Wednesday, 30 November 2011

W/E Whim.

Visitors are super. Especially when they're expected. You have time to prepare, plan and get into the visitor zone.

I had some over the weekend.

Pressure applied. I live in London, they reside in Manchester. It's assumed I live the high life, swanky bars, costly ('modern') cuisine, all done pleasantly hand in hand with our friend Moet.

In reality, it's grim. Damp scales the walls & my bank balance wouldn't match the upkeep of a Chihuahua .

Still, pride before a fall.

We meet, I pay for hotel. I even splurge on a £20 lipstick (adore it however, Nars' Velvet Matte). I suppress my shock at the purchase of a gillet at the price of 200. I even bite my tongue when a nail varnish is purchased for 24 smackers.

The only time 'no' was employed was at the suggestion of Japanese dining. Noodles : no-no.

Stalking down South Molton Street, waltzing the wings of Selfridges and developing a thirst for a sommelier to match an adequate tipple to my eats, including the noble Milkyway.

It felt indulgent, enthralling & it was refreshing not to feel vexed.

A worrier by nature, this felt liberating. In the industry I've immersed myself into wholeheartedly, I had held onto my logic. A frugal man once mentioned you should think of 3 questions on considering a purchase;

Do you want it?
Do you need it?
Can you afford it?

Fuck it.

Frivolity is fantastic *

Yes I may have to cut down on my fresh fruit & Diet Coke addiction, but man alive, had a blast.

Now whilst I shan't be setting up a B&B to welcome strangers, spontaneity is age apt. 2 days notice & I'm there (!).
*I shan't get into debt, I'm not that silly.

Saturday, 19 November 2011


Looking at the news, strands of social media and overhearing the local titter I can't help but think it's a repeat.

Life has become indistinguishable from BBC iPlayer. You've a section for everything, a time for everything; Eastenders & Corrie are still at war pre watershed, Tony Blackburn is still banging on about Pick of the Pops (I love it really) & fashion has turned into Dr Who - metallics are back in.

People say they live for the weekend, when really they live to laze. I'm as guilty of this as the next tweenager, but when you spend each day in a cycle of job applications, awaiting automated rejection & thinking you're better than a single room it's pretty dim.

I'm a communicator, I like to learn & then regurgitate.

A few geriatrics told me this is the time of my life. Jesus, if this is the prime I dread to think what's round the corner.

Still, off to a Tea & Coffee festival. I shant actually be sampling these tipples. Much like an Italian refusing to try frozen yoghurt, I cannot bring myself to trying anything other than breakfast tea.

You can take the girl out of the North ...

Thursday, 17 November 2011


I'm pretty much over FB. It's too promotionally orientated.

I posted the following status a few minutes ago;

Work experience / internship debate on Radio 2. Companies may say they employ candidates from all walks of life. Lies. The life walks of these interns have have been funded by the bank of M&D, & even then it takes them 2/3 years to get a full time job in their chosen field. Not what you know, it's who you know. Would LVMH choose an applicant with the postcode SW3, or SE13? It'll never change.

I had 21 'likes'.

On a lighter note, I came back from Manchester last night. It was easier that last time. Hard to leave what/who you love, but encouraging when you see another love of yours at the end of the tunnel.

Points make prizes.

Off to the Carnaby Street and Grazia shopping party later, 20% off & all that jazz. My new company are not doing nibbles or drinks, they said it's outdated. Is it?

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Day One.

I've been interning on and off for 24 months (sounds shorter than 2 years). It's had it's extreme highs, and abyss-like lows.

I wouldn't swap it. Yet, I want more. Extracting the callousness, I see those from my past gaining permanent positions of note & I think, fuck. How did this happen? I have skillz (!); I am the PR Assistant package; first one in, last one out, knowledge of each facet of the public relations industry and I remain an intern.

Life is cruel.

Still, I'm leaving my current mundane, yet kooky, role for a challenge. From frying a goldfish to a carp.

It's with a relatively new boutique on Kingly Court. I'm the PR.

I like the sound of it.

Downside is it's unpaid & I'm the PR. The sole PR.

I've ideas, plans for look books, social media and press coverage. Yet, my contacts and complete know-how lack.

Either way, I don't like fish. I prefer bacon.

Plus this Greek sonny jim said a while back; 'You gotta have faith'. Bring it.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011


I was bestowed a souvenir whilst at work this day.

A keyring.

I'm never sure what they symbolise; was it 3 for 10Euro (optimistic), or is it just a nice gesture. I'll plump for the latter.

A Parisian keyring. Not exactly the same ring to it as describing ones style as Parisian. Never the less, it unearthed a memory of my beloved Aunt Bernadette.

As a child I was (& still am) inquisitive (nosey). I like to push personal boundaries, even if it ruffles feathers. If I could cast my eye over a blurb for those who I meet, it'd be a dream realised.

Still, back to the point, my Aunt is a hoarder; from jigsaws to junk jewellery, regardless of whether she bought it in 1978, it no longer works, or hasn't fit her this side of the millenium - she can't let go.

Under a rouse of needing the bathroom, I slipped into her lair & set about foraging. Forcing open a disused wardrobe I was showered with metal, plastic, and wood. A keyring kingdom.

I counted 84 that day. Bar 7 from the US, the rest were Europe based. Suggesting perhaps not a seasoned traveller. Yet receiving the souvenir this morning altered my perception of Bernadettes bizarre batch immediately; keyrings are perhaps missold as items to alert one to ones house keys alone. They infer a memory, whether it be yours or not. Much like a photo album (of which Bern has over 150) these keyrings made up a patchwork of her experiences, littered with the affectionate giving of symbols of others treasured memories.

I could think of worse things to bring back from holiday ...

Found on Woosk

Thursday, 3 November 2011


I saw a man last night. Busking at Oxford Street tube. He had one arm & essentially two elbows. Strumming the electric guitar. I felt torn; stare & guilt trip myself into giving shrapnel or sneak a glance and alienate this guy from the rest of the buskers.

It pains me to judge, but yet it's oh so natural.

I myself am from a family of mental and physical differences. Jesus.

In the end I momentarily gawped, til I recognised the riff. It was the Stones (favourites). Paint it Black.


I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love, both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a newborn baby it just happens everyday

Standing out. Sharing his talent.

It's not guilt I'm feeling. It's jealousy for his confidence. & his musical ability.

The TFL project works. Take a looky-see.

This image was from Google when I typed Busker. Like (or hate) it.