Sorry I was locked up for a few days there � will explain in a bit.
Last week was a total bitch. Firstly, of course, the play was on which meant I was out every night being fabulous � crying real proper tears and, on the Thursday (when my mother and Jooj came to see it) added drool and snot. The local newspaper came to see it on Monday but didn�t put the review in til Thursday, by which time we were sold out for the rest of the week anyway so it didn�t really matter what they said. However, the improbably named Ham Quentin (what sort of stupid name is THAT?) gave a pretty accurate review�.especially the bit where he said ��Stepford Tart skilfully descends from high comedy to deep emotion.� Yes. I did. I�m kind of mediocre at a lot of things but I�m actually quite good at �doing acting�.
Jooj cried buckets (which was a shame cos she had glittery makeup stuff all over her face by the end � like some kind of cosmic space child�..dressed as a goth) and my mother, yup, My. Mother. said it was the �best thing� she�d seen me in and she wishes Pater had gone with her to see it (Pater cant sit for long on the studio theatre chairs � they�re horrifically uncomfortable and he had some vertebrae fused together and cant sit for long periods, even on comfy chairs) .
When I was driving home with Jooj, she bet me that BF would blub. He came to see it on Friday. He blubbed so much he had to go outside afterwards for a little walk around in the fresh air to get himself together. Bless him and his soft little heart.
One of the chaps in the play is my stalker�s dad so I was a bit freaked out every night in case I caught sight of Stalker in the audience. Either I have particularly poor eyesight or he decided to stay away on this occasion. I�m very glad. If he stayed away then that means he won�t feel obliged to write (or *horrors* phone!) and tell me what he thought of my performance. I had kind of steeled myself to have to speak to him if he showed up in the audience and had rehearsed a big long �I do not wish to speak to you and you must now leave me alone� speech. I�m glad I didn�t have to use it. I�m also glad I didn�t have to deal with the possibility of BF battering him to death with a stage weight. Let�s face it, those things are HEAVY. BF could�ve hurt his arm or something.
Anyway, that�s theatre out of my system for this season � there�s nothing else I fancy doing before next summer so I can concentrate my efforts on wedding/career/house renovations�not necessarily in that order.
In other news, two call centre wallahs got suspended last week and one chap demoted for �inappropriate use of company email and internet facilities�, which I think means looking at pictures of naked people and sending bitchy emails about their boss. Needless to say, the entire company went into email meltdown and more stuff was deleted in the last two hours of Wednesday afternoon than had been deleted in the previous 59 years of the company�s existence. We�re told tat our emails and stuff are now being �monitored� but I think its probably scaremongering as the guy in IT who�s supposed to be doing the monitoring called me over to his desk to check out some zombie flick not half a day after the supposed crackdown. Needless to say, a quick text to BF with instructions on how to lock my diary was in order � I don�t upload from work but I do occasionally read my notes via my home email, which I log onto pretty much every morning as part of my �coffee/diary/in tray/bank balance/email� routine. Well, you know what these snoopy IT types are like (NO! Not like Snoopy! No, not like Woodstock or Charlie Brown or ANY of em! *sigh*) � it wouldn�t take a genius to hack into my interweb history type stuff and find my secret life (that�s this, in case you were thinking I had some other, proper, REALLY interesting shit going down some other place!). Actually, it might take a genius to do all that stuff. I don�t know. I don�t know anything about computers. As you can probably tell. Still, just in case, I deleted the picture of a crouching Darius singing to a little girl whilst wearing a kilt (ie with his knob out) and the one of the hideously wrinkled old lady in a thong bikini. Mercifully, even I am too sensible to be watching 2girls1cup in work time. Or anytime.
Me and Slavey have had TWO little helpers from the call centre these last weeks, to help with the fallout projected responses from the BIG FAT changes we�ve made to the way the company operates. I�ve finally got my new job title�.but no hint of a payrise, which seems a bit odd, to say the least. If it�s not a promotion, how come I�ve now got a new direct telephone line and new, nicer, business cards and don�t have to do shitty admin any more? If it is a promotion�.show me the MONEY! Or maybe the extra phone line and the swanky biz cards ARE my payrise.
