Things I Want To Do When...

Am busy. Stupidly busy. Swigging diet coke at 3am busy. It's awful. I look awful. But soon - soon - it will be finished and normal transmission will resume.

Then I Will...

Greece is the word

We're off to Greece in a matter of hours for Cleo's Big Fat Greek Wedding To A German and I cannot wait. I'm packed, I'm superficially brown and I am hoping against hope that leaving the country will mean the end of my nightly work montage dreams. If I have to drown them in ouzo so be it. What I wouldn't do for a return to my wedding montage dreams. At least in those I got to wear nice outfits....

Last week was one of those weeks that only a margarita, ok ok, two margaritas, could fix. Everything was getting up my nose - work, public transport, People Generally - and by the end of the week I was just over it. Which is a shame as thinking back over it there were actually some genuinely lovely moments, however fleeting. On Tuesday we had yoga after work, which was surprisingly exhausting and not just from the laughter-induced pain of seeing a gaggle of colleagues collectively with their legs in the air and earlier that day we'd had a meeting with all the press and marketing teams from all of the partners involved in the project at the Royal Academy. In and of itself not so exciting but it was held in the same room where Charles Darwin's Origin of the Species papers were delivered in July 1858. Apparently not by Charles himself as his daughter was busy dying of some non-specific 19th malady but the occasion (the papers, not the death) is nonetheless still marked by a plaque. That was admittedly pretty special. Sometimes London does really woo you.

Thursday was margarita madness day. A shitty, irritating, unhelpful day for every and no reason, it was made enormously better both by some Very Exciting News from Tori and then dinner (and said margaritas) with Lovely Friend and Bec, in London for one last night. After the margaritas (and in the interests of full disclosure a bottle of wine...) the impending pain of Friday was dulled in more ways than one. Thank god.

The weekend however was just lovely. On Saturday I didn't get out of my pajamas until 2pm, willfully staying in bed and when not sleeping instead watching rubbish television on LB's computer. It was only the Lovely Boy's baking of Portuguese tarts that got me out of bed and even then it was only to move to the couch to minimise the crumbs. And then on Sunday LB's sister, brother-in-law and very adorable nephew arrived in London and so we caught up with them. It's always so good to see familiar faces from home. The best kind of tonic really.

West London showing some rare 'urban art'...

This week so far has really been about getting through until today though frankly after the whitewash of beige over most parts of last week this week could only ever be an improvement.

I'm so looking forward to Greece, and seeing Cleo and hopefully getting the chance to dunk myself in the ocean. All of which will be excellent distractions from a looming phone call from home that I am dreading with every fibre of my body.

Crazy busy days

It's midnight and I should be long asleep but as that seems to be the case most nights lately I'm not entirely distressed. The knowledge of an impending four day week undoubtedly helps.  I probably would have been in bed an hour ago had LB not insisted on plugging what he considers to be a major gap in my childhood by having me watch Back to the Future with him...

This week I....

So Sunday evenings appear to have become that place in the week where I sit down to gaze at my navel and spout nonsense and First World trivia about the week just gone.

The week just gone has been a big one - first week of full-time work since 2006. Looking back now it's nothing short of impressive that I've managed to build a career based on multiple forms of part-time and freelance work. The audacity in the face of current economic woes both global and very, very local is breath-taking and I wonder if I'll ever again find myself with a work day that involves pottery classes and morning swims again? Without the justification of god forbid small children..... I guess it's just bloody lucky that if the last week is anything to go by full-time work should be most-parts enjoyable and only two-parts "Where HAS my week gone?"

I'm still loving the little team I'm now part of, still getting to grips with the reality of the project I'm working on - not least the not-so-small involvement of a major international fashion conglomerate - and still very much trying to get to grips with finding where things on the server/organising my desk/remembering everyone's name and packing my lunch everyday so as to avoid the buy-one-get-one-free deals from the petrol station down the road. Oh for an Eat or a Marks and Spencer. Convenient location Peckham is not. Interesting it is.

Not Peckham unfortunately. Rather, Kew Gardens...

