The long and even longer of it

A lesser Alice once sang:
school's out forever.

It's back to school folks, only that it isn't. Not anymore. I am done. The agony of the first day shall no longer hover over me - not in academic terms at least.

Before you ask for the details of my psychotherapist, I have not, in fact, found a solution to the age-old phenomenon of the first-day-anxiety, or indeed, the first-week-anxiety. I have just left education. Full stop.

The relief I am not feeling perfectly reflects the bouts of knowledge that I am not getting from a year of postgraduating my way through London: all I get is the waft of expired meat from the cornershop. It summarises what has been going on this last year, and unfortunately, there is no health and safety committee running to the rescue. If you are traveling to the Strand take some smelling salts with you  - the rot is unbearable.

There were happy times though (rummaging through archives), and it is strange to see familiar names and faces spread all over the world again, right through to the edges, like the most accurately garnished Nutella Bagel you have ever had. The back-to-school feeling is met with the feeling of losing irreplaceable friends, who remain on the same planet, but are in another galaxy. Life goes on, and that's the long and even longer of it, irrevocably, sadly, and with much anticipation of the things that are going to happen, because they will. A stand-still is not an option (as much as I would love to hang around in this moment for quite a bit, just enough to let everything settle) I run, just like everybody else, with the times, and against time. Lucky us. Poor us.

Go to Notes in Covent Garden. They are a
hipster, independent, relaxed café with
excellent nibbles, coffee and wines!

 While I am sitting here, over iced coffee and iced olives (pretentious idiot that I am), different lives happen. Lives that were once united in their hate against a prestigious (cough) university on the north side of the river, and that are now scattered around the globe as in a gigantic Monopoly game. As I have only ever played the Belgian version from the 1950s, I have no idea what the modern day equivalent of all the boulevards and rues is, but I imagine that some people will end up with four hotels in the Rue Neuve, while others constantly hop between Gare du Nord and Gare du Midi, and even others are happy to avoid the Caisse de Communauté. I have always preferred 'Spiel des Lebens' (LIFE for all Anglophones), because you had a car at your disposition, and there was this wheel in the middle that was slightly more arbitrary than the cards in Monopoly. As opposed to Monopoly, you could marry (though only into the opposite sex - might have to be revised now), and there was a sense of philanthropic accomplishment, in addition to all the money. Weird - me talking about philanthropy.

Isn't this the BEST loo in
London/the world??

So, I resume where I left it about a year ago. With it, I sort of mean my life, plans, etc., when friends re-scattered across the world, and life just continued, completely oblivious to all the details. I, however, am very attentive to all the details in this (my) life, and here is a bit of visual trivia (see picture). A textual analysis shows a water closet, white suite with a neon orange lid. In the background we see white tiles with black drawings. It is the loo at 157 Brick Lane, my local watering hole. As a person who rates places by the standard of their facilities, including hand soap and scent, I appreciate the effort these guys put into this award-worthy loo. Their coffee isn't too bad either.

The weather is now turning from soppy grey Summer-plagiat to Indian Summer. As always when things are shifting. With a bit of luck they shift in the right direction. If not, I'll still have the loo.

Job Search: Midnight Mayhem

If you are a passionate accountant, this might work.

Twenty minutes ago I thought it a rather decent idea to send the below email to a potential employer. I would like to emphasise that I am not drunk, and do not intend to get drunk, even though I have every reason to do so. (Please note that the addressee has been blacked out, as I am still a bit embarrassed, and God knows they might offer me a job)




'A Clouded Morning XXXXXX Team!


For it will be a clouded morning when this email reaches you, I checked the weather, the rain only starts mid-afternoonish.
I - currently unemployed, with too much creative energy - am looking for a job to keep me from writing email opening lines such as the above. I read that you are looking for individuals with sparkling personalities to join your team, and I am confident that I am such a person (think RPatz in Twilight for sparkling equivalent).


Other than in sparkling, I am proficient in 'out-of-the-box'-thinking, I have a passion for grammar, and I look extremely good in a hat (for reference see the hat picture attached to my CV). Pretty soon, I will also be the proud holder of an MA in Cultural and Creative Industries, which means that there is some substance under the hat too. Over the course of the last year, I busied myself taking courses on Fashion and Society, Visual Culture, and working as a XXXX at the XXXXXX (just round the corner), where I have picked up one or the other party trick in marketing, customer services and event organisation. I am far from being the perfect Renaissance woman, though, and this is where you come in: I need a place to start a stellar career in Marketing. So, if there is an opportunity in your office for a brilliant (yes - in addition to sparkling!), determined, and inspired postgraduate, I would be more than happy to accept. What I have been thinking about (fantasising, really) is a paid Intern/Assistant position, where I would have room for growth in my ambitions, as well as headroom to wear outrageous hats.


