Friday 31st July

Today, I frank my last letter, transfer my last call, bugger up my last stationery order… you get it. I’m leaving.

I’m strangely sad to go. Kosher sandwich mishaps and workers’ revolt aside, I shall miss this place. I’ve already received two bunches of flowers, lots of good wishes and a compliment on my “smiley morning face”. Clearly, this lot aren’t familiar with “Diary of a DISGRUNTLED receptionist”.

Speaking of which, still haven't figured out what to rename this blog. Diary of a Tractor Journo? Diary of a Formerly Disgruntled Receptionist who is no longer a receptionist but still very much disgruntled"?

Answers on a postcard please...

Tuesday 28th July

5:51 pm

I’m shattered today. Spent half the night in a fitful sleep, my fidgeting eventually waking The Boyfriend at 4:30 am. He wasn’t cross at first. A recurring nightmare involving killer shrimp has made him incredibly tolerant of bad dreams. He reached in for a comforting hug.

I dreamt that I spent my very first Christmas away from home with his family. We had gotten married the previous year and it was my turn to go to his. I felt miserable because I missed my mum and her Christmas pudding and wanted to know if there was any way we could reach a compromise whereby we spend every Christmas with my family.

A disgusted snort as the consoling arm roughly returned to other side of the bed, firmly ended the discussion.

Yes, it is cruelly unfair to disturb one’s sleep over a dream about marital obligations but such concerns weigh heavily on my mind. I am a dreadful worrier. I never cease worrying, even when I’m in a carefree mood (then I worry about the inevitable end of my high).

Take last Saturday. It was a glorious summer’s day and The Boyfriend and I were en route to our local deli for our usual croissants and coffee.

I thought I had, the previous evening, exhausted my list of things to worry about that weekend:
“How do I get out of leaving drinks with work next week? Should I tell them I’m flying home that evening? But what if one of my colleagues should also happen to be catching a flight from Gatwick at the same time and offers me a lift? I’ll have to go to the airport and pretend to check in and I want to go see Harry Potter on Friday night.”

Climate change was also on the agenda but given The Boyfriend’s newfound love for Mother Earth, I had someone to share that particular burden.

On Saturday though, something else cropped up which filled me with dread- Birth. The pain, the aesthetic implications for my vagina, the wellbeing of the child in question. What if I’m forced to have a C section? Will this irrevocably disrupt the bond between mother and child? Will I ever be able to wear a bikini again?

For the record, I am not pregnant, nor planning on becoming pregnant any time soon, nor even engaged to be married. But should I accidentally become pregnant, birth will be a very real concern, a constant worry for nine whole months.

At times like these, I call upon my rudimentary knowledge of Yogic breathing. I am calm. I am zen-like. Life is good. Birth is life. I embrace birth. OOMMMMMMMM.

Friday 24th July

I’ve just bought a copy of “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. Recently, I’ve become obsessed with French women. You may find this surprising after my run-in with the boyfriend’s sister-in-law. We’ll call her Le Baguette from here on in. But let’s face it- anyone who makes her guests sit on the floor lest they sully her furniture, has balls.

There’s something remarkably self-assured about French birds. They exude self-control and refinement and I have decided I could do with a spot of refinement myself, certainly after my unchecked behaviour of late (Note to self: alternating champagne with shots of vodka at suburban garden parties is apparently not the done thing over here).

I shall keep you posted on my transformation from hefty miscreant to gamine Gallic goddess. After I’ve finished the Krispy Kreme one of the secretaries just handed me.

Thursday 23rd July

Last week, I feared for the continued existence of this diary. How can one write about life as a disgruntled receptionist when one is neither;
a) A receptionist nor,
b) Disgruntled?

Still, I’ve another week before I throw in the towel here so I’m technically still a receptionist. And, after a brief dalliance with ecstasy (of the non-chemical variety), I am now back to being firmly pissed off with the world.

Here is a list of things that piss me off:

Bus drivers
People eating your popcorn in the cinema when they’re too tight to buy their own
Stains down the toilet bowl- Use the bloody brush!
People who talk too much
People who talk too little
Negativity. I especially hate negativity.