This week I got to see first-hand some of the work the education department does at the gallery with the local kids, a lot of whom come from the council estate that is literally in the gallery's back garden. On Wednesday we took a group of kids to the Hayward Gallery for a cross-site visit and on the way there it was all cheeky tough talk and adolescent obscenities. At the gallery it was casual conversation about the suggestion of materialism in one work and the detail of another. Then there was dress ups and ice cream. It was brilliant.

We'd actually been at the Hayward earlier that day with the film production company that we're working with to create content for the site - lots of short films and interviews - scoping locations for a chat with the co-curator of the upcoming Tracey Emin survey. It makes me stupidly excited when I think that these are the kinds of things involved in My Job. I feel so ridiculously lucky - even when my lovely boss is reduced to tears after a particularly horrendous meeting and I'm given a rather salient insight into the soon to be my realities of working on this project. I mean, don't kid yourself, I am still hugely overwhelmed and paddling like mad to look like I'm calmly moving forward but every day offers another iota of confidence so hopefully by the time my contract ends I'll feel reasonably capable.

I have no idea what this week will bring but if last week is anything to go by it will be Sunday evening again before I know it.

Daylight savings started last Sunday and it is amazing. The light has changed almost overnight. It's as if someone has removed the filter and everything is now so much brighter, even with the cloud cover. One part of me is delighted and another part is cowering vainly and avoiding the mirror in our window-heavy, light-drenched bathroom. No one needs that real a reflection at 7.30 in the morning. Every pore, every fine line, every fucking freckle. BAM. Hello, This Is What Getting OLDER Looks Like. And it isn't pretty.

What also isn't pretty is this:

Tights are not pants, girls. I don't care how shapely your legs. Stockings, tights, undergarments - they go UNDER something. They are not worn with converse and a t-shirt. You look stupid and as a consequence I worry about the state of the world. Libya and the Middle East are what can only be politely referred to as pretty screwed, Japan is buried under rubble and sludge, rioters are trashing Fortnum and Masons while more polite protestors take to the Thames and the youth of today are leaving the house without pants. I'm not sure whether or not to be grateful for the fact they left their ugg boots at home but I'm nonetheless troubled by these developments. All of them. If only the Libyans had to put trousers on to solve their problems. How happy would the world be then?

This weekend, me, LB and our trousers decided to celebrate the tentative turn in weather with a picnic in Kew Gardens. After a detour through Barnes Farmers Markets for tallegio, pesto, custard tarts and all other kinds of delicious goodness, we took ourselves to the gardens for some idling through the flora. It was so lovely, despite the overhanging threat of rain and the daffodils, magnolias, azaleas and cherry blossoms were just exquisite. As was the chocolate we bought at the gift shop on the way out.

It was what can generally be referred to as A Good Day. We'd had dinner with Tors and the Hungry One on Friday night - sloshes of wine and sparkling conversation and this afternoon we met in Leicester Square for coffee and a film. I think the maintenance of Life Outside Work is going to be critical to the enjoyment of work and LBB and I have already booked in a date with a pizza in Brixton next Saturday at the recommendation of a certain food queen. I'm already hungry thinking about it.

I'm not sure what this week will entail but it's sure to be busy. Bring it on. All that's missing is 10 more degrees and a skirts and sandals montage.

Bruised feet, bridal magazines and a girl crush

Today was the first day of full-time employment and it went quickly and, you know what, actually rather pleasantly. Last week was my final nannying hurrah with three small but charming Aussie kids - same nationality, same school, different family - and lovely though they are I will not miss ham sandwiches, swimming lessons, tennis lessons or spelling tests. I suspect I will miss starting work at 3pm but you can't have it all.

Tripping and skipping

While the world seems to be going to hell in a really ugly hand basket life in my little London bubble has been washed freshly clean with a healthy dose of gratitude.

It's been a satisfying kind of week. Work is going really well, though I'm still struggling to accept the reality of my new situation. A month ago and I was ready to admit defeat, suck up the next six months doing all kinds of retail hell and then head back to Sydney with the need for A New Plan. And now, well I'm going to meetings at the Royal Academy and, this week, to New Bond St for a meeting with the head of press and marketing for Louis Vuitton to talk about art and education and websites and creative opportunities. It is a total trip. Intellectually and, so it is too proving, practically. Peckham is not a fun place to get to from Hammersmith every day - in fact it sort of sucks, but this last week getting home each night at 7.30 has meant LB has had dinner ready and waiting on the table for me. A sure fire stem to my exhausted tears and a wealth of brownie points for him.