If you think that the person writing such a weird email at midnight could be the ideal addition to you team, please get in touch. I live around the corner and could come in for an interview at a moment's notice.


I spare you the boring end of all cover emails.



My best wishes,'


The world's biggest twat. 



I am not sure whether it is the copious amount of antibiotics I am consuming presently that has lead me to send this piece of pretentious muck, or whether it is just my true twat-nature shining through. The company will forthwith delete all their contact addresses from the website, and return to the good old Royal Mail for all their communication. Because of people like me. Self-important idiots like me, who think that their midnight scribbles will make tuppence of a difference to the lives of professional creatives, who probably won't even read beyond the second line. But how, how do I know? With all the applications I have written, I might as well apply for the post of Prime Minister (memo to myself, check with No. 10 website if there is a vacancy), and feign interest for politics and people and shit. Like, totally my thing, right, people and stuff.

I would make an impeccable circus tent designer.

I am aware that this is me on repeat, yesterday's re-run, available on iPlayer - forever. I have seven different versions of my CV saved to my desktop, and counting, including a semi-fictional version for very special occasions (say, the application for a Time Lord position, or an internship with Ray Bradbury). I have even made an Excel sheet about myself that I have then turned into a 3D pie chart. Pathetic. Nobody cares, do they?
 It is hard to say, since most replies I receive are generic HR answers, 'Dear Please Insert Here, we regret to inform you that on this occasion, you just sucked and we're like soooo not gonna hire you, because nobody here gives a shit about your experience, because we can't stand you anyway. But do keep an eye out for further vacancies. Regards, HR Copy Paste Template'.


Anyone for dessert? 

(again I accidentally tagged Tom Hiddleston, so he has to get a mention too)

Why lasting cannot last in a week of everyday lasts

I am in the final round of my education. Tomorrow, or today (1.39 am) I commence what will be the last week of proper school days in my life. And I couldn't be less interested.

So over to more exciting things: I have finished THE present and it sits here next to me, wrapped in brown paper, in its full glory, waiting to be shipped and delivered come the end of the week. I feel the pain a mother feels to see her child leave the nest. I put my whole heart into that parcel, and I hope the charming notifications on the outside will encourage the postman to handle it with extra special über-care. I have an intuition that he or she won't, but by then, I no longer hold any control over it. 

Also, I finish work, which is a bit more sad than finishing school, because I really like work. I think I have written about it before. I even had to capitalise it. I will attempt to drown my sorrow in carrot cake: I find that a good measure of sugar always helps overcoming the lasting feeling of interrupted routines. I think I might have written about that, too. 

Camilla I Regina

A lot more exciting is the run-up to Thursday's school event/do, which involves even more sugar, and possibly, a lot of high percentage beverages. It is of course a fancy dress evening (my insistence), and the theme is rather royal. I hope to impress with this charming hat (picture), a blonde flick-wig, and a navy blue dress. I am Camilla I, Queen of England (what else?). I even learned how to smile like her. The rather angelic touch of the picture is due to recently uncovered/discovered photoshopping skills on my behalf, so that now every single image that leaves the Fruit is digitally altered. Bliss.

I won't lie here, you, dear non-existent reader, have probably seen better. You will, of course. But remember the blood, sweat and tears that have contributed to this charming image, and you will award me an Oscar. Or the equivalent for photoshoppers. I really like my costume, the hat is very Edwardian, quite heavy, and will leave me with an irreparable neck damage for the rest of my life, but it's soooo worth it. 

Shallow, you say, non-existent reader? Bah, humbug, that's an Ascot-neck for you. Speaking of Edwardian, I just saw Julian Fellowes' latest effort, Titanic, in an ITV mini-budget, mini-series version. Mini-pleasure. 2 minutes into the program and I KNEW that I wouldn't like it, let alone follow it with the same attention to detail (that is obsession to me and you) that I follow Sherlock with. No, 2 minutes in, and I have not only a massive déjà-vu, I have a bad déjà-vu. While I won't even go into the accuracy debate - I am no authority, but those clothes seem a little too starchy on the stoker - the plot is borrowed from Titanic, the movie, and Downton Abbey, the not-yet-movie. But, haha, it's not just borrowed, it's a bad copy: the story of Jack and Rose, A and B, is retold with a different set of A and B in a slightly different version of the story. In fact, I suspect that one of Fellowes' mates saw the original movie and then, via Chinese whispers, got the message to Fellowes, who re-told the story is an awkwardly upper-class way. Today is the last I have seen of this monstrosity. 

