Best of...
This week I's been mostly:
- Writing the London guide and realising what a different job it is to write about a place you live in - like London - and how overly relaxed one can get until one realises that the 'deadline fire' is too close to one's ass. Which has happened to me.
Why is it that deadlines can only be respected when they get too close for comfort? A bit like thugs, wouldn't you say? You're kind of aware of them, fear them just slightly, but you keep thinking that if you ignore them for long enough, they'll go away. But these deadline thugs just keep edging closer, until they are rubbing your face in the proverbial dust and you're going: "OK, OK, I'll never ignore you again! I promise!" And even though you really mean it at the time of saying it (with tears in your eyes), you know you're lying. Because you've done it before. And you'll do it again. Just as long as you're given the chance to work again.
I realised that my main pleasure lies in getting the gig. That moment, when they say: "Would you like to do such & such a thing..." I feel elated, victorious, exonerated (they have yet again recognised my genius), fabulous. A day later, I am feeling the deadline dread, and the cycle begins again. I have therefore decided that I am: a) shallow and superficial, and b) have a bizarre hunter's instinct, which means that the moment my pray is down, I am not interested.
- The gym lured me after 5 months of repelling me. I went to a class called 'Fat Attack' where an overly muscular lady hammered every single muscle in my body with techno music and exhuberant exercise. I was wiped. But kind of happy. Now even my neck muscles hurt. I don't remember my neck muscles ever letting me know they exist. My thighs are sort of numb and raw at the same time. I'm going back for more next week.
- I read about the Boots no7 anti-wrinkle cream and how people of all ages and genders went to queue at 5am to get some. Apparently Boots have had this cream forever, but a BBC programme had shown that it really works (science and all that), and suddenly Britain went bonkers and found themselves queuing at dawn for anti-wrinkle cream. Judging by the numbers, more people went to buy the cream than protest against the Iraq war. What's going on with old Blighty? Has everyone become consumer crazy? I think so.
- Tony Blair's gone. Let's see what Brown does.
- That's it. What about all of you? Come on, write to me about what you're all doing in your spare time. May this blog be your oyster (not of the London Underground description, though).
- Writing the London guide and realising what a different job it is to write about a place you live in - like London - and how overly relaxed one can get until one realises that the 'deadline fire' is too close to one's ass. Which has happened to me.
Why is it that deadlines can only be respected when they get too close for comfort? A bit like thugs, wouldn't you say? You're kind of aware of them, fear them just slightly, but you keep thinking that if you ignore them for long enough, they'll go away. But these deadline thugs just keep edging closer, until they are rubbing your face in the proverbial dust and you're going: "OK, OK, I'll never ignore you again! I promise!" And even though you really mean it at the time of saying it (with tears in your eyes), you know you're lying. Because you've done it before. And you'll do it again. Just as long as you're given the chance to work again.
I realised that my main pleasure lies in getting the gig. That moment, when they say: "Would you like to do such & such a thing..." I feel elated, victorious, exonerated (they have yet again recognised my genius), fabulous. A day later, I am feeling the deadline dread, and the cycle begins again. I have therefore decided that I am: a) shallow and superficial, and b) have a bizarre hunter's instinct, which means that the moment my pray is down, I am not interested.
- The gym lured me after 5 months of repelling me. I went to a class called 'Fat Attack' where an overly muscular lady hammered every single muscle in my body with techno music and exhuberant exercise. I was wiped. But kind of happy. Now even my neck muscles hurt. I don't remember my neck muscles ever letting me know they exist. My thighs are sort of numb and raw at the same time. I'm going back for more next week.
- I read about the Boots no7 anti-wrinkle cream and how people of all ages and genders went to queue at 5am to get some. Apparently Boots have had this cream forever, but a BBC programme had shown that it really works (science and all that), and suddenly Britain went bonkers and found themselves queuing at dawn for anti-wrinkle cream. Judging by the numbers, more people went to buy the cream than protest against the Iraq war. What's going on with old Blighty? Has everyone become consumer crazy? I think so.
- Tony Blair's gone. Let's see what Brown does.
- That's it. What about all of you? Come on, write to me about what you're all doing in your spare time. May this blog be your oyster (not of the London Underground description, though).
posted by Vesna at 9:02 AM
2 comments