On Thursday I stayed late to finish up some work and to check out the event the SLG's young people's group had organised - a video exhibition and Q&A with the main gallery artists. It was so fabulous - the enthusiasm, the professionalism - they even ran a bar offering a bevy of non-alcoholic cocktails. It was pretty fucking cool. And then on my way home I decided to play bus lottery - ie. get on the first one that comes along going vaguely in the direction I need it to and see where I end up. On Thursday I found myself winding through some fairly unappetising parts of south London before crossing Westminster Bridge and travelling up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. I still get a kick out of the incidental history and architectural majesty that living and travelling through London offers. Which is lucky, as three hours of door to door travel every day is going to get dull very, very, soon. Or, like, yesterday.

This weekend has been lovely - in large part because yesterday was gloriously sunny. Spring is set to do just that at any moment now. The blossoms are getting their pink on and the magnolia trees, my favourite, are a whisper from exploding. I cannot wait. Yesterday I went to Notting Hill to meet my dear friend Nina, a fellow bride-to-be, and we enjoyed an extensive word vomit over flowers and table settings and dresses and ceremony plans while sitting in the sun eating cheese and drinking carrot and ginger juice at Daylesford Organic on Westbourne Grove. So civilised. I've already earmarked it as a place to take Mum next time she's in London. She might have to BYO sun though if Spring doesn't hurry up and get here.

And then last night I took LB out for dinner to celebrate my first pay cheque at our favourite Spanish restaurant, El Pirata in Mayfair. This was the same place where LB cupcake bombed me for my birthday.

Oh my GOD it feels good to be employed and to be able to do things like pay for dinner! The world suddenly feels full of possibility and conquerable even and my gratitude for the support of Lovely Boy, the Best Parentals and all my friends while despondency and quiet pessimism have been my accessories du jour over the last few months, god, let's call it a year, well it's bursting like the blossoms.

Exhaustion thy name is Full Time Work

I am zonked. I should be in bed right now and know I will regret it in the morning but I've just finished up the last of my NPG work and LB is cooking us a late light dinner while I fight the urge to rest my head on the keyboard.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new pair of shoes

I think today has been what people refer to as A Very Good Day. My first day of work at South London Gallery began with some auspicious advice courtesy of Oval tube station:

It was a fairly apt piece of advice given the day I was set to have which was one part fabulous, one part hugely enjoyable, one part enormously promising and five parts overwhelming. They weren't joking when they said I would be leaping in from day one but apart from a small moment of panic threatening to manifest itself as quiet tears I was so into the day and may have resisted the urge to skip with excitement when I left this afternoon. I love the people I'm going to be working with, I'm excited about the challenges to come (which will probably be tomorrow...) and I feel I acquitted myself reasonably well in the face of what was a massive information dump and an expectation of immediate competency.

Things seem to be coming together and I'm not even going to be snotty about it and say "at last".

Last week was a lot of fun, after the interviews and tests and offer of The Job. There was champagne with girlfriend Jen on Tuesday and a charcuterie board to drool over at Fernandez and Wells in Soho with Tors on Thursday. This was before we took in a so-bad-it-was-excellent movie and consequently made the Ashton Kutcher-inspired decision to host a Razziefest, as well as an Oscarfest, next year. And then on Friday, LB and I had a date with some posh bar food at St John's in Smithfield and some joyous Australian theatre at the Barbican courtesy of the Belvoir's touring production of The Sapphires. Seriously, nothing says happy like Motown.

Before my rendezvous with the Lovely Boy I had a rendezvous with the Lovely Selfridges where I may have done some pre-job purchasing of new shoes and trousers. So Good. Oh I've missed shopping. sigh... Seriously, nothing says happy like a bright yellow shopping bag.

This afternoon I went to the NPG for a meeting and farewell afternoon tea for my lovely editor - a chance, I figured, to have a relaxed conversation with the Managing Editor and the Head of Publications and impress upon them my commitment, my enthusiasm and my so burning it almost needs an ointment desire to see this bloody book published. Boy am I glad I went. Just before leaving my lovely editor gave me something of a parting gift - namely a contract guaranteeing my name in print with all due credit and details of PAYMENT to be made to me in thanks.