Slavey and I are trying to choose ourselves a helper to do her maternity cover. So far, I�m not particularly enamoured with any of the ones we�ve had. The first one was great�.but then he went and got demoted (see above!), and the two who replaced him are a) pretty good but a bit cock-sure and b) sweet�.but a bit thick, despite being a graduate. I think a) would probably be the better candidate but I can�t guarantee Id not end the first week by yelling �BECAUSE I FUCKING WELL SAY SO, YOU LITTLE SHIT!��especially as I�ve come pretty close to it once or twice already. Dear little b) has to have everything explained to him a bazillion times, all the while interjecting with odd little questions (�what�s it actually LIKE being pregnant?��..�What are Epsom salts for?����What�s nicer about your boyfriend in comparison to your ex-husband?��.�How do you work out �old money�?�) until my head is ready to explode.
I tried to put in a good word for the one who�d got demoted but my word obviously counts for nothing. Either that or the Head of HR had already seen that picture of Darius with his knob out.
This Saturday it�s the company 60th anniversary celebration. Basically that�s a Ball�but without the divisive undertones. Chaps still get to wear a tux, ladies still get to wear a long dress but it�s not a Ball. No, sirree. There�s dancing and a fancy dinner and a casino and a champagne reception but nope. Definitely not a Ball. It�s in a swanky venue with highland cattle roaming in the parkland and a space to park one�s helicopter but is SO not a Ball. We don�t want nobody thinking we�s posh or nuffin. Apparently.
I am too bored broke to go buy a new ballgown party dress so BF went up in the loft on Sunday and brought down the big box which said �Evening Clothes� on it�or did it say �tattered remnants of former wealthy life�, I always get those two mixed up? And I tried everything on in the hope something would fit me. Most of it was kind of OK. It was weird to see so much of my old life draped over the banisters � and just a little bit shameful to admit just how many evening gowns I have, most of which have only been worn once, if at all.
A midnight blue high necked velvet gown, slashed to the thigh and covered in tiny silver sparkles, like a big slab of night sky
Red chiffon, crusted with a trellis pattern of black beads and sequinned flowers, borrowed by Mater on Millennium Eve
Fuchsia taffeta and voile (from Dorothy Perkins � never worn)
Gold silk strapless boned mini-crini with matching enormous shouldered jacket � OH, the 80s, how I loved you!
Iridescent sequinned floor length slip in all shades of green and blue which made me feel (and look!) like a mermaid
Silver and gold brocade vintage Peter Barron � too big and so heavy it�s like wearing a suit of armour
A two piece of antique raspberry lace which hid the fact I was a little bit pregnant with Jooj � I�d already had two miscarriages and was keeping it a secret until I was certain she wasn�t going to leave.
Then, down nearer the bottom of the box, a lilac satin strapless gown, with matching lace bolero hand-beaded with pearls (�Fucking hell!� says BF �That cost a bomb, yeh?� � �No�, I said, quietly, �I made it�)
A jade lace cocktail dress made from the dress my sister wore when she was my bridesmaid, a velvet skirt (well, they go with anything, don�t they?), a clingy black halter neck with a crust of glitter (still with the tickets on � it was �19.99).
My wedding dress � with mud on the hem from a photoshoot I wore it for years later and white and silver gown I made when I first met BF � I worried so much that he�d think I was hearing wedding bells when I made it. How silly we were back then � the worst case of denial in the world.
And, right at the bottom of the box, the first one I ever made. Its trimmings faded and squashed, the dress crushed and crumpled. I put it on for fun. �That one!� says BF. �Wear that one! You look fucking gorgeous!�
So. A 41 year old divorced mother of two will be attending her company�s 60th anniversary celebration in a baby pink, skin tight, satin dress she last wore when she was 22.
I�ve stripped the marabou feathers from the bodice, the bottom of the skirt and the ends of the stole and have bought some snazzy new beading to replace it. The dress has been through the washing machine and no longer smells of the loft and the remnants of whatever Estee Lauder scent I bathed in in those days. After the ball I shall post a pic�and one of me wearing the same dress a loooong time ago, in a different life. You can compare and contrast.