Difficult Moments

Difficult Moments in Life

How alive I feel!. The risk, the danger, the moment of reckoning... cheated so that I may be left with this resounding sense of how precious it all is, how in a moment all certainty can be whipped away. Followed then by the thrill of escape, of recovery and jubilation at the simple gift of life itself. Yes, tonight I fly high, for I have cheated danger once more and confronted my own vulnerability...

...I survived my first powercut. 

Then I survived a second.
A third
Until I lost count. You see, my washing machine managed to short the entire flat every time I put it on, and because this happened a good month ago, and because my landlord is pretty damn slow off the mark, I am languishing in a mountain of dirty laundry, a palace of slept-in sheets, with nowt to do but while away my copious spare time hand washing EVERYTHING.

Sorry, that is not remotely interesting to you. I just bored myself. But it was good to know I could deal with that, and then just a few days later, the most ridiculously huge spider in my living room.
Well, I say 'deal' with it, but my reactions were as follows:

Powercut:

1. Minor disgruntlement and fear of MI5 attack
2. Lights candles and has some dinner, which is sort of luke warm from the now defunct microwave
3. Tells EVERYONE on Facebook about the powercut. Everyone is very supportive.
4. Remembers where fuse box is, flips many switches, gets power back on.
5. Is about to tell EVERYONE on Facebook when the power goes off again
6. Calls Daddy
7. At his suggestion, wanders around flat isolating the many, many electrical items that have come to life since stepped in door 15 minutes ago.
8. Then isolates washing machine. Switches it off. Switches flips (or the other way round)
9. Has power. Continues with evening, appreciating electricity lots more

Spider:

1. Identifies large, large (MASSIVE) arachnid on curtain (see image)
2. Feels alarmed

Pictured: Fear Itself

3. Freaks out
4. Finds a glass. A glass is much too small. Finds a large vase. Still probably too small.
5. Concocts mental plan whereby arachnid falls from curtain, races towards victim and is enclosed in upturned vase at the precise moment before it leaps towards victim's face.
6. Tells EVERYONE on Facebook about the spider in photo and video format
7. Contacts key stakeholders in survival i.e. boyfriend, mother
8. Brushes off offers of help, and in a moment of creative procrastination, decides to make a short film about the process.
9. Once scene is set and camera rolling, throws a cushion at the spider. Nothing happens.
10. The telephone rings. News travels fast. Three people have offered to travel for 20 mins / 45 mins / 1 hour, to assist. Nice people.
11. Brushes off offers of help, yet more reluctantly.
12. 1.5 hours later, the phone rings. Follow up call from Mother. Regrettably informs her that has failed as yet in the task.
13. 30 minutes on phone to mother. Very intense. Cameras are NOT rolling. Much panicked breathing, a long stick, exclamation, a tennis ball, tears, a flip-flop and the Sports section of the newspaper (because nobody reads it)
14. Guilt. Mega guilt.

18 Miles of London

Running is an inspiration to me. It's the time I have to work through thoughts and feelings, to become bored, and from boredom, become creative. It's the time I take to dream, to plan, to feel things, all within the general context of progress and moving forward. No wonder this is the thing so many people find a key part of a good mental health regime.

But forcing yourself to run 18 miles as the snow flies horizontally in icy shards is not easy. In fact, I only managed this today by engineering a situation whereby I know I could trick my mind into compliance.

I don't fancy running 18 miles in this, I whined.

My boyfriend's email pinged back.

Basically, he said don't then.

That's all I needed to get my but into gear. That, and the prospect of squeezing myself into a 1940s figure-hugging Casablanca costume after a week of solid chocolate-based overeating.

And what a run it turned out to be… for 18 miles can take you through the most varied scenery here in the UK, but in London, it is even more casually spectacular. The weather had kept away vast majority of dawdling tourists, leaving the city's streets a blasted playground for a lone runner and her muff-like headphones.

Beginning in Sydenham, and dusting over Honor Oak Park, I climbed One Tree Hill to see the most spectacular Church perched atop it in the snow. St. Augustine's perhaps?

Peckham Rye offered me insight into a road I never want to live on (see first pic), as did Peckham High street, but I discovered an old-canal behind Peckham, and saw this bridge from 1870 under repair. I'd previously run over it in complete ignorance.

The Old Kent Road always fails to charm me, but today, as a particularly heavy flurry combined with The Manic Street Preachers, Autumnsong in my headphones, I indulged in a pretty spectacular influx of emotion, which lasted all the way up to Tower Bridge, where the wind off the Thames was so sharp and the snow so cold, I had to shield my face and dodge the baffled-looking tourists.

The route from Algate, along Bishopsgate, Leadenhall Market and St Pauls can be so deserted at the weekends, depending on which roads you pick. It's so much fun to see the beautiful buildings and remnants of the city walls in this baffled, deserted weekday metropolis.

There is nothing so heartening at the odd red-brick missionary buildings you come across in this city. From Holborn up to Greys Inn Road I marvelled at the cheerful elegance in the snow. I passed, with nostalgia, the old haunts of an old boyfriend, and scooted quickly on to Russell Square - deserted and dull in it's nobility, along to Euston.

I went a little slower past the Wellcome collection, remembering the lovely library and the membership card I've had stolen. I ought to get round to replacing that. Inexplicably, a man gave me such a lovely smile. He was all bundled up in snow boots and an anorak. He seemed pretty pleased about the snow, or something.

Then Great Portland Street was my next landmark, the site of many a fantasy for me in my teenage years. I never DID work at the BBC. Not yet anyway. My friend and I used to divide up the houses in Park Crescent and say she'd own one half, I'd own the other.

Regents Park was trance-like. It was like being in some sort of computer game. The Fountain along the Royal Walk and the bright spring flowers were so humbly elegant, all pasted over with this endless drop of big flakes.

Running North through the park, the snow was horizontal. It was such a joy to get around the corner and loop back round the outer circle, past some sort of gun-toting guarded American embassy, the mosque, and onto Baker Street, where the foreigners lined up faithfully outside 221B like sad dogs.