It turns out 50,000 words is not an insignificant contribution.

It's not a huge sum of money in the grand scheme of things, but I am beyond happy about it and feel not so much flattered or grateful as honoured really, as strange as that sounds, that the value of my work and efforts have been recognised. I mean, I'm not an idiot, I know the no doubt impending sticky issue of copyright probably had something to do with it but I am so happy and shocked that I don't even care. I'm even happy to wrangle my way through the self-employed tax return nightmare that being paid will no doubt involve.

It has been A Very Good Day. Surprising, satisfying, inspiring, promising. And it's only Monday. God only knows what Tuesday will bring.

A little thing called a job

I don't really think anything less than an excess of exclamation marks can come remotely close to conveying the dizzying enormity that is the offer of full-time employment in a role that comes VERY close to ticking all the boxes of My Dream Job. We're talking contemporary art, museum education, writing, fuck off massive brilliant challenges, five of the best art institutions in London-nay-the-World and PAID. Yes, paid.

flowers of congratulations from the ever lovely LBB

A purple letter kind of day

I know you can have a red letter day, I'm assuming by right of reply you can then also have a blue letter day... but throw the two together and my question is this: have I just had a purple letter day? A splash of blue, a hint of red and we come out somewhere in the middle?

The day did not start well. After a you-really-should-know-better telling off by my hairdresser last week that I should only wash my hair every other day this morning began with a shake of my not so shiny swishy hair and a brief moment of thanks for the Pantene stocks I never invested in, what with their now significant drop in value... Anyway, the half hour I should have saved from faffing with my hair was wasted on trying to find clothing that would see me through eight respectable hours at the gallery and five rather grotty, beer stained hours at the bar. Basically, I left the house feeling frumpy, grumpy, sans good hair and late.

A looooong weekend

So I survived nannying - and so did the children. For a long weekend at the beginning of Spring I don't think any of us appreciated the pouring rain, the gale force winds or the hail but god has mercy - and these days it's called Nintendo.

By the time I got home on Monday afternoon it was all I could do to roll cadaverously off the sofa (freshly built) to eat the delicious meal LB had cooked for me, a mouth-watering Thai beef salad no less. It marked the end of an interesting couple of days, culinarily speaking. The long weekend was all about toasted sandwiches, burritos and packet cake mixes... an insulting low after Friday's personal triumph in the kitchen.

Cake aside, yes I really did bake one, I was mindlessly flicking through Bill Granger's Sydney Food cook book when I struck upon a ricotta and tomato tart and, perhaps deluded after all the Masterchef that LB has been making me watch lately, decided that making puff pastry from scratch couldn't be that hard...

And it wasn't.

Granted it was messy and absolutely it was more cal than low but honestly, there was puff to my pastry AND, more importantlyslashsurprisingly, it was delicious. My eyes were like saucers at the shock and even now I catch myself saying quietly to no-one in particular, "I made puff pastry. From scratch. And it was delicious." Or rather... "And it was delicious??" with that slightly raised intonation that suggests shock and utter disbelief. So to make packet mix brownies 12 hours later was a rather depressing come down as you might imagine, irrespective of their compelling edibility (ed: is that even a word?). My new theory is, if you're going to O.D. on calories, you have to at least earn the right to do so by making the bloody thing yourself. This theory obviously applies to everything except Snickers bars.

Not much else happened over the weekend and yesterday I was at the gallery before heading to the bar. A long day by anyone's definition but I didn't really mind. LB told me I should get a 9 to 5 job and I told him it wasn't the 9 to 5 I objected to so much as the Monday to Friday. Give me crap wages and long shifts any day as long as I can have the mornings to myself to sit on the sofa and write.

Coming home from the bar around 12.30, I was walking down the street when I spotted a fox, tearing through the rubbish bags in search of food. I stopped and tried to take a photo of him and as I did he stopped at looked at me, as if to say, rather indignantly, do you mind? But my crap camera failed to catch him in the darkness and so all I ended up with was this:

Best not give up any one of my day jobs just yet...

