How to have a giggle and be a bit naughty at a wedding

I love weddings. Free booze, free food, everyone's happy (well, after the speeches are over) and you get to admire a lot of nice shoes. Such occasions do, however, invariably include a certain amount of hanging around, waiting for the bride to appear after being papped for the millionth time or metamorphosing into "Evening Bride", waiting for the speeches to be over, etc.

Anyway, it is at these junctures that you can indulge in what I like to refer to as 'fake careering'. The clue is in the name.

This is an especially fun pursuit if you hate your job (or indeed, wish you had one). Some people might call it lying. I prefer to think of it as creative research and an excellent tool of self-amusement.

To illustrate: More often than not, the seating plan will reveal you have been placed between two complete strangers, and it is very unlikely your paths will cross ever again. The champers is flowing and before you know it you're a make-up artist to the cast of Madame Butterfly at London's Coliseum theatre.

This is exactly what happened to me last Saturday at a friend's wedding where I knew precisely 1% of the other guests.

But I didn't stay a make-up artist all night - mais non! During the course of the evening I was a midwife, a set designer and a bonsai tree surgeon. Granted, the latter was at the height of inebriation, and whether the guy I was harping on to believed me, I doubt it, but at least it was a tad more interesting than answering “I’m unemployed” to the “so what do you do?” opening gambit, which inevitably sparks furious chatter about the severity of the recession. And honestly, who wants to talk about that at a wedding?

Weddings are meant to be dreamy occasions, so I reckon using them for a bit of personal escapism is allowed.

NB: Practice caution if it is a small gathering, or if you know over 6% of the other guests.

Hang Loose

I have a confession to make. I have become a closet fan of Loose Women. Well, closet until now I guess. How did this come about?

As a student, my daytime TV ritual started with The Wright Stuff, incorporated Trisha and This Morning, and ended with the lunchtime edition of Neighbours. It categorically did not include Loose Women, which I frivolously wrote off as a bunch of past it personalities moaning about the early onset of menopause and talking in cringe-worthy fashion about sex. No ta.

Imagine my astonishment when I tuned in – by accident – a few weeks ago only to see a glamorous new presenter, find myself laughing at Coleen Nolan’s jokes, and see that Carol-mayor of moansville-McGiffan had gone blond and bagged a toy boy! I was even giggling at the cheeky Malteser ads that appear before and after every break. When did all this happen?! I was hooked until the end of the show, and the next day a tiny bit annoyed when I saw it was 1pm and that I’d missed the first half hour.

I now make sure I have a really early breakfast so as to be sufficiently hungry to eat my lunch at 12:30pm whilst indulging in my daily dose of the loose ladies. And after shunning her for all these years, yesterday I was even disappointed to find that Carol wasn’t on the panel!

Maybe it’s because I’m older. Perhaps it’s because you let certain things into your life when you need them. Is it simply because they make me laugh or am I becoming a sad appreciator of daytime TV? Who knows? At least Wimbledon starts in two weeks and I can have a proper reason to turn on the TV in the middle of the day.

Will somebody please press play?

The blasted birthday. Just typical of it to have the audacity to fall right slap bang in the middle of my personal career crisis, now made all the more poignant by a new digit smirking away at me.

Why are we so hung up on age? Is it a female thing? Us being inherently programmed, thanks to our biological gift of bearing children, to constantly review where we’ve got to and whether we’ve ticked all the boxes on our life lists we made at the ripe age of 16.

I'm not too worried about not owning a house yet or being nowhere near walking down the isle. What I find hard is being in some kind of career limbo, and feeling like everyone else I know is whizzing past me on their respective career ladders while I stay rooted to the spot.

To illustrate: when I found out that former Apprentice candidate Deborah Barr is 23, I literally fell off the sofa. Whether it was the TV camera’s influence or not, she does look older, but regardless, to be so confident and to have arrived at such a point in her career that she was in the final three, incited in me pure panic. What have I done in the last four years? I ended up questioning my past decisions and doubting my ability to succeed as a journalist.

Admittedly, the Deborah debacle was short-lived, but what I can’t seem to shake off is this feeling that I’m on standby. That the recession has hit the pause button on my career and I’m incessantly fighting to get it back on play.

Make your commute work for you - an update

The bloomin loves at TFL know how to show they care, hey? A two-day opportunity to walk all the way into work, arrive refreshed and alert, and then make your way home either on foot or by buses so rammed you'll have lost half your body weight in sweat by the time you alight - what are the chances?! Thanks guys.

Make your commute work for you

Could it be possible that I miss my commute? Am I really pining for a bit of blatant elbow shoving and the suffocating heat of the underground?

Yes, actually. Why? Vanity is the simple answer. To clarify: Because it was a bloody effective (and my only) form of daily exercise, and I loathe to admit it but I may have gained several centimetres on my hips since the commute became a part of my former life.