I took Baker Street all the way down, crossed Oxford Street, then ended up in Grosvenor Square (when the American Civilian Something or other was also guarded by some gunmen). From here, I made my way to Hyde Park, skipping down park lane like some tramp, staring it at the Ballrooms, fancy lunchers and upmarket car-dealerships. Then, of course, Green Park, deserted, opened it's familiar paths to me, as did St. James's. I passed Buckingham Palace without much through, for the flakes had grown bigger and the snow heavier. Scooting down Birdcage Walk, my final challenge was to dance around the Commuters on Westminster Bridge, gawking at Big Ben, at the river, at each other, and then to struggle through the South Bank crowd, past the Aquarium, the New Dungeons, the London Eye, South Bank Centre, IMAX to end up at Waterloo East Station.

What a training ground.

Making it in Radio, The New London, The Happy Neverending

How to Stuff up Successfully: AKA Making it in Radio

It's not exactly been a doddle, living all over the place and far from home, quitting a lovely relationship, flaking on friends and working strange hours to get ahead in this business. Moreover, it's been less of a doddle for the friends and family that have stuck inexplicably by me. After them though, my second best friends in building a radio career have been a little intuition, coupled with simple hard work and common sense.

There are some very smart people in radio. There are talented ones. But there are a lot of average people with bog-standard intellects that can go a long way too... and a willingness to do other people's work for them never hurts.

Someone pointed out today just how much spoon feeding I do for other colleagues, who don't appreciate it, but expect it. More fool me for doing it, I thought. But another thought quickly followed, and it was one my peers are quite prone to experience too... if you don't do it yourself, someone else will do it. And they will fuck it up.

Because for all the average people that exist in radio, that have a good work ethic, take pride in their work, and arrive pre-9am with a measured level of sentience intact, there will always be others whose eye is not on the ball. That's probably something you can say for most workplaces isn't it. Suddenly, the people who care a little too much make themselves indispensable, simply by being the only ones prepared to do the crap that others think can wait until tomorrow. 

In radio, this is an opportunity. For in what other organisation is self-flagellation, martyrdom and sheer underdog-championing as universally accepted as virtue? None, I answer. Because Radio is the underdog medium. Take the Sony awards for example. When did a well-funded, heavily staffed and commercially successful show or station last get the big hoo-ha prize? Can't remember, can you.

At any rate, I waffle on here in general terms. With regards to London itself, I should think this is meant to feel like the pinnacle, or at least, some sort of achievement. Here I am, fortunate enough to be working for several national brands in the heart of the city, in a turns of events that would have made my younger radio fan swoon, and yet my lifestyle is poles apart from the sophisticated dream I had envisaged.

The New London Baby

Instead, here is the new twenty-something London lifestyle. I race through the week like a rabid dog, forced on in a blur of adrenalin and caffeine and stuff that gets dropped on the floor and left there. I scramble through Monday to Friday, throwing cash at obstacles, such as the need to eat, socialise, date, feel fulfilled, paying not the slightest bit of attention to the moment. When Saturday comes, more often than not I am empty and overcome with exhaustion. This feeling in turn, must still do battle with the guilty obligation to make amends, do the cleaning, the washing, the shopping, some DIY, a good, long-run, see friends, have a health kick and.... sleep itself, which has suddenly become not so much a desire as a time-consuming task.

I've come to the conclusion that a certain style of London life, particurlarly the whirlwindy media sort of life, just wastes you, spoils you, and leaves you unable to appreciate the real satisfaction of it's most wonderful moments. That is, unhurried company, good honest savings, a cinema trip maybe, a frugal bit of shopping. The worth of things is exploded all week long, and at the weekend, doing the sums, one must repair and repent, replan and reignite. All these things I generally fail to do. Because I'm so BLOODY KNACKERED.

But it will all be OK.

It a rare moment of optimism, strolling in the cold winter sunlight across St. Martin's the other day, I had a sudden sense of goodwill.

It was a passing, and as yet not repeated, suspicion that although things were really quite deeply sad and regularly in the ball park of shit right now, that a corner would be turned, a sequence would be triggered, and things would be.... OK again.

Maybe it was a wise spirit dropping by for an epiphany. Perhaps I'd just walked through someone's good aura. Maybe I'd stepped on a magical paving stone. At any rate, for a moment I felt a flash of everything I needed to know: my big sister will be OK, that her husband is at rest, and that life will go on, richer for their shaping of it's course and pattern.

She's going to get through the sadness and one day she will tell her children all about her husband, and we'll all remember him with the same fondness and love we felt every day of his life.

I so want her to be happy again. 
I want that more than anything.

I'm beginning to realise she will be.

Isn't it remarkable how your world can break, and yet everything, everyone keeps moving, dragging each other along like a sea of incessant reformation. Funnily enough, our attachments, our entanglements with other people, with things mundane, the things that rescue us from the atrophy that their loss brings.

Against Humanity We Unite

The snow. To city commuters it is the enemy, and it unites us, momentarily in a common cause. To get to work. To defy the blasted weather.

"Excuse me... sorry" wheedled a voice on the Overground this morning. All eyes snapped on the disturber of the peace. A mousy young woman, pawing at the lady next to her. "I couldn't possibly ask you for a napkin, could I? I've forgotten mine..."

Her interlocutor paused with boggle-eyed suspicion, and yet within moments had kindled enough humanity to share the smug pack of tissues with the panicking, drip-nosed stranger. It was touching, as they shared the packet, and the mousey woman de-snotted humbly, blushing gratefully.

I shifted from one foot to the other, my laptop bearing down on the opposite side of my lower back.

"Bit squashed, isn't it" a soft voice remarked.

To my surprise, the woman next to me had decided it was OK to talk too. I couldn't hide the lingering lack of computation on my bleary face, but recovered some sort of hearty, affirmative chuckle as quickly as I could.

The other morning, on a similarly packed train, somebody had SNEEZED.

"Bless you" my boyfriend had genially called. 

It was remarkable just for that fact. Nobody speaks to each other like normal human beings at that time of day. He had revealed himself as a work-from-homer in just a moment, and suddenly, suspicions were raised all round. An outsider, the hush seemed to cry.

For as commuters, we are not comrades but bloodthirsty, lone wolves, prowling for commodity - for space, a Metro, adequate seating... maybe even an audacious takeaway coffee. Here there is no loyalty, there are no alliances, only calculating syndicates. Gathering in groups at the top of escalators, at the tube doors, or along the 'in the know' sections of the platform, we crowd with intent or dark, private planning, macs flapping in a sea of identical coats, a colony of insular drives.

