Wednesday, 27 June 2007

Last Day as a Temp

So check out this woman I found on the corporate directory of the company I'm working at, she totally looks like Andew Lloyd Webber which begs the question that if you were a woman who looked just like Andrew Lloyd Webber, wouldn't you make sure you don't also have the exact same hairstyle?

I wrote down her mobile number and might crank call her later, sing Phantom of the Opera numbers and hang up.

Its my last day at the pharmacutical firm where I have become buddies with Ricki who shares the reception desk with me. Yes of course he's gay. Today we went to a pub lunch in Maidenhead in his convertable mini, it was almost fun. We had deep chats over sandwiches. He said goodbye to me just now a touch verklempt, he wants to know how things develop with the adonis.

So speaking of which, I've booked my one way Toulon bound ticket for next Tuesday July 3rd (happy birthday Anna Lawton) and am starting to plan outfits and rehearse breezy international woman of mystery aloofness. The night vision goggles have arrived so I can crouch in the bushes outside the restaurant where the adonis works and watch him until dawn (which is strange because he only works until 11pm).

Ryan Air (ghetto air) that I am flying only allow 15 kilos of luggage which translates into 3 books and a shoe. I am not known to travel light so this may be a problem, luckily most of the clothing I am bringing is made of string and mesh.

My mother has gone to Greece for a wedding and is staying for 10 days at a friend's beautiful house complete with pool and Eastern European servants. This means I have her place to myself, so I can just let loose and watch TV and go to bed. Punk rock.

Time for me to sign off. 6pm and I have receptionist duties to perform, like switching off the coffee machine and locking up the closets. Killer.

This morning as I walked to work I saw a duck waddling up the stairs of a Thai Restaurant, "don't do it!" I screamed. It was a total real life Far Side moment and I had no one to witness it.

Ok, time to lock closets using keys.

your fan,


Monday, 18 June 2007

I'm a Temp in Maidenhead

Before I start, I'd just like to speak to all those people in the tube or subway that swing their arms unnecessarily far behind them when they walk:



I hate you.

Latest news from me thus, am temping in and around Maidenhead offices as a receptionist. Seeeexxxxy.

As a new female in the office environment, I generate some amount of curiosity (from older men) who like to lean against the front desk where I operate and ask me where in Canada I'm from. One visiting Royal Mail Associate went so far as to peer over the desk, scan my figure and ask me how many times I go to the gym because I'm so very thin.

We are now dating.

So my job. It consists of picking up the phone and answering it and then transferring calls, oh and asking the callers their names and what company they are calling from.

I also do mail and filing.

All the companies are amazed with the rapidity with which I pick up information and by the professionalism of my phone manner. I considered doing the English "sing song" voice as an inside joke with myself but didn't for fear that it would kill the part of my brain that controls dancing.

I am an expert filer. I read labels and then slot papers into the appropriate pigeon holes that are also labelled.

I'm like, the smartest person to have temped in these places as evidenced by the caliber of temp I have encountered on my various job placements.

Sample Temp (sharing reception desk with me): "Dis job is well easy cuz they leave you alone innit but I 'ate doin' mail (pronounced mayew) cuz all de names are foreign. So where you from then, Maiden'ead?"

Me: "Canada"

Sample Temp: "Right."

This will kill the conversation.

Usually, I will be alone at the receptionist desk (like now) with no phone ringing ever and no one bothering me so I'm literally getting paid to write and read The New Yorker online. Highbrow.

Less highbrow is the webcam of the southern French beach I check at regular intervals to see if I can spot the adonis I'm convinced is my townie destiny. It reeks of stalkerism. I am also checking the weather conditions and picturing my life as it will be in a few weeks time.

The projection of my life in a few weeks time goes as follows:

-Wake up around 8am, yoga to bossa nova followed by granola consumption.
-Pack bag for beach and sit on terrace contemplating sea view.
-Go to beach 11am. Tan. Read. Swim. Reflect. Hydrate. Stare at the adonis walking out of the water, possibly establish contact. Drink rose at beach bar with Alex, Pierre and Simon that work there.
-Walk home around 7pm. Shower, dinner, sit at terrace, write showstopping prose and discover meaning of life.

Current reality sees me sitting behind a desk answering calls about needle extensions from multiple sclerosis nurses called John.

your fan,


Thursday, 14 June 2007

Visons of Maidenhead

Grabbed a sandwich and bottle of Pellegrino and parked my vintage dress on a bench in the Maidenhead high street today at the height of the midday rush. Eating proved difficult, bits of roast chicken falling on my lap as a procession of ugly flip flopped past in all states of completely terrible.

Office workers in spandex that details every buldge, mole and body pimple. Unisex beer guts hanging out as their oblivious owners stroll around unabashed, making no attempt to adjust their clothing. Mountains of rippling pink flesh squeezed into summer nylon, swollen trotters shoved into all manner of open toed and square heeled footwear.

Then I started noticing the disabilities: facial tics, Downs, all varieties of limps ranging from pulled muscle to polio, Jesus, was Maidenhead built on a toxic dump?