I was a serious pro in commutersville. I had my journey planned down to the last second, which of course gave no time for error/customary delays and frequently saw me running to make the several connections required in order to arrive at work on time. Hence, a great work out.

Thinking about it, my commute offered every type of exercise a girl needs to maintain her figure.

Cardio: Running for bus, running from bus to train, running from station platform to tube, running from tube to office.

Resistance training: Maintaining perfect balance on said bus, train and tube, whilst simultaneously checking phone and reading book.

Working up a sweat: Northern Line. 8-9:30am.

Increased lung capacity: Holding breath on aforementioned line when faced with proximity to a large armpit.

Poise: Learning to stand a millimetre apart from all surrounding passengers but under no circumstances ever touching them.

Step and tone: Storming up and down escalators, barging those who dare to stand on the left out of the way as you go.

Weights: Heavy handbags/shopping bags ensure upper arms remain toned.

You could even take it a step further and introduce chin dips or pole dancing using the abundance of cylindrical shafts in the tube carriages. I wouldn’t recommend in rush hour but it’s something to consider.

So what are you waiting for? All you need to do now is set a PB, try to break it on every journey and watch the pounds disappear.

Don’t thank me, thank TFL.

mADness

I am losing all patience and rationality when it comes to job adverts. Can they not just get to the point? Here’s the problem. I’m a journalist - I’m used to skim reading to the fourth line of a press release and knowing if a story is contained within. Actually, I rarely have the self-discipline to read to the bottom of anything, which just adds to the frustration and anger that befalls me on reading a page of job ads. I will illustrate my displeasure using a recent example:

An ad for an editorial assistant role catches my eye. I can instantly see that the pay is good and the subject matter is interesting so I read on. Editing experience – tick, liasing with contributors – tick, working on journals – tick. I’m getting a flutter of excitement butterflies and start mentally drafting my covering letter when - bam! At the very end of the third paragraph, more than half way down the ad reads the line: “Knowledge of classical Arabic is essential.” Seriously, you didn’t think that could have appeared a tiny, weenie bit higher up?

And while we’re at it, here’s a crazy thought. Why not think out of the box a little and say what the job actually is? It would sure save us poor potential candidates a lot of time and energy finding out we didn’t want to work for you in the first place.

Take Foxton’s, for instance. A prime example of a job ad that tells you positively nothing, except that you get to parade around the city in a mini cooper – oh and that maybe it has something to do with surfing or extreme sports?

Perhaps they do it because the job itself is so utterly soul destroying that they’d rather you figure that out once you’re contracted into a three-month notice period.

Anyway, my point is please can job ads be a maximum of twenty words and include any middle-eastern language requirements in the first line. Thanks.

Rant over.

Wake up call

When I got the letter telling me I had to attend a ‘Back to Work’ session at the job centre I literally laughed out loud. Guffawed into my porridge. The very thought of sitting with a bunch of unskilled, lazy and let’s face it, probably grimy, people was, in my mind, entirely absurd. Without delay I called the office and explained in my most well-spoken manner that I really didn’t think there was any reason why I - a well-qualified graduate no less - needed to attend, and that I was quite alright searching for work on my own, many thanks all the same.

“It’s mandatory,” replied the voice. Ah, right then, better brace myself in that case.

I marched into the waiting area, praying that it would be a one-to-one so that I could quickly explain my situation and leave, only to be told gleefully by a ‘greeter’ that today’s was a group session. Great. I promptly dodged the camouflage-clad TA who were in situ trying to lure unsuspecting victims into a life of war games, and swiftly found a seat opposite a scruffy John Lennon look-alike. I could see the others out of the corner of my eye, all casually dressed, some sniffing into tissues – I almost had to ask for one, but managed to stifle the tears of humiliation.

When the session began I kept my head down and avoided all eye contact. It progressed well, just a bit of easy listening and stating of the obvious, nothing too taxing, over soon, I told myself.

Then a bombshell. The cheery women taking the session asked if anyone would like to share their work action plans with the rest of the group. Not one for sharing at the best of times, and certainly not under these circumstances, I kept schtum. “I’ll share,” piped up John Lennon. “Oh god this is going to be so depressing,” I inwardly moaned.

“I work in social care and I’m also an artist, so I’m looking for work within the voluntary sector. I’m currently volunteering for a charity and hopefully they will be able to give me some paid work soon. In my spare time I teach art to youth groups in the city.”

My head slowly rose so I could take a long look at this man. What did he just say? Before I could think anymore about it a second voice:

“I’ll go next,” said the guy sitting next to me, whom I’d written off as an out of work bouncer about 20 minutes ago. “I’m a gas engineer, so I lay new gas pipelines and do maintenance work on existing ones. I’m also a qualified builder, so my next plan is to contact the 2012 Olympic contractors to try and get some work on the site.”

