Week Two of Emergency Office Dolly cont’d…

Properly told off yesterday by the boss for not confirming a meeting for nextpdjxshdsblahablahpeepahbollocksbollocksblah. He puffed and panted and strode back into his private office. I went a bit red and flushed – betrayed by my own flesh! –  but still gave him a dead-eyed glare. I just wanted to say, “Look here, YOU, do you have any idea how indifferent I am? Do you know how much I care about all this corporate bollocks on a scale of one to ten? I’d say around minus forty thousand. Minus forty thousand is probably just about the point at which I’d show signs of life and like a little office amoeba start forming the initial machinations of giving a shit because for some reason maybe I might fancy this life where my only significant other is Tony at the computer repair centre. So you know where you can stick your tepid, tyrannical telling off…?

In other news, my new favourite past-time is standing with my hands under the dryer. I go into the toilet – often when I don’t even need to “go” – and just stand there. Sometimes I even let it run twice. It’s like having a nice, warm embrace, or on particularly needy days, like a gentle but no less satisfying orgasm. Or a non-creepy massage by Casper the friendly ghost. Either which way it gets me out of the electric chair for ten minutes, even if it does mean everyone in the office thinks I’m having a disturbingly long poo. 

So I spent the whole of yesterday writing to casting directors (whilst pretending to input data) and felt very honoured to get two kind, encouraging responses before the day was through. Only to then be informed that one had moved up North and the other had now retired. Why are they only considerate when they’re either a) useless to me or b) dead (professionally speaking)?

And now for the inevitable white noise that follows the helpless, hopeful open hand, just like little Oliver with his empty bowl and hungry appetite.

p.s. Can yoga give you legs like Mike Tyson? And not in a good way?

Week Two of Emergency Office Dolly:

Doing a bit of stomping around today. The flesh around my eyes feels like it’s vibrating and I am concerned that by the end of this office stint – is there an end? – I am going to resemble Kaa from The Jungle Book trying to hypnotise the world to sleep, eyes swirling and bulging as I slither around the office trying my damnedest to remain upright and not suddenly wake up curled around the ankles of the CEO. I’m also getting increasingly perturbed that this daily eight hour sentence sucking the life out of a computer screen by my very eyes is not only going to make me resemble said sneaky snake but that big, bulbous, bruised eyes won’t go with my shades-of-yellow Spring wardrobe that I’m hoping I will be able to afford because I’ll have worked in an office for 3 weeks like a normal person.

Given up trying to look powerful today. Wasn’t able to source any shoulder pads so decided to channel Joan Collins, The Dynasty Years, all dark lipstick and Eighties dangly earrings, less ballsy Business woman more I’d rather-eat-your-balls-than-biscuits-with-my-afternoon-tea. I was feeling good about that decision, made whilst slurping my feet-flavoured smoothie at 6am this morning. Until I popped into Waitrose to get my free daily coffee.

Young (ish) girl on till: “Oh, wow, I love your earrings!”

Me (first smile of day): Oh, thanks.

Young (ish) girl: They’re so cool. Where are they from…?

Me: Urrm…dunno…H&M…I’m can’t remem-

Young (ish) bitch: My mum would LOVE them.

Me (chanelling Kaa now): Just give me my free coffee.

I think it’s fair to say that apart from the milk in my latte, the cheese on my crackers and the 2-4-1 burger deals every Monday in my local, I am a vegan. I am totally on board – excited even – to fill my days munching on avocado, Medjool dates, and green smoothies. Oh I do feel proud. I’ve even bought couple of Kilner jars to fill with nuts and seeds, and boy did I enjoy getting them home, washing them out, and tipping all those plump, lovely nuts into them with the same joy as the night before school started and stocking up my brand new pencil case with pens, pencil and a compass that was only ever used to prick people and get the dirt out of my nails in R.E. The only problem with said jars is that if you buy them you have to fill them. Great! Stockpiling nuts. Hoorah! Oh, but then they’re there aren’t they? And that means every time I go into the kitchen (I’m even finding excuses to go into the kitchen), I clip open that cumbersome jar and gobble down another handful. What a sweet predicament. Yes. For a hamster, perhaps, or a squirrel. Speaking of said furry hoarders – there’s a little fellow I regularly see outside my window – I can see him right now in fact – always tottering over the rooftops stuffing his cheeks…I think he’s found some toast as we speak…he’s looking at me…I just turned away so as to avoid eye contact. I think he smells all the nuts in my system…still looking…I see this little fellow so often and it must be said that on occasion I have strained my neck a little to see what he’s eating and often been a little jealous – JEALOUS – of all these nuts he finds. (He’s actually still looking – his furry ears are burning…do squirrels bite?) No time to find out because I am going to get a handful of nuts. Because I’m a vegan. Today.

On the subject of loving one’s legs… I am vast approaching my 30th birthday and I am panicking about it; convinced that as soon as the clock strikes 00:01 on 15th April, I am going to fall off a great cliff into a big black hole and life will cease to exist as I know it, and if I haven’t achieved everything I want to in life before this ominous, profound date, well I might as well quit now and just drink prosecco all day, gorge on chocolate, only wear sequins, eat all the cheese and scream like a fox in the night. I have a feeling 00:01 on 15th April might be like any other 00:01 and the months beyond the big 3-0 will be like any other months unless me, myself and I bloody well do something to make them different, but hey ho, still stressing out like a new mother about to dislocate her hip in order to get something the size of a man’s leg out of her vagina.