So much so that when someone reveals their outsider status as a non-commuter, a human being that thinks they're above the accepted form, they are instantly regarded with the highest contempt and unified mistrust.

Well, that and extreme weather.

But it least it sort of unites us.

Boys in Moods

The boy was in a bit of a slump today I think. I said I'd buy him lunch to cheer him up but he thanked me and graciously turned it down. Maybe it's Spring hormones. Maybe he just wants to be alone without my invading and seeing him in a funk. It's not like he came racing back from the weekend with the family desperate to see me though.

All in all, the signs aren't good. It's obvious to me that I'm in love, but I'm not sure he is. Who would be in love with me though, all I do is garble rubbish about work and be knackered. I'm wondering if I ought to just say it to him, make it easy and end it now? At least that way he won't have to do it a few years down the line like I did to my ex, and totally do a fuck on us both.

Not sure what's bringing him down. I guess I'm still getting to know him, obviously, and it's hard to scratch the surface when he's always so impeccably polite. I worry that he genuinely feels polite about me, as opposed to passionately restrained. Ha! He seems to have these weird black moods from time to time and just disappears off the face of the earth. I don't think he thinks a lot of himself, but I think a lot of him. He's great.

He's a writer too, and it got me thinking, that he's a bit cut off from people, what with having jacked in his business to focus on writing. Perhaps all that time for introspection has created a little self-doubt induced alienation? The worst thing about writing can be thinking that you need to nuture that set of strange, dark feelings. I caught myself wondering if he was looking at his life and me, his girl, and thinking 'christ, is this the best it comes to?' I hate to think that he might be disappointed with me. He said he broke up with his ex because they had different life priorities. For all I know she could be some wildchild tearaway he passionate loves but can never tame to marriage. I, on the other hand, am pretty smashed and want to fold his underpants. Well, maybe that's going too far. But I'd have his babies at least.

Anyway, seriously, dark feelings, writing, alienation, necessary? I don't think that's the case. I printed my manuscript today. It felt great to walk out at lunchtime in the Spring sunshine and pick it up, bound, and walk along the Strand with my creation in my hands.

It's not a good novel, but I enjoyed doing it and so what if it never sees the light of day. It helped me realise this one thing, which seemed poignant today as I was wondering what would be bringing him down, in spite of the sunshine and having some idiot be in love with him...

I have realised that a writer doesn't live by the feelings that makes them individual, but by those that make us universal. In other words, there's far more to be said from getting out and living in the world than sitting on the sidelines, watching it and feeling.... different. Although a bit of both can be helpful, I'm sure.

It also made me think about self-doubt, and how it's always going to be there. It doesn't have to be an obstacle, because it's just another entity, and one whose relevance we have a say in. It's no coincidence that self-doubt is strongest when getting up and getting on with things seems hardest, for whatever reason. When your world goes all shit, then so does your self-view, doesn't it.

Just got to keep on chipping. It's a lesson you have to learn again and again, isn't it, and it's not one you can teach someone. I want to tell him 'go on, get up, run! go and make something of yourself!'

He's got so many talents, but the days pass by and I think he's a little more afraid of everything and a little less inclined to spread his ample wings. If I had his time and talents, I think I'd be laughing, but I don't. Perhaps I am wrong in seeing him this way, and I'm sure he'd be aware of it if that was the whole issue, but I have learned this year that the cleverest men can be so very foolish. They need people to pick them up, jog them along, don't they? They all need mothering a bit, taking care of, the fragile, silly things.

Hope he cheers up soon. What can I do?

I JUST WANT TO MAKE FUCKING RADIO JINGLES

I took a lunch break today.

Everything was under control! I took half an hour and I went for a walk in the sun. I bought some cranberry juice and some iron tablets and some tampons, because my body is confused and my period came a week early. Fabulous. Fine. Whatever.

Then I bumped into someone in reception and we had an impromptu meeting. It was great.

I went back to my emails and had to go through a string of stuff to figure out exactly what was required. It was one of those FW: FW: FW: RE:RE: FW: situations.

Then my boss was on a shitting rampage because her boss is the boss of everything is was kicking the crap out of her. So she had a go at me. I fixed whatever it was, once I'd read a few more FW: FW: RE: RE emails and we had a meeting. She flung a load of pressure on to demo up some audio for this huge sponsorship and get an answer from a couple of her peers, both who want different things from it.

The client isn't even sure about the thing we're debating.

Anyway, today seemed OK for a minute, then I realised my old boss had left, my closest colleague had a WHOLE day off, seeing as she's fucking exhausted and I felt pretty lonely, pretty vulnerable. So it came my way in the end I guess. My hands physically shake. I can't breathe properly. It's like there's a bubble of FUCK around my head. I can't even write sensibly because I'm dealing with one pile of shit whilst another appears, then I fix it, work on another, make it to a meeting, but the first thing I fixed has gone wrong by the time I get back and NOTHING, NOTHING IS WORKING.

I ran home, calmed down. But then got back on the emails. The audio I was being pressed for hadn't gone over to the client because the sales person didn't understand it. I couldn't edit it from home. I've got to do it first thing in the morning. I will get up at 6am now. I should probably get up sooner because I WAS GOING TO GET UP AT THAT TIME ANYWAY BECAUSE I HAVE OTHER SHIT TO TAKE CARE OF BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE GETS IN AND STARTS HASSLING ME WITH THEIR SHIT.

I don't trust the guys reporting into me to write a script without my looking over it, because if it goes to air and it isn't perfect, my boss will kick the shit out of me, because her boss will kick the shit out of her, and I don't want to kick the shit out of my guys.

I don't feel like I'm making radio. I feel like every day I am just holding my breath, waiting for SOMETHING TO GO WRONG.

ARRRRGGGHHHH!

I JUST WANT TO MAKE FUCKING RADIO JINGLES FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

ARRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Running. Feeling. Instinct.

This blog is far from a place to divulge my every passing thought, for they are many, and for the most part, pretty retarded.

However, it does seem to catch the big, continuous themes, and provides a relieving solution to the obstacle of experiencing feelings I am unable to process internally. Whatever it is about writing, whether it's a conversation with someone else, or in this case, just with yourself, I can only think of one better way to process and understand your own thoughts and motivations without involving anyone else.

