Day Three of Emergency Office Dolly:

Today I decided to wear my glasses (the ones I don’t actually need but pretend I do to because for some sick reason its been a lifelong dream to be blind enough to own a pair). Feel important.

First job: sort through 2014 expenses. So naturally I broke the folder of said expenses.

Bought some more nail polish on my lunch break in the shade of Orange Soda. Feel better.

Then I spilt cherry tomato juice down August expenses, and down my new business woman top.

Tomorrow I will wear shoulder pads.

Day Two of Emergency Office Dolly:

I think I need to go back to school. So far, it’s taken me 45 minutes to bind a document, I almost murdered the shredder, the CEO told me off for sending an e-mail to Steve rather than Steven and it’s taken the best part of a working day trying to figure out how to add up on Excel. I’ve been given expenses to correlate and can’t even work out what bloody currency it’s in. I asked where the coffee was kept only to be told “beside the coffee machine” and all I want to do is paint my nails with the new polish I bought on my lunch break. I’m not really doing much to master the art of girl power in this male dominated arena. To say the least.

Yours cautiously,

The Flustered Feminist x

I think the defining thing – the most seminal thing – about keeping a blog is consistency. So, several months later, here I am. There is a lot to say, of days filled with anguish, happiness, horror and hope, but the most significant thing right at this moment is the destruction of humanity, found in the atrocious act in Paris at Charlie Hebdo office. Acts of terror are a constant and inextinguishable threat in our fragile world but one always expects to find some level of civility on the battlefield. But this is not a battlefield, this is a playground, in which one child eliminates another for drawing a silly face. If one cannot respect the other for at least challenging them, then we have no humanity. We have pig-ignorance. And no self-respect. But even pigs have a bit of self-respect. Even when their rolling in shit.

‘The Dreaded Lead’ – For those that fell from the painted wall

It is a sad state of affairs
To match lead with dread.
How can we expect to bear
That which we speak not of
Now, now that we are dead.

And every child that picks up
His paintbrush or pen
Will know that there are boundaries
To be met.
And each child will know why
Their painting of a broken butterfly
Might shake the foundations
Of a world we thought we knew.

Keep it blue, keep it bear
For we all despair, despair.

The sky is deliriously blue, deliciously blue. I had visions that despite my best intentions this blog would end up being a big, blank, bottomless canvas on which to thrust a rant or two. But on my virgin run I am met with a daring dash of indigo that seems intent on hovering over us cowering Londoners as some kind of avuncular clown, devious, weird and altogether content. And in turn rendering us, well, weirdly content.

I will be brazen and call myself an aspiring actress and writer. Having been to university (writing) and trained (acting), I feel that gives me some level of claim to the two, however, the percentage of time spent putting the two into practice regrettably veers towards minimum over maximum, and it might perhaps be more appropriate to title myself ‘Jackie of all Trades’, specializing as waitress, washer-upper (downer, more like), telephonist, usher, awards presenter, market researcher, skincare maker, skincare seller, champagne pourer, canape pusher, perfume squirter, meat marketeer, daydreamer and so rendered an all round sprite.

I have done such a collective casket of jobs that I sometimes have trouble remembering who I am and any “inner glow” I might have had has been terrorised and reduced to a resentful, bitter, delirious, angry, delusional, rabid, ravenous, weepy, callous, pathetic, jaded, murderous, vulnerable, defensive, numb and hysterical disposition. Usually all at once. To carry on or not to carry on, however, never even crosses my mind. So the better question to ask would be: to be sectioned or not to be sectioned? I remember once upon an innocent time, scampering through the meadows of Nottingham – gunless, charming and where everybody smiles – when I would have used the word “hate” very rarely, very carefully. Now it is commonplace to disgorge the very bowels of the English language onto every regular scene that might, and most probably will, occur several times a day. The tube, for example. Luckily, being a resting actor, one doesn’t have to armor up for rush hour that often. Though the simple act of getting on and off, avoiding the woman clipping her finger nails, or the man eating a family bucket without a napkin, then the left hand side of the escalator being casually leaned on by the German teenager, or the  map the size of a cinema screen covering the exit by the Japanese grandparents, makes it difficult for the rage not to build and, I hope I am not alone in saying, the stream of consciousness goes something like this: ohgoodherewegoit’selevena.m.whyistheresomanypeopletheyshouldallbeatworktheycan’tallbeactorsohgod…maybetheyaremaybethey’veallgotauditionsandIhaven’twhyhaven’tIIknowI’mgoodbutstillnothingNOTHING…whywon’thiswomanwalkFASTERShe’snotoldGodthisispainfulI’mgoingtonoit’sokchilloutSophiewe’renearlyat…thetopofthestairsandwhatdoesitmatteranywayyou’renotinanygreatrushyes…no…butstillohit’stoomuchI’mjustgoingtohavetopassher…ohnonowIactuallypushedherahwellohdearshe’sabitoutofbreathIhopeshe’sokmaybeshe’sillwhatFOURminutes?!…ohfuckinghellthisisridiculousFOURthisisbarbaric…onlyaminute’sgone!IfeellikeI’vebeenhereforeverokI’llwalktotheendoftheplatformthat’lltakeup…hmmImighthavepastafordinnernobegoodhavevegetablessomethinghealthyyesandImustpickupsomeredwine…can’twaitcan’twaittositdownwithwineaftermybusydaydoingnothingmuch…onlysixsecondshaspassed!Comeoncomeoooonohthankgodit’sapproachingtherelief!…ohgreatthere’snoseatbutit’selevena.m.whyaretheresomanyPEOPLE???Bastards!

And so on. As a girl, I never thought being a Londoner would lure out my inner gorgon quite so. The honed and toned Perseus, persistent as ever at tackling the much misunderstood Medusa, with her many carrier bags, her world-weary gaze, and her gargantuan plan of getting from A to B without one of her monosyllabic beasts bursting as easily as a stray strand of hair in the breeze.

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night  ~ Rainer Maria Rilke