Anyway, legs. More specifically, knees. 30 year old knees. 30 year old squidgy, rubbish knees in all their niggling glory. I have had an issue with said knees since about Year 8 when hockey was suddenly a compulsory addition to the syllabus, and therefore every Friday one would have to roll up the knee-high bottle green woolen socks and skulk onto the pitch hoping everyone would be too preoccupied with where the bloody ball was going than my newly revealed ugly twin sisters.

Suffice to say, I always prayed that by the time I reached ripe 30 I would finally have sophisticated knees, bony, beautiful and beach worthy, instead of still being lumbered with these old things that continue to resemble E.T.’s face.

But I’m still working on it.

House of Cards Season Three. Taking notes on Claire Underwood. Calm, collected and a little bit evil. Strokes own legs like she loves them. Sensual, but serious. Will try all this on Monday. And shoulder pads a la Melanie Griffiths.

Just eat half a jar of tahini to try to wean off peanut butter. Pushed through the bitterness. Addicted.

Last night I judged a Spoken English competition for a posh school outside London. Bloody fluke I got the job. They managed to make me sound right proper and high-falutin’. Bricking it. Total sweats on the way there – usual panic-induced frenzy fretting whether or not I’ll get “found out” for being a bit of a fraud, that my brain cells are actually made of multi-coloured marshmallows and my only advanced creative streak being doodles of me eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a big spoon, and sometimes finger for the hard to reach areas (actually I can’t draw but can eat).

Was shown into the staff room and suddenly felt a bit giddy, like I was back in Year 7 and must memorize everything I saw on “the other side” when reporting back whilst sucking a Boost bar at break time. Head of English handed me a wad of papers, transcripts of each category that was going to be shown and then began to regret coming because it all suddenly felt like a lot of work.

Taken into the Great Hall and seated at a desk at the back and given a selection of water, so was back to feeling important. Met the other judge, lovely chap, though an actual Professor of Music, so that was unnerving. Boldly lied to him about things I was doing/achievements, deciding honesty was not the best policy on this occasion. Put on a bit of a voice too, and chose sparkling water to drink instead of still as thought this looked a bit more sophisticated/worldly/well travelled/Continental but I don’t think he noticed.

Performances all good, and a little bit bad too, thankfully, so had plenty to scribble down. Managed to restrain myself from asking if they’d let me have a go on the stage during the shoddy Importance of Being Earnest duologue, that I was born to play the part of Gwendolen and as I hadn’t acted in a while…etc etc, and just took my copy of the scene home so could do it in my bedroom when I got in.

Managed to restrain myself once more in the staff room during the interval when offered a selection of egg sandwiches and ageing spring rolls. Thought might have undermined my authority. (Very proud of myself).

Back in the Great Hall of Judgment, and the last category to come on was the “Choral Speaking”. I had been pre-warned about this by the Head of English, that it was a new addition and “something of a wild beast”. Turns out the wildest it got was the brightness of the green folders they were all clutching and though enthusiastic, it basically consisted of them saying things at the same time, and an occasional thrust forward by the more confident ones for solo lines. That got a tick, though it could have gone either way. The second group to combat this esoteric Choral Speaking yielded what seemed like giant yellow folders, so bright it felt like coming to the end of life rather than the end of night. Thankfully it was the latter because I’d run out of things to say and there was an avocado in my cupboard that I was looking forward to eating. They presented what can only be described as a harsh and somewhat scary doctrine on why education is so important in the style of Margaret Thatcher and it was clear these were the power players of the future. I tried to hide my orange nails to preserve my superiority but that then made me look like I had stubs for fingers and therefore great difficulty in writing my defining notes. (And in retrospect I don’t think the folders were actually giant, just that they were children and I was far away).

Came to a close and we were asked to come to the front and orate our wise offerings and declarations of winners and losers. Handed a microphone. Sadly didn’t feel like Beyonce but back to being a fraud in front of 200 rich parents and precocious children. Managed to squeeze out a few intelligent lines in a bit of a posh voice. Blagged it again.

Think momentary power went to head as wore fur scarf on one shoulder instead of two on the tube home, thereby channeling Cruella de Vil. Intimidation wasted on the one other person in my carriage, who was asleep anyway. Thought about how lovely the evening was and only wish fear didn’t get in the way of experiences.

Then spent the rest of the hour long journey home so desperate for the toilet I had to sit in a position that made it look like rigamortis had set in and when I finally got off the only remedy was to take great strides, in a military sort of way, not so much power player but weird furry beast lady with a bit of wee coming out.

Day Three continued:

Just sat on the toilet for ten minutes having a little nap. Small pleasures.

Came back to my desk looking busy and important. Put glasses back on.

Decided to shuffle a few pages like a newsreader and look seriously at computer screen whilst looking at pictures of cake.