File nails, file paper, file nails. It's my second day in a new job. Receptionist, administrator and tea maker. I’ve learnt that I’m a natural at binding, have no sense of direction when it comes to finding stationary cupboards and I cannot use a cafetiere. This is not complaining might I note, merely a description. I’m grateful to have a job.
It’s not an occupation, more a stimulus to kickstart my considering of life choices; what do I want to do?
Since 2008 Fashion PR has been torturing me with its partisanship: from its penchant for employing (yet not paying) never-worked-a-day-in-their-life carbon copy labelled rah-rahs (note, discrimination) to it’s sheer nepotistical structuring. Note, discrimination. Work hard, bitch harder. I might know a thing or two about PR, but if you’ve not got the labels or you’re not sporting the trend that suits you least then you’re out. Once you’re in, you have to meddle, air other peoples laundry publically, snipe, drink til you’re ‘wah-wah’ and what for? To be forgotten. For when you’re out, you’re out. Simple as.
I am bitter, but at the same time, I’m moving on. Thinking further afield.
Longevity and fashion are, after all, ‘frenemies’.