Jeggings and visas and other such adventures

It's been an exhausting week. Also, a distracting week, a sad week, an anxious week and a quasi-productive week. And there is still the weekend to come.

To show for my week: an art review on my new website (yet to be revealed until all the bows and ribbons are c'est fini), a blood blister on my thumb (staple gun mishap at work, overzealous on the moss decoration. Long story), a new visa in my passport (no more waiting on that front and no need for a shotgun wedding [though thank you LB for the generous and tempting offer]), a plan to fly home to see my Nan next month and, of all the things I never thought this week would throw at me... an encounter with a pair of jeggings in the fitting room at work.

Now, anybody that knows me knows that apart from ugg boots worn as outside shoes the greatest fashion crime being committed today is jeggings. Jeans and leggings: ne'er the two should meet. They are wrong, they are ugly, they are just plain stupid. Seriously. Aaaaanyway, today at work we had a try-on session, working under the not silly assumption that if you know how the clothes fit you're all the better equipped to sell them. So far, so good until I walked into my allotted changing room to see my enemy hanging there, elasticised waist and all. On one level I rationed, maybe it was like smoking, you know, you smoke one cigarette once in your life, for curiosity's sake if nothing else just so you know what you're not missing out on.

But here's the thing, I've never once been tempted to smoke a cigarette and frankly I would argue that jeggings are just as bad for you, if not worse. I don't care how skinny they made me look... It certainly wasn't how I envisioned the week ending but it's marginally better than in tears I suppose. Just. Maybe.

LB and I are off to the V&A tomorrow afternoon to see the much hyped decode exhibition, which should be great fun, and then to a friend's birthday party tomorrow night. I look and feel totally bedraggled right now though - dark circles under my eyes and a strange and not-going-anywhere-fast collection of dyes and paints under my finger nails thanks to a fun few days at work helping the visual team set up the store (see previous tale re: moss and staple gun). I just want to sleep for a weekend.

This time next week Mum AND Sophie will be here and it can't come fast enough. I am in serious need of some mother-sister love and can't wait to see them. xx

Pet peeve #174

I fucking hate it when interfering nobodies volunteer advice to "Cheer up" from across the street.

a) Who the hell asked you?

And

b) My grandmother has just been diagnosed with advanced cancer of the liver and pancreas and in all likelihood I might not get the chance to see her again.

So YOU fucking cheer up. Jerk.

Sunshine on a rainy day

It's been a red letter week. I am earnestly exhausted after two full days of honest toil at my new retail job on the Kings Rd and now, after a fretful week of waiting, am delighted, ecstatic, overjoyed, optimistic and RELIEVED to have been offered the role at the National Portrait Gallery.

Ex.hale.

It is miserably cold and I am bone weary after a long week and a longer weekend but buoyed by the blue skies and a whisper of, well, promise.

A week ago you could have had me committed. And the straw that finally broke the camel's already laden back? Not having the right pair of shoes to wear. I think it was particularly confusing for LB to witness my meltdown and the apparent lack of a genuine reason for it but I was done. All toys were chucked from the perennial pram of my life and nothing, save three double vodkas, could fix it - my life or my lack of shoe.

Optimism

Not something I generally deal in but if the blooms can push on through, despite the rain and the sleet and the ear-biting cold, well, maybe I should give it a crack?

It's been a bumpy couple of weeks but I feel like things are slowly on the up. LB and I celebrated our one year anniversary nearly two weeks ago and went for a mouth-watering Spanish meal on Great Portland Street to mark the occasion. LB broke the no presents rule but it's hard to feign fury when presented with sparkling baubles so I somewhat promptly forgave him. And fell just a little bit more in love with him when I read his card. Thanks to a dash of creativity with his gin and tonic, LB penned me a poem, inspired by our very first dinner date. It was lovely and thoughtful and hilarious and at points, it even rhymed. Spoilt I am.

And the Oscar goes to...

