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...
Friday, 31 July 2009
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
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.
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, 24 July 2009
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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