Actually, that was Slough.

The fashions are almost Eastern European bad. Like that guy who stood across from me smoking a cigarette with one leg leaning back on the wall like beginners pose A from the Cool Manual. Tight flurescant orange t-shirt festooned with gold chain acoutrement, black jogging trousers, those snug sneakers favored by clyclists that I abhore for casual wear (sorry Europe), black stringy mullet under the baseball cap and faded blue ink tattoo of something nationalistic.

You know you've been watching too much reality trash when you look at people and perform mental plastic surgery on them. Then you picture them with post op bandanges, like even if they are talking to you. Namely it's chin implant gauze, nose job plaster and that foamy stuff that wraps the head up preventing total feature collapse.

Anyway, I shouldn't make fun of Maidenhead. New York is no better. Every day you'd witness 400 pounds of ugly walking by in fringe and mesh. Oh relax, I'm not being mean to the fat & unfashionable, I just think people should know their bodies and dress accordingly - except for starving artists like Nicole Ritchie who should just die and be placed in small pink coffins light enough for La Lohan to carry.

So how do we think Paris is faring? She might be killed by murder or die of being surrounded of things that "aren't hot." Either way she'll definately be scarred in all ways but if she makes it out(and I'm sure she will), she'll have redeemed herself somewhat through her public suffering and I guarantee will be less hateful to the public. Maybe she'll even start championing small black people causes. Then again, maybe she'll fly to Monaco on a private jet.

And who am I to make fun of anyone anyway? I'm temping as a receptionist in Maidenhead. True this is aiding my prolongued summer in the south of France and true its better than watching daytime TV but still, its super loserish.

At least I'm dressed well.

Your fan,


Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Neo Nazis Eat Peanut Butter!

Last night I watched American History X for the first time in years. I was surprised by how dated it was, how full of holes and stereotypes (my favorite being the "nice black guy" in the jail who says "aiet" after EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE.)

What can I say peoples? Like Mariah, it ain't ageing well.

Still, my appreciation of Ed Norten's acting (body) prevailed, as did my fondness for voice over narration, prison flashbacks and neo nazi anything. And lets talk about the big sharpie swaztika tattoo for a second. So obviously sharpie!! You know they probably hired an artist to sharpie it on his body. I would have sharpied it for free.


Once upon a Brooklyn evening I sat channel flipping and came across a marathon of American neo nazis documentaries on Bravo. It was a great moment to be alive knowing that the next few hours of my life were going to be utterly enthralling. Kind of like finding $20 when you're broke and jonesing. Anyone?

Sure, we've seen enough documentaries about the original Nazis, all grainy black and white - Hitler screaming into microphones blah blah blah but I want to know whats going on today in bold colour.

So I watch neo nazis like they're monkeys that have been taught to ride byclicles, always amazed by the normal human things they do, "dear Lord, they're eating peanut butter on wholewheat!" What if a black made the bread? Can they eat bagels?

Usually, inbetween the hate rants (Jews are the worstest) they tuck their blond babies to sleep and sing them little lullabies about White Power, aaaawww. I'm fascinated by the Nazi memorobilia that one can purchase online and have delivered to Arkansas. Flags, bedspreads, coasters, 3rd Reich underwear.

Remember when Louis Theraux went to go meet them? For those of you in the States, he's this spindly English reporter who looks like he should be in a cafe somewhere in the East Village in a black turtleneck reading poetry with cow bell aid. I'm a little in love with him and he looks Jewish but isn't. So he's out there visiting neos, going to marches and listening in on speaches looking like an extra from Seinfeld. Awesome.

Plus he met Lamb and Lynxe, the young Britney Spears twin version for the Nazi world. Amazing.

It must be hard on the neo nazi kids, growing up in such a restricted community, kind of like being Amish but with anger and junk.

your fan,


Monday, 11 June 2007

5 Things of no Socio-Political Importance I Hate

(in no non socio-political order)

1. Hello! magazine type photo spreads of barefoot "famous" people in their homes. Always barefoot! Always pink toes imbedded in the cream carpet, because nothing says "I'm at home" like going sockless. Well it makes me sick. Unless its a beach house, put some fucking shoes on!
I have the same complaint for British couch commercials.

2. That Dudely Moore is dead.

3. That Celine Dione is alive.

3. Connecticut.

4. Keira Knightly's jaw.

5. Public breast feeding, put your milk tits away you crunchy bitch.

more soon. I hate many things.


Friday, 8 June 2007


I've been watching this for years. Never gets old.

Last night I dreamt that Will Ferrell was my best friend and we were going to dress up as cast members of the Fame Academy for Halloween. To honor Will and his presence in my subconscious, here's a little taster of his genuis, especially the fashion dude Zoolander was based on.

your fan,



How ghettto is a Mcdonalds with a boarded up window?

Local Chinese food, bitches!