I don't know what I'd do without running. It began towards the end of my last long-term relationship, where I found it an escape from the feelings of guilt and limitation I was feeling as we realised it wasn't quite going to work long-term. Then, when I ended the relationship and the guilt continued, I ran through that. I ran so much I lost a lot of weight and didn't have periods for a year and a half. Then I started eating again, and took to binge eating whenever I felt sad. I still struggle with this a little now, but it's getting better. I run to counterbalance the odd slip-up. I shall continue to run to counterbalance the odd overindulgence. I run to escape the stresses of work, to feel proof of the simple power of my own person, to be calm. I run for joy, when the weather is good and I want to celebrate. But the overall sentiment of running in any of these circumstances has been because it is how I deal with emotion. Sometimes writing it down isn't enough.

When my sister was diagnosed with Breast Cancer this time last year, when she went through her treatment, realised she and her husband might not be able to have children, when her husband's liver began to pack up and he died of a heart attack, the shock was unspeakable.

I have said before, that there were never two people less deserving of such horrendous misfortune. For their young marriage and infinite future to be halted so suddenly and shockingly, then dragged out in this nightmarish sequence has cast all this world in a different light forever. I adored them together, and looked to their solidity, love and happiness as a role model for my own life. I am still struggling to conceive how meaningless this all is, and how strong my sister is.

But I don't think I would have been able to make sense of my own feelings at all without running. It is the only time I truly let my thoughts wander and thus the only time my emotions creep up on me, and wash over me like a sudden wave.

Granted, what with yesterday's admission of my tearful breakdown at work, it was hardly surprising today when, just at the thought of my poor brother-in-law, and how maybe if, just a year ago today, I had seen the signs, if one of us had seen the signs, we might have stopped it all happening, I was overcome with tears when running. This doesn't happen an awful lot, but when it does, I can't breathe, I just keep moving my legs and sobbing, and it eventually gets out, whatever it's been.

It's spring, the sun is warm and the earth is filled with shoots. People are behaving differently, frivolously, happily. But I am dwelling a little on this guilt. Was it my place, as an outsider to my sister's marriage, to be able to see something, or say something?

I guess we felt it coming. It is like Spring hasn't been in two years, because last year there was something heavy weighing on the back of my mind. My mother confessed she felt the same, that she wanted to hold onto my sister's things, or have her near. I felt something ominous. Of course, even when my sister told us about the cancer, we didn't connect that instinct. It was only with hindsight this occurred.

Then, why couldn't I learn that the same grim feelings, those awful signs were prescience to my brother-in-law's struggle. The last time I saw him, I had to climb on the sofa and give him an awkward hug. It was just what instinct told me to do. That was a Friday, and on the Monday he died. It was too late then, but perhaps something might have been done? I will always have this guilt.

At the risk of this becoming maudlin, I return to the simple point of what I'm saying. I wasn't able to see this, to do anything to stop the bad things happening, but the instinct was there. The instinct is there when I run and when I take time to let emotion run it's course. I think perhaps if people trusted their emotional leanings a little more, made time for them to evolve outside the distractions of everyday busy lives, perhaps we could learn a lot from ourselves and not miss the things that are really, most important.

It doesn't seem to be a process we can perform logically, or even design. We can understand our feelings with CBT or sensible therapies, but if we don't allow ourselves time to feel them in the first place, what is the chance of being happy?

Running is the only place I feel safe to do that, because like most other people, my emotions are the most powerful part of who I am. I need my own safe space to feel them, and motion helps me work them through.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

The majority of my experience in radio has basically been gleaned through a career progression in one company.

OK, it's the biggest company and a conglomerate of what was once several smaller companies, and I've been brought along for the ride to work across four of it's well-known stations...

That all sounds pretty good. This company has treated me well. I've had opportunities. I've progressed, but lately I've been looking over the garden fence at other, smaller radio groups, stations and production houses and wondering what it's like to be there?

I'm a very loyal person, and very grateful for the people that have given me time, energy and the chance to step up the career ladder, so this is a fairly momentous change.

As any organisation expands, invests in certain places, cuts costs in others, and plain buys-out new ventures, there is always controversy, speculation, and people who lose out. Having not been one of those people to this point, I've always been quite fiercely defensive of my company's radio networking vision, challenging the cheap, poorly-researched arguments about localness and public interest, and getting into full-blown arguments over the ability to deliver quality programming on a careful budget.

So why now? Is this the end of this love affair with radio? Because if I can't get my mojo back now, it's either this:

1) Go to a smaller company, take a pay cut, take more responsibility and actually feel more directly connected to the medium again.

2) Switch mindsets completely and try my hand at the BBC

3) Leave radio. Get a real job. Oh God.

The first option springs from a slight desperation on my part, that as the team of people reporting into me has expanded, so has my calendar's pencil-pushing predilection. Yet the team is still too small for the work we deliver, so I'm doing the same job as them too, in between the planning, creative, admin and management stuff. Which means that all of it just fucks me off and makes my job purely task driven and not remotely passionate at all. And THAT is worrying if you work in station sound, or have to make sure that whatever a client is paying millions of pounds for sounds engaging, fresh, and exciting to the listener.

This week, a small team of three of us have barely slept in the lead-up to a huge meeting with the company's biggest ever sponsor.... in fact, this is the biggest ever sponsorship deal in commercial radio, all because we were worried that they wanted to see some mind-blowing new creative. As it happens, they were pleased with what we brought forward, but the sheer pressure placed internally on our team of three (already overworked people) made us feel like a) the deal would pull if we didn't impress them and b) every one would starve and die as a consequence. What's more, the new creative was pulled apart in a series of last-minute unnecessary meetings, just to appease middle-managers who really just wanted to justify their position and were using completely outdated information and contradicting their own peers. Mixed messages anyone? Yes indeed, as a kind superior attempted to explain to me afterwards, seeing the position I was in. They were all just trying to do the right thing too.

Frankly, I'm getting a little fed up with the amount of wound-up, shitty hoo-ha placed on people who can full well see for themselves where they need to place their efforts, but don't have the physical resources to do it.  I'm also a little fed up with the lack of trust placed in management's ample capabilities to make decisions for themselves. It seems we are looking to people who aren't even allowed to give a straight answer themselves.