Thought I’d feel better after making this list but clearly it was a pointless exercise. Like life, really.

5:32pm

I made a seating plan for my wedding today. Save your felicitations- it’s not for another three years. And I haven’t actually been proposed to yet. But there is a man on the scene and he has expressed an interest in settling down one day, albeit in a different time zone from me. But it doesn’t harm to be organised.

Limiting family and friends to 120 guests was easier than I thought. I took immense pleasure in crossing old enemies off the list, especially my boyfriend’s horrid French sister-in-law who made me sit of the floor the last time I was over at hers. All because I spilled a drop of red wine on her sofa EIGHT months prior to this. Bloody French and their impractical cream sofas. Someone needs to pull le baguette out of le arse.

Wednesday 22nd July

So my best friend Amy was made redundant last week. She’s thinking of taking off to South America for two months while she decides what she wants to do with her life. Why do some people have all the luck?

Don’t get me wrong. Last week I was thrilled with my shiny new career but now I’m wondering if the rat race is really for me. I’m a Cancerian, you see. Happiest when out on the open seas, being romanced by pirate kings and rustling up a love nest from nowt but a few coconuts on some remote desert island.

I feel as though I’m wasting my talents, languishing here in London. Though I have yet to work out what my talents actually are, I have always believed there is more to me than tractors and a fine pair of breasts.

Wednesday 22nd July

So my best friend Amy was made redundant last week. She’s thinking of taking off to South America for two months while she decides what she wants to do with her life. Why do some people have all the luck?

Don’t get me wrong. Last week I was thrilled with my shiny new career but now I’m wondering if the rat race is really for me. I’m a Cancerian, you see. Happiest when out on the open seas, being romanced by pirate kings and rustling up a love nest from nowt but a few coconuts on some remote desert island.

I feel as though I’m wasting my talents, languishing here in London. Though I have yet to work out what my talents actually are, I have always believed there is more to me than tractors and a fine pair of breasts.

11:31 am

Just got off the phone with a sales rep, looking to peddle his wares to one of the partners. He was from my part of the world and to be friendly (because that’s the kind of gal I am these days), I asked him what brought him to London.
“I’m here chasing the dream” he told me.
“How lovely,” I responded.
“Not really. I’m stuck in telesales and have no money. The dream sucks. You know how it is.”

I was going to point out that I actually have a fabulous new job and enough money to splash out on dinner at Cocoon this evening, so I don’t actually “know how it is” but the New Me decided this would be inappropriate.

Friday 17th July

Apologies for the laxness of my diary entries of late. I’ve been consumed by the happiness bug which makes writing about being unhappy somewhat tricky. It has been a week of job offers and birthdays, 5k charity runs completed without vomiting, and general good feeling towards mankind.

Until I come down from this high, I’ll have to write about other people’s unhappiness instead.

Monday 13th July

5:48 pm

I got the job at Tractor magazine! I am no longer a disgruntled receptionist!

Emmm.... does this blog have to end now?

Monday 13th July

Birthday tomorrow. Can’t exactly say I’m where I wanted to be at 26. I had envisaged a sparkling career- well on my way towards the editorship of a celebrated fashion mag, perhaps an interview with a world leader under my belt and a brief stint as a terrorist hostage prefacing a bestseller. Thinner legs, a Prada jacket and a modest apartment in Notting Hill were also part of the plan.

What do I get instead? Postal duties, cankles and the same coat I’ve been wearing since uni, stitched at the shoulders to keep the arms from falling off.

It doesn’t help that I live with the Welsh Superwoman, also known as Lily. The blonde, arm-flailing, Kate Bush exterior masks a freakishly strong will to achieve. Reporter for a leading national and halfway through her first novel, she bounces into the kitchen this morning to tell me she’s thinking of taking evening classes in interior design. I wanted to throw my porridge at her.

Did I mention she’s just turned 23? I hate my life.

