Spirit is for c*nts - and other lessons to learn in 2007

(Above is a team motto, not ours, but at least our team sees the humour in it and wishes we thought of it first).

There's a very long list of things I'm not good at. Throwing. Catching. Basic Hand-Eye Co-ordination. Time Management. Anger Management. Dealing with Management. New Year's resolutions are also on the list. The fact that my 2006 resolutions started in February should be some kind of indication of my time management skills. I seem to spend all my time faffing around and worrying myself into a nervous wreck.

The RESTRUCTURE didn't wait for me to conquer my jetlag before demoting me. So much for being the Glory Girl (TM). (It has just occurred to me that could have bad connotations, oh well). Now I am struggling to redefine my role and what has become a wasps' nest. Lots of loud buzzing but nothing actually being produced except some painful stings. I have to watch as my colleagues try to outdo each other, fighting for the RESTRUCTOR's attention, I'd say it would be all smoke and mirrors but in local authorities it is all meetings and more meetings. The whole thing has been a blow to the confidence, but hey, where one door closes, there's alway another window you can climb out of (or into).

I guess spirit doesn't count for much, huh.

Zap! is a kind of flavoured milk?

I've developed a bit of a twitch due to an overzealous neurophysiologist this morning, hellbent on establishing not only where my ulnar nerve has struck difficulty but I strongly suspect he was running a pool on how many electric shocks it takes before I cry. To be fair, he was very nice about it all. It wasn't until I left his ward that I was grateful I knew exactly where the toilets where and made a beeline to bawl my eyes out discreetly, fearful of bumping into any med students that I have come to know along the way attempting to play that sport with the round plastic thing, as I don't do delicate and tearful - I do bleary, bright red and snotty.

After fighting with the flying pig of customer service in this country, I spent most of the day on hold to one call centre or another trying to find out where all my goodies are going. Apparently it is very common practice to deliver to your neighbour and NOT leave a card saying exactly where it is. Long story short, I played Who Are The People In Your Neighbourhood* and have introduced myself to half the street to no avail. If you are Mr Vam and you have my mp3 covers, hand 'em over!

Also after many difficulties and a remote controlled plane, I have finally received my mp3 player - a Creative Zen V Plus - only for it to stop working within half an hour leaving me on the brink of toythrowing, or perhaps a nudge past the brink. But thanks to someone infinitely more patient than I am I'm currently listening to Arcade Fire on it as I type... Yay for new toys and Toy Boys.

*Not the same as the version played by Brenda and myself in 2nd year

Restructuring and other corporate-wank words to make you worry

Consultants [referred to by my exAuntyBoss as 'Corporate Seagulls'] have circled our section at work, chattered to our colleagues, cosied up to the politicians and directors and have swooped to deliver the first findings of their verdict. And like seagulls, it appears the aftermath will be messy. I slunk further and further into my chair, thinking every negative criticism was a personal attack on me - obviously everything was my fault and I had let the team down. My old area (still headed by Nobby who has at last found someone to act as his PA, treat him as he is important and most importantly NEVER question him or show the slightest inclination of being able to think for herself. Heaven forbid..) was given praise (which I decided I earn at least a share of). But afterwards my boss informed me the Seagulls had singled me out for praise - which was nice, given that I have never spoken to them, so they are purely going on word of mouth and that I can successfully arrange meetings for them when required. Not to be outdone, I have in my inbox an email from the Uber Echelon saying how awesome I am. Obviously the word 'awesome' was not used, but it was implied.

As happy as I am to be lavished with praise (actually British don't really lavish praise, but you take what you can get), I'm worried that it's undeserved. I still feel like a kid playing dressups in her mummy's wardrobe and any second now I'm going to be caught ruining her favourite lipstick. The other worry is the Restructure (TM) is going to take place while I'm at home for 5 weeks and that any interim RESTRUCTOR (I like how in capitals it sounds like a Transformer, and it would be a Decepticon, I just know it...) will think that they can cope in my absence and restructure me out of a job.... or worse - back into my old job.

Does anyone know anything about unions?

Prayers for the Hamster

It's confession time - Steve Irwin and a stingray - unfortunate, Peter Brock and a tree on the rally, also unfortunate. But I'm more upset by Richard Hammond in intensive care, which may sound very strange to some. All three were doing something they loved at the time of their accident - but Richard Hammond is my favourite (all the ladies I work with know what I mean) and my thoughts are with his family, having experienced my share of intensive care waiting rooms, varying updates in conditions and constant tests. I just hope that he makes a full recovery.

Groundhog Day

I'm currently trapped on two pages of script where one character launches into its tyrade of how I am obviously the root of all Evil. I'm not. I am Evil's second cousin, but due to a rural upbringing perhaps I am Evil's Big Sister - which is true, depending on which side of the fence you're sitting on. As a general rule it is very difficult to sit on the metaphorical fence itself for two reasons:

1) It's a metaphor. A type of lie told for effect.
2) As far as metaphors go, this one would be barbwired with 50,000 volts of electricity up your arse if you tried to sit on it.

But the beauty of ignoring the character is that it is not dialogue at all, his soliloquy is merely a madman ranting into thin air....

Excellent locations to find a body

I spent much of yesterday discussing with a filming location manager the best places I knew to find a body.

Sometimes my job is more interesting than I give it credit for.

Groupies for Beginners

After hatching a plan to see more (slightly less known) bands with the Hobbit and the Womble, we set out to see You Say Party! We Say Die! purely because I loved their name. And it turned out that they had toured with Pretty Girls Make Graves, a band I saw recently and accidently bought a tshirt off the bass player without realising he was the bass player until he came on stage. Oops. At least I was prepared and wore aforementioned tshirt to show that I'm a cool indie kid, honest. It made an excellent conversation starter with the keyboardist of the band who was in charge of the merchandise - the embarrassing part was when the Hobbit wanted to find out her name so he could try hit on her later so I got her to sign my CD. Do cool indie kids get CDs signed? I don't know but it was the start of what will become my career as a groupie. By the end of the night, I had acquired 2 set lists, a guitar pick and played tambourine for You Say Party! We Say Die (as Chris was very kind and shared).

It was fun - just what you need after a week of unnecessary stress - an excuse to jump up and down like a nutter and make up your own words to songs that you're actually hearing for the first time but wish you knew more of...

Meanwhile... seeing Beck on Saturday night.