Tag Archives: working girl

The Polaroids are, uh … in my other coat.

I still exist.

Poetically. Philosophically. Physically.

Yes, faithful Wuckers. I’m alive and advancing. Dwelling in ye Old Blighty. Enjoying a rather tepid summer and yet another Phoenix rebirth!

You see, following the attempted annihilation of my character ‘n’ career by the most recent in a long line of Vaders, I boarded a plane bound for London, set for a month-long holiday …

Soon, I was in Paris.

Sitting at a sunset rooftop bar with a pina colada in one hand, bread ‘n’ olives in t’other, and a view which stretched clear across Paris to the Sacré-Coeur. Around me sat tourists holding American, Australian and French conversations over wine, beer and cocktails (respectively); opposite: a dude with a bright red mohawk reminiscent of Frenke Potente in Run Lola, Run.

It’s the little things.

As I waited for a friend to arrive so we could begin our time in Paris … a time filled with flea markets, a tower de Eiffel, and giggle-filled train rides … I pondered that it may be this visit where I finally fell for Paris. Perhaps ’twas my frame of mind, my frame of past, or the fact I was without ties … but the sun on my skin made promise of possibilities. Much like the sun of Italy and Greece had made promise (and delivered on) before.

Bien sur, the first thing apparent of Paris (aka apparisent) was how succinctly it shone back at me mes inadequacies.

Behind the bar was a beautiful, tanned, lyrical French man. Tousled hair. Golden beard. Wearing a throwaway t-shirt likely plucked from the floor of a sparse, sunlit loft which spoke (in French, no less) of youth and freedom. A worn guitar no doubt sat expectantly propped against a wall, open shutters nearby, a winding Blonde tangled in sleep nearby. This was the kind of man every woman imagines falling in love with; the projected trajectory of said relationship easily fitting into every romantic comedy ever promised.

Across from me: an ordinary looking geek avec acne and polo shirt, bent over laptop.

My story held neither, of course.

But travel is akin to physically walking onto the 5km-square blank page of a giant sketchbook, where characters and roads are drawn before your eyes, unexpected and inspiring. Infinitesimal. Suddenly you remember what life can hold, if you have the courage to stand up and demand joy. It suddenly stretches out before you, not as a threat, but as a playground.

And so. Mon ami et moi traversed Paris, climbed the Eiffel Tower at midnight, made videos of us bouncing along the boulevards, swept along on good times and endless laughs. Indeed it was the trip where Paris and I became friends; or, as the French say, “tell me whom you frequent, and I will tell you who you are”.

Then we set fly for Malta. Backward in modern amenities, yet forward in beauty and scope – it proved equal parts stunning and maddening. We jet skied on the Mediterranean, zooming out to sea at 40km per hour, jumping self-made waves and getting seasprayed, as the whitewashed square houses of the shoreline whizzed by. We laughed til tears ran down our faces, and drew the eyes of sane folk who knew not of the wonderful secret of whimsy.

Then back to London to visit my cousin for two weeks before (supposedly) returning home …

Cue: Flashback.

Three days before I departed, I made the sudden decision to give notice on my flat. This way: I wouldn’t have to pay rent while away and could extend my holiday if a wayward whim did sidle up (as they are want to do). Consequently, my last two days were spent in a hive of hustle – cutting off bills, organising movers, madly packing and cleaning. I put the entirety of my life into two large storage lockers which drove off to an undisclosed location (presumably my subconscious) the day afore I flew. Headlong towards oxygen and a large question mark made of puffy white clouds. My decision half drawn and left unfinished as I boarded my flight to London, I had effectively released my last tether like Bullock of Gravity lore.

Who says you can’t make and execute a major life decision in two days?

And so, flashback over … when it came time to return to the life I left, there was nothing tangible to return to; and instead, I stood in England – possibility and curiosity before me.

That was a year ago.

So! Now I live in London. With office work officially, squarely in my past. Because, dear Wuckers. I did it! I landed a contract on a long-running television show. Not at entry level, oh no. But as an assistant director – on the floor – where the ACTION! happens.

Can ya fucken believe it?

 

I can’t fucken believe it.

I’ve been in the job eight months and it has indeed been a baptism the likes of which Joan of Arc has never seen. The majority of staff have been there from the start and navigating the resulting factions has been akin to attending a high school designed by Tim Burton on a particularly virulent acid trip. My average day is 13 hours, which is physically fairly nuclear. But I’m in it, Barry. Oh so innit. And I have credits! An actual motherfucking profile on IMDB, which makes me finally, formerly, established in the industry.

I know this all sounds annoyingly Disney but in truth, it’s been much like stepping into a tornado with farcical faith it’ll drop me off in Oz miraculously in one piece, like a kindly windswept taxi driver … my ruby slippers placed nearby. Indeed I am in Oz, but my ruby slippers are up the arse of an unlucky munchkin and the yellow brick road is closed for repair.

But, in my high stakes game of Tic Tac Survival, I am indubitably surviving. Nay, expanding. And no, not like Mr Creosote in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life. 

But in outlook, dear friends. In trajectory.

Can I get ya anything? Coffee? Tea? Me?

I’m having a Working Girl kinda day, my friends! (Not to be confused with a working girl kinda day.) I feel Staten Island ferry, Carly Simon lettin’ that river run, epic. Yeah, epic.

Perhaps a new kind of Disney day has been born … a philosophical phoenix with heroine hymn and cityscape? For not even a truant Trainer (lunchbox lover) can allay my allegory.

I feel strong and proud, as if I’ve just shunned John Mayer at an industry event. Or like Martin Luther King in his heroic headway day. (Maybe I should’ve led with that?)

And so, I hereby herald this dolce dawn – Martin Luther King Day!

Just fuckin’ with ya. Plagiarism is but phlegm on the pulmonary of past pioneers. And so, I now indubitably designate this Parfait Day! Upon which I shall mislay my dismay and be gay (less Sean Haye’, more Doris Day), and bath my breezeway on life’s bidet. Freakin’ a.

As to the cause of my jump up, jump up and get down?

First. I have been making bouncy-bouncy love with many an online fashion site (cue video of woman dry humping a monitor, face pixelated to protect privacy) and the offspring of our illicit union arrived today. The stork (aka courier in ‘chalance ‘n’ chinos) brought my bouncing babes before noon and now I own an abundance of fantabulous fucken fashion.

Can I get a whoop whoop?

Whoop. Whoop. (To be said like Steven Wright.)

And in other glorium: yesterday I ran into a former victim of the Beast’s villainy (the very one to inadvertently impel ‘er my way, as it ‘appens). And upon casting the question of catapulting said caustic cat, she radioactively replied: hell to the yeah.

In fact, she conjured a canvas of such calamity ‘n’ carnage that it gave me courage to call my boss then and almost there. And to cut a long story moderately less lengthy, I laid that puppy out (like Steven Seagal in a veterinary clinic) and told him straight: hell to the no. The call lasted 46 seconds and ended in goopy, golden, gelatinous relief.

Let the river run. Let all the dreamers wake the nation, motherfuckers. I’m free! Free like the boobs of Winona Ryder in doily disguise (à la Reality Bites). Swinging free with glee!

Blessed be mankind. And Philip Seymour Hoffman.


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