Much to her credit, my boss is helping with a solution for my crushed, adrenalin-riddled team, but it can't come soon enough, and what's more, when it does, I'm worried I will be so far disillusioned with the whole thing I'll have nothing left to give. I'm not sure my team is even too stressed either, maybe it's just me. I'm actually planning out someones day hour by hour because their time-management is so poor, they have no idea what they're capable of delivering.

Yesterday was the prime example of the pewp de pewp that comes from nowhere but stressed-out people, and I'm going to moan again, just because I don't generally cry in front of colleagues. It's a retarded thing to do, and I pride myself on making it to a respectable level of expertise in a male-dominated specialism of production.

After the aforementioned client meeting, I rushed back to the office to deal with the usual mountain of PROBLEM that cripples my email inbox every five minutes or so, requiring SOLUTION. In the heat of that, I rushed off to a meeting, with the silliest man in the world. Not that he's stupid or anything, but he's frankly someone who's been in the same job too long for his own good and is thus riddled with paranoid hokum and odd perceptions about just about anyone who may or may not be a threat to his job. Frankly, I'd be paranoid in that position too.

At any rate, he's never been my biggest fan, but being the most socially awkward, spiky little creature I've ever met, I've always rather liked him. I like troubled people. My benefit of the doubt was flushed down the loo when he ended up standing in front of me as I sat there, looking down and SHOUTING, SHOUTING, SHOUTING that  I had an ATTITUDE TO HIM, that he was the SENIOR JOB TITLE MANAGER OF THIS STATION AND EVERYTHING MUST GO THROUGH HIM....

I do see his point, seeing as one of his producers made a stupid mistake, misread a VERY clear email from me and broadcast something awkward without his knowing. Unfortunately, I didn't quite warm to his manner of conveying it, and all I could do was apologise dumbly, like a schoolchild being told they were the stupidest, most worthless thing in the world. It felt pretty horrible, especially after a ridiculously pressured week with the other deal, and I found myself a bit choked up. I tried to go on to other business and just couldn't because I couldn't breathe. It was fucking annoying to be so knocked over by someone so irrelevant to me professionally, but it did the job and I had to excuse myself to go run and retch and cry into the toilet.

I didn't go back, and although he apologised in an email later, I'm frankly furious and think he's a bit of a cock. What's more, I couldn't be bothered to reply. I can't even be bothered to try and repair it - he was cold enough when I was just trying to build one for starters, so I don't think we're coming back from this. What's more, I'm angry. REALLY angry that he humiliated me. I know full well the guy is insecure in his job and gets a lot of shit off a lot of less than polite people, but frankly, there is no excuse for treating someone like that.

Gosh, this is turning into 'Dear Diary, I hate my job'. To be fair, someone DID give me a bottle of champagne for two hours of rather intense client-fronted panic this week. I also work with a lot of very kind, very clever, equally stressed people, so it's not all bad. We're in it together, it's just that nobody likes to moan TOO much and bring the others down. But will I really read through this again when I'm an old woman (provided I get old and the internet still exists them) and think any of the above was worth getting in a tizz about? Will I think the evening and day I spent comfort eating, crying and running it off stomach cramps was actually worth it?

No. So perhaps that DOES rule out the option of being a bigger jobsworth in a smaller company. After all, I'd quite like to spend time on my journalism course, writing my next book, or having sex with my incredibly hot and equally fantastic comfort-food-preparing boyfriend.

So there's option 2... apply for a BBC job, which I have done, and it's totally different and looks amazing, so amazing that I felt fucking amazing just applying for it.

Or there's option 3, leave radio.

Leave radio?

I haven't had a REAL job since I was 21, and then I was just serving coffees and selling swimming tickets in a leisure centre. Maybe a bit of hoovering. God, doesn't it sound like a dream some days though.

Anyway, rant over, there's some wine to be drunk tonight, and I've got to get to the other side of London to have it.

Bet you I rock up on Monday morning with a pack of ideas and a little glimmer of hope. I always do.
Hopefully it'll last beyond 10am this week.

What to do when you're drunk at 9am

Why is there a soft toy weasel under my kitchen table?
Who made brownies in the night?
What the hell happened to my back?

Just two of the big questions I'll be tackling this morning, as I helplessly watch Saturday, in all it's peppy brightness, pass me by.

For what else could one do when this drunk at 9am. I certainly can't sleep it off. Nor can I send any job applications. I definitely cannot graze through any more Tracker bars without seriously compromising the healthy eating regime. No, this is what Netflix is for, and yet my heart races at the licentious thought of throwing away this morning on laziness. It seems positively profligate.

This is the part of the week when I normally delude myself that I'll turn all chaos around. I'll go for a good run or two, do some hardcore studying, write letters, finish the novel, spend quality time with loved ones, bake and clean the house. Make big plans.

Well, I've already baked, it appears, not that any of the ingredients seem to have been weighed or in some cases even included, and I will definitely have to do something about the flour I'm treading through this tiny flat. So there's two things to cross off.

Running might be a good idea, flush it out and all that, but there's this weird, soft snowfall - a bit like flecks of ash wisping about in the garden, not settling. I went out there earlier and one fell on my arm. I stared at it, entranced by it's melting beauty, watching it fold into the cloth of my sleeve. Then I saw a dead mouse on the lawn and came back inside. Eugh.

As for the novel. Well, I could give it a go, but to be honest, I think my IQ score may be muddling below 70 right now, and the same goes for job applications. Nobody wants to read something that looks like it was written by a Sesame Street cast member. Studying? Well, I'm paying for those journalism exams so I sort of want to pass them, no offence, drunk me. God knows how I spend all that time in this state as a student. I can't remember reading all those books. But at least it explains why I've only ever seen half of every great modern movie, having fallen asleep at the crucial points. Mmm, maybe it IS time to give Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind another go?

Oh. OH. OK. Just found some chocolate brownie mixture soldered to the back of my head.

So, what's left? Big plans? Quality time with loved ones? No doubt when people are awake I'll pick up the phone and offer my busy and virtuous friends and family some scintillating conversation, but right now I think it's time to sit back and wait. I'm not even going to do the washing up. I'm going to waste this weekend and feel indignant about the booze monster, stealing my youth and allowing my life to pass me by. Goodbye responsibility. Goodbye weird brownie mixture. Go away list of work. It's time for a nap.