Portraying the servants, yet keeping that distant gaze is what one does, isn't it? It's nice to see that they are there, but that's it. Those filthy creatures are not to venture into the dining room. Let alone the drawing room. Prime example: that French mistress we all know not to be married to that bloke she's with. No, she's married to Mark Ronson, everybody knows that. Uuuuhuuuhh, they are together but not married. Does such a thing exist? Not in Fellowes' world - I very much doubt it. In the land of country houses and posh toffs in morning gowns, people are either married or dead. There is no in-between, Unless you are a man in possession of a good fortune much in need of a wife. Then you may spend a glorious 95 minutes on screen, chasing Keira Knightley (or somebody equally costume drama-ish), without being married to her. You may consider proposing once or twice, in the rain, in a shed, under a table; but never, never for the love of god let that plonker Collins get her. We all know why.

Reviewing the comedy that is 'Online Job Applications' - a new play by Samuel Beckett

My last post made me think about the arbitrariness of reviews and critiques you read wherever you go. Even if you're not going, but reading the Evening Standard on the tube. Can an opera about a musical survive the critical assessment of the harsh ES critics: I say yes. If they write it pre-release. Which is where my ingenious idea comes in: what we need to do is pitch them ideas and concepts, infiltrate their brains before they have seen a single act, show them ridiculous drawings of costumes, props and sets and make them believe it's the greatest show this planet has ever seen - it's called marketing.

Chris Bracey via Daniel Poole in Redchurch Street

Right, now apart from stating the obvious, another week has passed without progress - in any way. I am contemplating my mother's default way out: getting married. Even in times of great despair, lodged between historical chronics and aspiring lawyers in the library, I would not concede to getting hitched. Unless one of the pre-lawyers obliges. Yes, the bleak days of dissertation writing are descending upon me in their dreariest, most boring outfit. Stats of the past two days: cake, two film rentals, no shower, library, youtube. And that is just the prequel. Wait for the methodology chapter - the most futile chapter in every dissertation where you present, not what is interesting or important, but how you got to the bits of information that you can't write about because you need the word count to write about how you found it out. It drives me crazy. I don't even want to find our anything anymore.
What I am doing now is watching The First Knight on BBC, with Richard Gere and Sean Connery, both of whom have appalling British accents. And having one of the quarter-yearly life admin sessions, where I am going through piles of Excel sheets all labelled 'my life', to find that my accountant abandoned me ages ago. Ok, sooooo, back to BBC.

(The protagonist turns to the audience. She is wearing an old t-shirt; in the background we hear some of the dialogue of The First Knight)

I would want to complain at this point, so I do, unless ITV rolls the credits midway through my speech, or Audi drives their latest steel monster into the frame. On the subject of: job seeking. You should know, dear audience, I LOVE to work. In fact I love working so much, I had to capitalise it. The only problem between me and my love for work at the moment are these awful online applications, awkwardly formatted PDF documents and descriptions over descriptions of coffee-mate positions advertised cunningly as 'assistant' or 'junior so and so'. And it's not even the case that I don't like writing an application, because I like writing about myself. It's the writing part that these generic application forms get wrong. They don't want a cover letter where I can express myself in a clear grammar, with illustrations of my working life - no, they want Twitteresque joke-elaborations of no more than 28 1/2 characters about me, my previous jobs, my aspirations and my references. These applications are processed by a computer tracing keywords and eliminating everybody who writes without using those. It reminds me strongly of my old Biology class, where points where gained if certain words appeared in the text of your answer. Needless to say, I nearly failed the class. I am just not very good at using standardised, formulaic prose to express myself about....myself. So, I probably fail to get a job. Despite one and a half degree, some half decent work experience and a serious need for money.
Every time I start one of the online applications now, I feel like crying, because I know that the same questions will litter the way to the final, relieving sentence: 'Thank you for submitting your application. We will be in touch shortly'. Well, who is we? He? Who is that 'we' who tells me time and time again that they will be in touch with me and really, they never are?

(Curtain. No re-entrance of the protagonist. The audience is violently pushed out of the theatre)

Metro: 29th February 2013

Samuel Beckett, the author of 'Online Job Applications' strikes again. The play is a masterpiece on the confusing nature of the digitalised world of the current employment market and its weaknesses. He manages to highlight the unnatural relationship between employment seeker and computer, and the attentive critic spots technological determinism as a recurring motive and background of the play. The jobseeker, played brilliantly by a job seeking unknown, manages to convey real despair and confusion in the tradition of Beckett's plays. One does recognise elements of 'En Attendant Godot' and 'Molloy' in the character, but it is the first time that Beckett focusses on a female lead in search of an unknown, unreachable goal. The confusing nature of the online system, played by an exquisite Bill Nighy, fills the audience with doubts about their own careers, and it is not by any chance that Beckett included into the stage directions the presence of a psychologist and a motivation trainer. We feel that this is not the last we have seen of the anonymous jobseeker; we hope that Beckett will again use this character in a series of plays or novels, and built up on the confusion we experienced in this first encounter with the jobseeker.
It is an honour to see this play.

(Curtain again, a second one. Enter Beckett, in knickerbockers. He remains silent)