. Trouble is, its fancy dress and we got the invite�umm..yesterday! Just call us B List! Even worse, its in the upstairs room at the workies, so we cant even say we have other plans and just go out for a few drinks cos we will get seen and then everyone will know that we would rather spend the evening with Renee and Cyril and Alfie and the true dreadfulness that is Saturday night in the workies, rather than go to the bloody party. I really cant be arsed to dream up some fabulous costume and, lets face it, what�s the point of going to a fancy dress party if you aren�t going to be the best dressed one there and totally piss everyone else off make the effort?
Now then, where can I get a Marie Antoinette and a Sun King costume?