Sunday 12th July

Pretty carrots swimming in the toilet bowl. Really should eat more greens though.

9:43 pm

I’m so frickin’ old! Why does no one fancy me?!

Saturday 11th July

5:45 pm

Girls’ night out tonight. Just a few civilised drinks over dinner to celebrate my impending birthday. I’m not really that bothered about it. Some people freak out about getting older but not me. Age is all in the mind and I have years ahead of me.

10th July 2009

10:47am

Aaargh! They want me to rage against the machine with them. I’ve been asked to sign the aforementioned memo and literally stand behind them as they threaten management with industrial action. I’m all for solidarity with my colleagues but really don’t want to get involved.

But what if I’m shunned by them and no longer invited out for 2 for 1 meal deals at Pizza Express?! Feckety Feck.

10th July 2009

10:36am

Mutiny! Dissension in the ranks! The secretaries have decided to revolt. It would seem they also have issues with management’s lack of sympathy towards debilitating illnesses. Led by stroke victim Shirley, who is stoically putting her whole right hand side into the effort, the girls have decided to write a memo to the bosses, expressing their dissatisfaction.

Wonderful! I wholeheartedly admire that “stick it to the man” mentality. Rage against the machine, ladies!

Wednesday 10th July

14:39

I’ve just been informed that I’m not getting paid for my day off this week. Apparently sick pay is discretional. Now I appreciate I wasn't actually ill. But they don't know this. At first, I thought I might have been spotted on my way to the interview but one of the secretaries who was off for a week after a stroke, isn’t getting paid either.

A STROKE?! Exactly how ill does one have to be to be to meet the criteria for sick pay? Presumably, chronic diarrhea is not expected to interfere with one's ability to work (did they seriously expect me to come in after telling them I was surgically attached to the toilet all weekend?) But if a stroke doesn't merit a leave of absence, I'm stumped as to what does.

Tues 7th July 2009

11:06 am

Have just been asked to start buying more “exciting” fruit in the weekly office grocery shop. Apparently, granny smiths don’t butter my employer's proverbial muffin. I’ve been thrown into a sea of self doubt. You are what fruit you eat and I’m clearly a bananas and pears kind of girl-comforting, reliable, the proletariat’s choice. I am the Jennifer Aniston of fruit. 

The Boss hasn’t been my biggest fan since I turned up to work in a denim mini skirt a few weeks ago (laundry day, took brief leave of senses). To further inflame the situation, I strolled into the board room with a tray of BLTs for the weekly Partners Meeting. This move didn’t go down too well, it being a Jewish Law firm and all. There I was in my tiny skirt, meaty thighs on display, pork offerings, quite literally on a silver platter. I felt like a veritable Biblical outcast. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the pork not been Tesco's Value range  (if you’re going to give kosher the two-fingered salute then for God’s sake Annie, do it right).

Rubbish day all round. 

Monday 6th July

I pulled my very first sickie today. My mother, wonderfully tolerant of hangovers, used to do it for me all the time when I still lived at home but this morning, it was entirely my own work.

Having sought the advice of more than one veteran of absenteeism, I went with the need for close proximity to the bathroom which ensured no further questions about my health were asked.

The reason for my truancy is a good one. I had a second interview for Tractor magazine. (What is it with niche magazines and the perfunctory nature of their titles? Boat, Caravan, Guitar, Moths- does the specialist market think its readership is so "special" that irony and humour will be entirely lost on them?)

The interview went fairly well. I managed to get by without becoming a parody of Irishness (which I find myself doing on a disturbingly frequent basis). I usually lapse into lots of earnest thigh slapping and talk about the "wee bit of craic" I'll bring to the office. This time, my potential employers were spared this Tomfoolery as I instead opted for a more zeitgeisty approach- reality TV rhetoric.

“Tractor writing is my dream. I just need someone to believe in that dream. I'm just a young lass from a small isle..." Ah feck it, I'm off again.

I’ll find out if this new tactic worked in week’s time. Meanwhile, it’s back to making giant balls out of elastic bands behind reception.