crowded house

It’s been a lovely champagne-y kind of breakfast do for a crowd of actors, directors, producers and writers all represented by the same agency. A smattering of producers, not actually under my agent’s wing, have also attended - their production houses conspicuously emblazoned across the sticky labels we’re all wearing.

I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.

The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.

My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.

A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.

The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.

“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.

blush

We’re three hours into our first and, let’s face it, last date and I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever stop talking about himself long enough for me to interject.

Why did I stay so long? I simply don’t know. Is it low self-esteem? A misplaced sense of duty? Or a jaw-dropping, if slightly morbid, curiosity, now piqued on this quiet Saturday afternoon (one that wants to see just how badly it will all pan out).

I am now merely a witness to my own poor choice of afternoon companion.

How did I get to here? It’s a short chain of events really. He’s a handsome, gregarious man who works in the charity sector. I thought he was fun, a bit laddish, yes, but with an appealing social conscience that seemed to cancel out the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that was picking up the warning signs and suggesting I change course.

He stops long enough to take a bite of his sandwich. When he starts up again, he is comparing himself to Ghandi. I tune out for good but I’m reminded of the last time I agreed to a date with a man because, and I am embarrassed to admit this, of what he did for a living. Say it quietly. For shame.

Years ago, when I was living in the US, I met a smart, very bearded lumberjack-shirted geologist. Geologist? In the small town I was living in, that was definitely unusual to say the least. I was intrigued.

He offered to take me out for a curry - another unusual first in an oh-so quiet suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. I’d missed our national dish and, he seemed to know where I could get a fix.

He drove me, in his aptly-named pick-up truck, to an out-the-way curry house, in an out-the-way neighbourhood. Shirt and beard aside, I was charmed.

It was so refreshing to be around man who wasn’t a sports jock but as soon as our food order was out the way, he opened with:

“I just need to make it clear, from the start, that I’m not some kind of tree hugging hippy type. Far from it. I am employed by companies like ICI to help them get away with as much environmental contamination as possible. That’s just the way it is.”

I didn't know what to say. He offered me the poppadoms.

“Just so there isn’t any confusion…” he concluded.

I was suddenly aware that I was probably not the only woman who had agreed to go on a date with this man because of his being a geologist. I felt ashamed of myself and horrified for, and at, him.

Call me superficial, but I couldn't see myself dating a man who was wilfully damaging the environment - especially in a lumberjack shirt and a full-on man-beard.

white

Well today has been a magical Monday. Central London doesn’t experience the extremes of weather often faced by other parts of the country so when it does, like today, it really is an event. I’ve never seen London like this before, and I’m in awe.

For the first time in eighteen years snow has fallen – and continues to fall – right here, in central London. It’s a wonderful sight to see. From Richmond to Wapping everything is covered in a delicious, crisp and barely negotiable layer. Most of us have had an unplanned day-off. A snow-day, like the ones we had at school.

I've been wandering around with little more than a camera and childish wonder. And I wasn't the only one.

The excitement and novelty factor hasn't gone amiss. Everyone’s been a bit more smiley and snowmen (and women) have magically appeared all over the city, a calling card for their creator’s wit and whimsy.

What a surprise to have grey winter morning blanketed from sight, a welcome and joyful reprieve from the Monday blues...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wonderingheights/sets/72157613235540615/

meltdown

It's not that I dislike her, she’s actually quite a nice girl, but she’s one of those people who has somehow managed to get into a position of some seniority without appearing to have an ounce of competence. Which is annoying at best.

This was a follow-up meeting from one we had six weeks ago. The one six weeks ago, involved lots of talking in circles and sweeping generalisations. The whole thing was punctuated by a nervous, politically-charged smile. And what appeared to be, a new catch-phrase. If it's possible for a person in real life to have such a thing.

The follow-up meeting was a mystery (there wasn’t anything to follow-up) but she seemed to want a catch-up anyway.

There are several of us from the company and we’re pitching just one idea. She hesitates before she speaks. This time, I’m going to count how many times she repeats the phrase globaleconomicmeltdown?. It is said, just like that, speeded up, moulded into one word and then pronounced with an uptalking high note at the end as if she is asking us if we’re still keeping up.

I hate to say it but I wonder if she knows what it means.

I had noticed her liberal use of globaleconomicmeltdown? the last time we met. It tumbled out of her mouth at an alarming rate. Sometimes immediately tailgating its last appearance. Like a string of long-awaited buses. It struck me then, as it does now, that she’s probably lifted it off a news report as something that sounds knowledgeable and usefully deflective - but it’s not convincing anyone.

Needless to say, we didn’t get very far with the pitch. She doesn’t have any money, you know, not since the globaleconomicmeltdown? She only uses the term four times in the 40 mins we are with her. I feel bad for counting. And for writing about it.

Like I said, she really is a nice girl.