Then I can spend all week in a mood about it.

What the Fuck is a Hump Day?

Nobody likes work at the moment.

Nobody, not in radio, not in teaching, not in accountancy, refuse disposal, tennis, chewing gum production or even floristry likes work at the moment.

It's February. There are a lot of special days... whether it's pancake-focused, Valentinesy, Spring-like, Snowy or just plain feelgood, regardless nobody is having a particularly easy time getting out of bed and into work on time.

But what is a hump day? When did this strange phrase insinuate itself into our language. It seems to have cropped up exorbitantly in the previous few weeks, which can either mean I've just begun to understand what this phrase means and am hearing it everywhere I listen.... or, we're all so ruddy fed up midweek, we've actually communally created a new term to encapsulate the sheer bloody feeling of wanting it to be over, when we're only half way through. Maybe THAT is how prevalent the back to February blues are.

At any rate, I decided today that any sort of expletive is a sign of life in the old dog yet. Thinking about it, if you were first on an accident scene, saw three bodies and one of them was screaming like a banshee, that's probably the one you'd worry about doing CPR on last. Not that this metaphor particularly works, because working in commercial radio is like one constant accident scene. It's like daily trench warfare actually. Our days consists of lobbing scripts and carefully timed audio over the top, picketing behind our brand strategies, sending poor sales guys out there to the front line to face the guns, healing our wounds with paltry poultice, rationing sustenance and carefully plotting our next moves, only to knock coffee all over the ruddy map.... but we still do battle.

So, here's my succinct new phrase for those bad days and it goes like this:

"Where there's a fuck, there's a fight."

i.e. if you can shout 'fuck', you give a fuck. Fucking simple as that.

Fuck.

(I'm a) Creep

This blog post is titled in the context of it's soundtrack, a lovely bit of Friday night Radiohead. So, here we go, with a little mindmush, composed in London, before AND after a holiday, should you perceive any difference. I certainly don't....ffs.

Only idiots hire their best friends.

Let me expand upon that.

Only idiots AND optimists hire their best friends.

Otherwise, why else would you move someone you enjoy socialising with, ranting to and generally being quite natural around into the sphere of 'I'm your boss' and still expect things to be pretty much as cool as they were?

Over the past few months at work, I've been steadily playing a game of friendship Kerplonk with myself. First, my beloved and long-suffering buddy in engineering went to be someone important at a competitor company up the road. Kerplonk. No longer will anyone fix my microphone AND bring me cake at the drop of a hat (yes, I'm a taker)

Secondly, my cool producer matey decided to apply for the job vacated in my team in spite of the fact she knows exactly what it's like, thanks to my aforementioned ranting. Now I'm her boss. Kerplonk.

Thirdly and finally, my utter hero, ex-boss and general life counsellor opted to leave behind the radio station he's worked at for years to pursue bigger and better things (this is what grown-ups do when they realised they have reached the oh my fucking god disillusionment stage) Kerfuckingplonk.

So in spite of the fabulous career moves and fortune of each of these three, and in spite of the fact that they are all very happy about their new situations, I am very selfishly sorry for myself at being left behind and deprived of the people I can actually lean on at work. By the way, if you had any sympathy, I suggest you save it for someone slightly deserving of it.

The current situation has seen me being a bit of a taskmaster in transforming my new colleague from vulnerable imaging producer into a commercially savvy Judge Dredd pretty damn fast. And the reason? I really needed a holiday. I have two passionate, talented, dedicated producers on my team who currently take three times as long as me to do this job. I've been doing it two years, they've not even been doing it one. But I really, REALLY needed a holiday, and I needed to be able to leave them on their own.

Aside from the usual January blues, I was physically struggling to get up in the morning. I was waking up and jumping out of bed in full-on 3am freakouts. I had a migraine (an occurrence that only happens every few years and only under stupid amounts of stress) My head was spinning at the end of the day and I was just feeling physically ill, miserable and drained and calling everyone fuckers. Nothing medical. Just needing a holiday.

Home Comforts

So, on top of the fact that I was genuinely relishing the solitude of January and resentful of the social explosion that came around payday, it was a cheerful end to the month. My free time was spent mostly sitting under the hairdryer to keep warm, counting the chicken drumsticks in the pack to see if I had enough to last til payday and scowling at the empty air freshener that, on sensing my impoverished presence, would choose to gasp for a refill at the most poignant moments. Damn, I've got the world at my feet. The ironic thing is that I genuinely am at the top of my game for what I do as a job. Isn't that supposed to mean you're successful at existing outside of it too?

My Neighbour's Kids prioritise E-Coli

I found solace in many places. The arrival of the snow saw not only the perfect excuse to spend a weekend in bed with my boyfriend, to puzzle at my neighbours choice of snowman material (the slurry-filled off-white stuff around the bin store, rather than the lawn), but also to experience the long-lost art of THE GYM.

I spent my formative, pre-radio-career years (i.e. before anyone in radio paid me) working every end of term holiday and weekend at the local leisure centre back home in Sussex. It was here, I insist, I gleaned the insight and understanding of ordinary family life that I trade off to this day. In fact, the broad sections of society - tiny babies, brooding teens, right through to whole families, many of which I watched grow through the years, arthritic referrals and bright, clusters of retirees, still fill me with huge fondness and nostalgia. Often, I miss the days where the only pressure I was under was to sell someone a swim and man the coffee bar at the same time. It's always a sure sign I'm sick of the weekly team meeting when I start chattering about 50+ Aquafit classes. So to visit a couple of gyms - the Spa in Beckenham and the Oasis Sports Centre - a behemoth slap-bang in central London was a huge relief at a time of stupid, irrational work-stress.