I often wonder about the almost rans, particularly at an ego-fest like the Oscars. There are no Oscar de la Renta gowns (and thankfully no Ryan Seacrest) when it comes to post-graduate study results but the psychology is all there... The gracious pre-defeat talk - it's all about the experience, I've learned so much, such and such deserves the accolade more. All of which is total bullshit because underneath all that pre-emptive protective self-deprecating bollocks lies naked fear. Fear of failure, humiliation, disappointment - and beneath all of that, perilously protected from the winds of defeat, lies a small, pathetic, naked flame of hope.

Or maybe that's just me.

I discovered some time ago that being a perfectionist means regularly smacking your forehead on the bar you raised too high. So I wanted to be brilliant, so I'm not exactly and cruelly the world continues spinning unperturbed on its axis. The problem is, I didn't exactly fail - I just failed myself. A final grade of 70 for my MA - a distinction no less - but 68 for my dissertation (and blood and sweat and tears and the last wrung vestiges of my intellect). Not a bad mark I suppose and I should focus on the final grade - but because I'm two marks short of a distinction for my dissertation I don't get my MA with Distinction. It's like being nominated for the Best Actresss Award and then not being invited to the Vanity Fair after party.

Or maybe that's just me.

Disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow and right now I'm kind of choking on it. But at least I'm accessorising my gloomy mood with the weather. It's 4 degrees here and has just started to hail. It's too cold even for snow, which let me tell you, is cold.

When I'm not sitting on the radiator heating my bones I've been finishing off my visa application, which is now out of my hands, and looking for casual work. I'm starting to nanny again this afternoon for my favourite Australian family in Barnes and have an interview tomorrow for a casual job as a retail whore. Fingers loosely crossed I suppose.

I need to go and turn the heating up. My chattering teeth are starting to make my fillings hurt.

Busy is over-rated.

It's a terrible thing to wish a week away but staring down two full days of nannying, an all day group tutorial, a new job and two nights at the bar and realising diddly squat was going to be accomplished on the research front, well I really had no other option. Because I'm still resisting my former ways of chocolate as a coping mechanism.

A new 'hood and a new home

I never thought it would happen but here I sit, sun on my back, stealing internet from the apartment above and thoroughly enjoying my new surrounds - post-essay, post-review, post-presentation. Sigh.

It hasn't yet been a week but already I am smitten with my new part of the world. Columbia Rd, I have decided, is my most favourite part of London (yes yes I have yet to fully explore all of London yarda yarda yarda) BUT - to be three minutes walk - if that - from this charming, quirky corner of the world, home to the flower markets and cool pubs and cute cafes and kooky shops, well I couldn't be more delighted. Three minutes to weekend flower purchases, 10 minutes to Brick Lane, 15 minutes to Broadway Market and its organic food stalls. Heaven.

Meerkats and pink elephants

I have been a rubbish writer of late and I'm only vaguely sure why - the usual excuses of procrastination, distraction and ambivalence are as shaky as my hands after an excessive night of drinking cocktails and passing out instead of sleeping... but I'll get to that. I think what's happened is I've reached a curious sort of existential crossroad in this whole writing about my life in a public forum lark. Here's my question: When does writing too much, being too explicit, getting too personal just get weird? Never mind slightly compromising...

I've always tried to write honestly, though with an at-times inconvenient conscience that tells me (scarily enough in a voice reminiscent of my grandmother....) that if I can't say anything nice then I shouldn't say anything at all...

Jo can't believe it's been so long since she last wrote

Jo was unable to write on her blog last week because she spent five days nannying precocious teenagers in posh parts of London.

Jo is incidentally £600 richer and so relieved she's no longer 15.

Jo also hasn't been able to write because it's been hard to find something pithy - never mind appropriate - to say about a seriously depressed flatmate.

Jo has felt hysterical lately about her lack of handle on all things university but is so relieved that her hours of pointless stress about a rubbish presentation weren't for nothing. She learnt how to insert video into a powerpoint presentation...

Jo started a new job behind the bar at a cute theatre in Blackfriars last week and despite a fleeting moment of sheer fucking terror in the first two minutes of the interval, actually rather enjoyed herself.

Jo has begun to think that maybe London isn't so mean and awful. She does though still think it's expensive and dirty.

Jo knows she's been living in London for a while when 11 degrees feels genuinely balmy.

Jo wishes she would stop arranging her thoughts as facebook status updates.