Wow, I didn’t see that coming. “I’ll read,” hollered another man sitting at the end of the table. “I used to work in public procurement, but work has dried up of late, so now I’m looking to be a project manager in a related field. I’m still in touch with my old employers and they are helping me find work.”

I continued to hold my head up for the remainder of the hour.

The three men who were gracious enough to speak to the rest of us were qualified, articulate and humble. And I was surprised. Then ashamed.

Women of our time

Here’s something I realised the other day amid the daily panic and impending sense of despair that often takes hold around 10am – I figured out exactly which generation of women I am going to belong to when they write today’s history books.

You know, there were the suffragettes in the early 1900s to whom we owe our right to vote, the original ‘keep calm and carry on’ band of fearless females in the war-time 40s, the punk rockers who raged against the establishment and embraced mullets in the 80s, and now I know where I will fit into this historical female spectrum:

I will be a Recessionista!

I am a Recessionista. We, ladies, are all Recessionistas.

And so I declare to my friends and to all the 20-something good women of this country in the loudest voice I can muster via the written word: Even though you might be lucky enough to still have your jobs, we’re all going through this veritable wine drought, this time of consumer guilt and this period of waist belt tightening together. We stand and we unite at Stitch n Bitch, at the all-new Women’s Institute and on our Staycations. For one day in the not too distant future, we will be able to buy Kurt Geiger shoes again and feel the pinch on our feet rather than in our wallets, we will be able to increase our guilt-ridden carbon footprints on long-haul flights to salubrious destinations and we will also know how to knit, how to mend a broken drain pipe, how to bake banana cake and how to grow our own tomatoes.

We are the Recessionistas and we will rise again. More skilled this time, but with and equal if not heightened passion for shoes.

Shake it

Goddamnit. So the second-round interview I prepared my bloody arse off for this week will not, it has transpired, be leading to a window back into employment. For most people, such rejection tends to prompt a thorough post mortem of the entire interview to determine where might one have slipped up or what one could have phrased better, etc.

In my case, this is futile. I already know the exact moment - on entering the interview room and reaching across a table to greet my potential employer - that I wasn’t going to be offered the position. Why? I did the finger grab. The finger grab: a half handshake reserved, in my opinion, for the weak and pointless. OH MY GOD. How did this occur?

Having dissected the 0.3 seconds of aforementioned dexterous error, I have deduced that it was an unfortunate combination of a deceptively large table, the interviewers reluctance to reach too far for fear of his rather tight shirt popping out the top of his trousers and my lack of spatial awareness.

These are not excuses, you understand. Nothing can excuse a bad handshake. I interviewed an expert on the subject a couple of years ago who told me: “Even though a handshake is supposed to be a symbol of equality, one false move and it can turn into a battle for power and dominance.” Interviewers form vital opinions of you on your handshake. One false move and it’s history.

How a momentary action can hold such huge significance is somewhat angst inducing, but if you can recognise the potential areas for tripping up it’ll be much easier to avoid them in the future.

And now... for your comic and cringe-worthy pleasure, the pitfalls.

• The crusher: By being too aggressive you’ll come across as a bit of a dominatrix.



• The limp fish: Antithesis of above and equally disastrous as it conveys weakness and lack of personality.



• The wet one: Clammy palms suggest nervousness and are pretty unpleasant for the recipient.



• The over-eager: The only outcome of going overboard on the pumps will be someone’s sore right arm - not a wise move.



• The glove: Trying to appear overly trustworthy by placing the left hand over the top of the handshake wont wash. Normally reserved for politicians - you get the picture.



• The drifter: No eye contact makes you look indifferent and uninterested - avoid.

So what’s the magic formula? Be firm, but don’t grip, keep the angle neutral, check your palms are dry and always make eye contact - and an awareness of table width, I’m sure, wouldn’t hurt either.

Keeping it in the family

It’s not often I get out onto a motorway these days, which is generally a good thing. It's like being stuck in a monotonous, grey time warp from the moment you glide off the slip lane until you reach your exit junction. Alas, last weekend’s mini-break to the Forest of Dean required the use of a very long, boring stretch of highway, so for once there was no avoiding it.

Having exhausted our collection of CDs, I was about to nod off in the passenger seat when a colossal, blue articulated vehicle caught my eye. And not because of its gargantuan size or its proximity to our tiny Corsa, but because the name blazoned across its side read: BULL Transport.

Bull transport! If all else fails maybe they would hire me as a lorry driver! I mean, they couldn’t shun one of their own in her time of need, could they?

This prompted me to find out what other members of my extended family could potentially employ me. I found:

• Bull Public Relations, in Windsor – great, almost on my doorstep;


• Bull & Company Estate Agency, in St Ives – fractionally further a field but doable;


• Bull Information Systems, in Ireland – would have to move;


• Bull & Co intellectual property law firm – based in Norway, which is perhaps a little drastic.

But a multitude of possibilities! And if all else fails I suppose Red Bull could be my back up option...