Escaping from the bullshitty land of radio / media for an hour, to end the day mindlessly pummeling a moving track, inhaling the smell of damp or sweat or chlorine or standard lemon-scented cleaners, is a pleasure universal to every leisure centre visit I make. Filled with waves of sad nostalgia, I remembered my graduate youth, when it was all before me, all that ambition and energy, all that drive and unfettered creativity, all that bullish self-belief. It came swimming back to me when I asked what coin the lockers took. I was surrounded by normal, boring people who sweat and lose their keys and forget their membership cards and go home and microwave something for dinner. It was such a relief, such a reminder of real life and it's comforts in the most middle-class way. Wherever all these bastards come from, we're all equal on the treadmill. Well, at least until you program in their weight in kilograms. Treadmills are actually pretty sophisticated like that.

Escape

Post Office Staff Hard at Work

After 6 visits to the slow lorises in the Post Office, where their fabulous 'check and send service' offered a new piece of prohibitive information each time, my hopes of a passport renewal before the big 'H' day piddled away in the gutter of January. As a consequence, my boyfriend suggested a break to the Peak District, where funnily enough I'd been exactly a year ago, albeit lonely, drunk, miserable and heartbroken.

The day DID eventually dawn, when I set the alarm for the last time, forced out a 6 mile run and gathered up my suitcase. The sheer stress of preparing for a holiday is unmatched when your mind is about as ordered as a pack of broken spaghetti. However, I was delighted to see the boy turn up, pallid and slewed in a cold sweat, having overdone it at the karaoke the night before. It took the pressure off immensely to realise we were both in an equally retarded state of usefulness with food, shagging and sleep at the top of the priority list. Closely followed by more wine.

Thus began the nerve-wracking descent into the Derbyshire wilderness. The village of Chelmorton, between Bakewell and Buxton, offered both a church AND a pub for our revelation. Once we'd made ourselves comfortable jumping on the bed, drinking tea and secretly fretting at the intimacy of the toilet facilities in our barn studio, we quickly headed out into the 3G-devoid snowiness of the night. Five minutes later we were being interrogated by a man on a bar stool and the other friendly residents of the village, ordering Staffordshire oatcakes and freaking out by how fucking huge the moon was over the Peaks and graveyard.

Over the next few days we made sure we got truly sick of isolation. The charming non-Londonness of not only being miles from a shop, but being miles from a shop that was open, became a badge of honour to our forward-planning and self-sufficiency. We stockpiled tea, wine and chocolate, made cheese and ham sandwiches and climbed snowy hillsides (albeit to the soundtrack of Kate Bush's, 'Running Up That Hill' blasting from the man's iPhone 5, and the soundtrack of me moaning about being cold / damp / hungry / in need of a wee / or having bad hair. Things that never concern me anywhere else, strangely)

We wandered old railway lines and quarries, marveled (he quite patiently) at viaducts, ordnance survey maps and sheep and drank worrying amounts of coffee. He didn't even bat an eyelid when I spotted a bargain in WHSmith and snapped up "Great Victorian Railway Journeys... with a Foreword by Michael Portillo" Perhaps he'll dump me when we meet up next.

At any rate, the night we spent in Manchester was a stark contrast to follow all that blowsy country stuff. On our arrival, the noise, torrential rain and bustle sent us both into a sensory overload which culminated in disaster: lunch in Pizza Express. We followed it with a bemused wandering around our accommodation, which, although cheaper than anything else we could find, could still sleep six. Thus our reintroduction to city life consisted of the following:

1. Frightened lunch at Pizza Express
2. A gallery where we snobbishly slagged off the modern art and predilection for The Smiths before getting overexcited about the Impressionists.
3. Hiding in our apartment
4. Taking a shower and putting on some makeup (the latter doesn't apply to him, by the way)
5. Going to YuZu, a brilliant Thai restaurant and getting trashed on Saki.
6. Going back to the apartment and smashing down a bottle of wine, half a Bakewell tart, some Galaxy chocolate and a DVD, at which I cried.
7. A battle of wits over whether we should make a drunk film or not. Not, it turns out. Oh well.
8. The nicest sleep ever.
10. More coffee
11. A cathedral
9. Getting wallet-raped on the train fare home.

Pretty much all you could ask for in a holiday. It was great to recover the simplicity of our own impulses and natures, and frankly horrifying to return to London, where we said a cheerful, romantic goodbye, and I wandered into M&S Food, stifling a full-on panic, which has lasted until about now. God, this city. God, this lifestyle.

Ugh all this Commercialism and Waste repels me...

... which is exactly why I went on a shopping spree today. In the Apple Store, on audibly letting out an expletive at the price of a simple Macbook case, I found myself overcome with hilarity. I really hope I'm not the only one who descends into a childish combination of aggression and deviance when faced with the ambassadors of the Apple brand. After being repeatedly offered help by the little spectacled blue monkeys, which I enjoyed refusing, I took my overpriced item to the till. Only to discover it wasn't there.

I'm sure the woman who served me, a South East-Londoner herself, found it a little funny when I said, "Done away with the old tils then eh?", because her enigmatic response was a very grave, softly-spoken, "WE are the tills now" which sent me into a fit of smirks and giggles that I could only stifle enough to finish the transaction and leave the store. I don't know what it is about this brand and it's behaviours that I find so irresistibly uncomfortable, apart from the fact it makes everyone look like a stupid tit doesn't it. Really, come on. Everyone in that shop looks like an retard. Even the stupid little drawstring bag, that sits so satisfyingly in the nook of your back and makes you feel like you can go in French Connection for a browse because it looks like you've got loads of pointless money. It's like having a 'kick me' postit stuck on your back and feeling good about it.

Phew, there we go. No ill effects gleaned from that holiday. Still as socially regressive as ever.

See you at work.

January Inertia... And my buddy the entrepreneur

I'm Over It

Well, that was a useless pantload of a week. Without exception, the British workforce appears to have descended into an utter torpor of disenchantment. We are tortured to be back in the office, and equally ruffled to reflect upon the mundanity that even the festive sofa hours had dwindled to.

Yes, regardless of whether you work in radio, bomb disposal, a dry cleaners, drain-cleaning or a pie shop, this is the month for being entirely and appropriately devoid of interest in life... or one's job. We all recognise we've had too much indulgence, got sick of it, and need to have a little less of everything for a while. Although I'm secretly hoping we don't stay sick of sofa marathons and heavy pastry-based, alcohol-laced nourishment for too long, for to be sick of Christmas is to be sick of life... the unhealthy kind, that is.