French people will not eat here

Wednesday, 6 June 2007

Bon Temps

May 21st to June 4rth in Pictures

Getting Ready

The Wedding

The Sign I Made

Hungover Cousins the Day After

Wedding Cake Breakfasts

The Beach I Go To

People I Hang out With

Rino Del-Roio

The Man Who Gave me Beer

and rose

The Man Who Took Me Out To Dinner When His Girlfriend Was Out of Town

Am going back in on the tan, the novel and the quality of life. Eventually I will get a job and return to somewhere but for the moment, France beckons.

votre fan,


Getting There and Back

May 21st 2007

Today we left for Nice and I know what you’re thinking and yes, we saw Joan Collins at the airport. She comes up to my ankles and is a hundred and fifty two.

I recognized her because she was talking very loudly with intent to encourage gawking from fellow travellers like my mother, who stared and said “it can’t be her, that little thing is dressed too badly.” Granted my mother was speaking in French, a rare language known only to the French and those few countries she colonized.

Today is Monday and by Friday my sister will be married in a little rustic medieval village called Bormes-Les-Mimosas, a southern village so typical you might actually see a man in a stripy top cycling with a string of garlic around his neck.

Disaster! The weather forecast for the French rivera shows rain. My sister has called to lament.

“So it might drizzle,” I told her, “its not like thunderstorms,” I say reassuringly.
“No, they said thunderstorms” she replied, “and the day after the wedding I have reserved the restaurant of a beach for everyone and there will be thunderstorms.”
“So even if it rains, the beach restaurant will be fun, its not like its going to be a hurricane” I replied.
“No, they said hurricane” she replied solemnly.

Inconsolable, if I had told her that at least a volcano wasn’t due to explode, she would have confirmed that no, in fact they had forecast a live volcano to sprout and erupt in the village during the champagne reception. I don’t blame her I suppose, if it were my destination wedding that everyone was flying to, I too would be seriously bummed out by shit weather predictions. And I can’t get that damn Alanis Morrissette song out of my head.

The flight went by in a blink, mom who was sitting rows ahead of me sprinted out of the plane to beat the rush and I followed suit. Racing through the airport tunnels in Nice through passport controls towards the luggage carousel I easily spot my mother, she's the one in the pink sweater, staring up at Claudia Schiffer.

“The other one is prettier,” she whispers to me motioning to Elle McPherson who is standing next to Claudia. She is indeed, dressed in black leggings and slip dress, acres of tan skin, flawless makeup free features. Claudia, like my mother has always contested, looks like she fell into a barrel of bleach. Her hair is white straw and everything else about her is beige, but painted up I can see how she looks every inch the Barbie.

Poor old Joan Collins is hardly noticed as she and young husband number seventeen push through the crowd to collect twenty-five pieces of battered Luis Vuitton. She is wearing a necklace that says “legend” in diamonds that are “probably not real” if you are asking my mother. I watch them push their trolleys towards Nothing to Declare and wonder if she is running out of money.

“They might be on our shuttle bus for the car rentals,” mom says reading my brain.

We wait for our suitcases. Portly men stand between the supermodels on our right while their portly male friends conserve the moment with cell phone pictures. Claudio and Elle look like they are on stilts. At five foot eight, I feel short and dumpy. This is unfamiliar territory. A quick bathroom trip confirms that nothing revolting happened to my face during the flight, I don’t feel unappealing given the company, just invisible. I walk out of the bathroom and am standing in front of Eva Mendes. I now feel ugly. In platform sandals, she comes up to my kneecaps looking like Cindy Crawford and Marolyn Monroe’s love child. Incredibly, my friend Benjy thinks she looks like a maid: “When I look at her, it reminds me that I have to call my housekeeper. If I met her, I would give her an apron and dustpan.”

Though bizarre, it does not surprise me that my mother feels similarly “I have no idea who this Eva Mendes is with her little forehead, but remind me that we have to sweep the floor when we get home. ”

We the normal people on holiday stand waiting for our luggage and smile at each other happy to be amongst the immortal, pleased with the stories we will tell our friends. Four major celebrities in a small airport, waiting around a carousel just like us. Two dwarfs and two giants, on their way to the Cannes Festival a fact that takes the edge off the surrealism.

June 4rth 2007

Well folks, the celebrity circus just doesn’t end. It seems that none other than Richard and Judy are gracing the upper class of my return flight to London. I spotted Jim in the BA check in line at Nice. He walks about with a swagger like he knows he’s hot celebrity shit, leather jacket swung over his shoulder with exaggerated emphasis like a nine year old emulating his older brother. Judy looks every inch the mismatch for despite Richard’s refusal to dress his age, his facelift has been well executed and he is tall and lean and nicely tanned. Altogether not unpleasant looking, I checked him out and he noticed and re-flipped the leather jacket back in place over his shoulder.

On the plane now. We just experienced an "air pocket" drop in altitude so horrific that everyone screamed, a couple of people are in tears and mostly everyone is covered in tea and coffee. I thought we were going down. My little mother sitting in the row ahead was terrified but as the plane plummeted towards certain doom, heart in my throat my only thought was "I'm going to die with Richard and Judy".

Your fan,