A New Beginning

It seems like a fabulous time for a new start. As I trample through the grey, concrete vista of central London, dodging tourists and patiently shuffling behind old people with walking sticks, shutting my ears to the unrelenting howl of traffic, I think a change would be really great... if only I had the bloody energy.

Somebody who does, is a good friend of mine - a primary school teacher who took her last class before Christmas and in about a week's time will be opening the doors to the tea room she's always wanted to run. Accompanied by her Croydon-commuting boyfriend, they've rented out their cottage and migrated even deeper into rural Sussex, to live and work in a tiny village of which their establishment is the sole and vital social hub... or at least it will be when it opens and they can sell booze.

Naturally, I'm swept away by the idyllic picture in my head, of hazy summer days filled with flocks of families, eager to fill their lungs with good, clean, country air, take on board a feast of cakes and elegant teas, and generally revel in the fantasy of traditional country living... 

Yet the reality is, the little lady is opening a tea room in January. JANUARY. In the middle of nowhere. Credit to her, she's always had an entrepreneurial streak, and she's savvy enough, but that is surely going to be tough? Yes, she agreed, when I pussyfooted around such concerns. She's fully aware that for the next two or three years she and her boyfriend will be rising at 5am, getting to work, he off to Croydon and she in the kitchens, spending their evenings and weekends on their feet cooking, baking and serving, not to mention running the small petting zoo out back (I kid you not) But they're happy about it, and excited!

Which is more than I can say for a lot of people who essentially enjoy their jobs, but find working under the grindstone of another authority more than a little trying. Today, it was announced that the government Start Up Loan scheme would have £30 million poured into it over the next 3 years, and the age limit raised, which led me to wonder, even without the incentive of support, why this streak of entrepreneurism was a growing trend amongst young professionals. 

We've been bobbing in and out of recession for long enough, and some even predict another's round the corner. The gradual wear and tear of this has made company perks scant and payrises scarce. A job is something you hold onto, and the market has slowed down as people stay put. No wonder a rising number of young, independent people are turning their back on this and choosing to take the leap at this slow glimmer of economic recovery, by going it alone, and what's more, we're celebrating it. God knows, two of my most talented colleagues have just announced their intention to go freelance after more than a decade in the business. One of them even has a baby. There is risk, but there is respect for the risk-takers, and it seems, a good, old-fashioned work ethic about it.

The national spirit of these past two years is something I sense will be reflected in 10, maybe 20 years time as "the era of stiff up a lip, tough economic times, but a good dose of British spirit, of street parties and celebrations, Olympic spectacle and royal processions. Let them eat cake! And let's expose phone-hacking press corruption AND Jim'll Fix It as a sex offender too!"

I can just imagine it now, when some (currently 2 year old) moron is in a hurry to compile something for the 'in this year' radio show, featuring the songs of timelessly enduring, great artists such as 'The Wanted', ' Rihanna' and 'Nikki Minaj'. He happens across a webpage and lifts this rose-tinted precis of a period that was undeniably, never as exciting in reality, and sticks it on the air, bold as brass. That prediction, naturally depends on the existence of radio in 20 years time. Or music in general. OR the internet. I'm sure it will have been replaced by something much simpler and flashier. Perhaps just instantaneous mental information, programmed by the government or something?

Anyway, I diverge, but the point I was meandering towards was the fact that all this gloom has led to an inevitably defiant swell of optimism, in my immediate communities at least. It feels like a pocket of renegade young people are taking a gamble and  bloody well starting out again, because what have we got to lose anyway?

What the Fuck is 'ME time' anyway?

In the personal sphere, it's definitely a trade-off. Our expectations of a balanced, healthy and happy lifestyle are contradicted daily by overcommitments, the pressure to achieve all of these things, and the busy reality of just earning enough money to keep a roof over your head and feed the bloody children.. let alone fund a 6 week 'find yourself' course in Upside Down Yoga, or a mind-blowing toenail massage.

I've truly come to realise that 'me time' is a modern indulgence, something that only brings you dissatisfaction when the distractions of living prevent you achieving it. Which is why I think my friend might just be balanced enough to make it through the hard times with her new business. Not only does she have a supportive partner who has the same attitude, but she fully recognises she's tied herself into a few years of potential, utter drudgery. So in being her own choice, I guess it's a form of 'me time', probably the healthiest, because I'm pretty sure that people are always happier when they feel the course of their life and their responsibilities are not imposed, but a matter of their own free will.

I suppose, in that case, we're lucky to have chosen to come back to work after Christmas, sulk about it, do the job, go home, snatch a little sofa time, and have the fortune of being able to change it all tomorrow. If we'd only get off our bottoms and write that CV.

Oh look, Homeland's on.... maybe tomorrow.

Scented Candles fill my World. Or at least mask the stench of poverty...

If you're 27, female and have a problem with 50% of Christmas gifts received being of the scented candle genre, you clearly don't have neighbours like mine...

In real time for a moment....2013 really gets into it's mundane style for me with... another day at work, a dawdly run home along the Thames (see this shit foggy image of cloud shrouded Shard) and an unsurpassed bout of wretching when I arrive home to my flat, pass through the hall, and am forced to inhale the stench from my neighbours flat whilst I struggle with the keys. 

I kid you not (much), there are about a million adorable, glassy-eyed children in that place, with it's papered-up windows and filthy walls. God knows what they've been doing today but if you imagine a combination of soiled nappies, burnt chicken nuggets and the worst sodding body odour this side of the equator, then multiply it by ten, you're pretty much on the money. Two doors later, I'm in racing in panic for a lighter and one of Glade's finest before I can control my gastric instincts. Christ, this is the life. Now, as I speak, I hear a pattering, which confirms my suspicions. When I heard the children shouting 'kill it Daddy, kill it' last night, I knew they weren't really talking about a spider. Might put the search for mouse poo off til after dinner, There's a damp problem here I need to deal with too, and a disinterested landlord, all for £625 a month. God this is the London dream isn't it.

So ahead of a January confined to my flat because I've spent all my money on a) rent and b) Christmas presents, I'm pretty bloody glad everyone gave me scented candles and bubble bath. What more could a female need eh?*

*(Just in case you thought that was a rhetorical question, it's not. I would recommend regular sleepovers, preferably sexual ones, preferably at someone else's house, preferably excluding any sort of damp problem or odd neighbours)