I've been made redundant three times in my life. Never a nice thing. First time it happened at an ad agency, me and my team mate knew it was on the cards for us. But we kept on going in to work. Gritting our teeth. Brassing it out.
First they stopped giving us briefs (our work). Then they took away our office and put a new team in there.
We had to sit on a desk in the 'video library' (a corridor with shelves in it).
We still dutifully kept going in. Papering the (video cassette) walls with ads. A bit ashamed at how far we had fallen from grace. But we had to keep going in, even though we knew we were a lost cause. No one could look us in the eye. No one came in to ask about our work, or give us deadlines.
We were being cut out of the picture.
Invisibilized.
That's one of the worst things about the 'R' word; people's embarrassment and wish that you would 'just go away quietly.'
The Creative Director had lost faith in us. He kept pulling everything we did into pieces. Meaningless pieces. Confusion. Mis-direction.
Worse. We had lost faith in ourselves.
After months and weeks of daily pain and humiliation, the CD came down (nervous; quite nice man really; dead now -- died in a strange way, using self-asphyxiation sex technique that went wrong .. anyway, I digress); he stood in our 'doorway' (video library corridor entrance) and mumbled shamefacedly, "Let's call this your last week then."
I don't know what possessed me. But I decided to make a joke out of the horrible, drawn-out situation we'd been putting ourselves through. I threw my head into my hands and screeched "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Then I play-actingly sobbed, "No, No Nooo", wretchedly and pathetically. I started rambling, using an over-acting cockney kid voice, "But I got bills to pay Mister -- a cat to feed and fings ... " I think I got down on my knees, but i definitely implored him with open arms and begged him for mercy. I remember saying (in my fake cockney 'Dodger' voice) "Avent we always done our best for you? We've worked our fingers to the bone for you -- we 'ave!!" And i showed him my fingers (which were bony back then).
He walked backwards out of the room.
Me and D (my partner) looked at each other, smirked and sighed heavily as we began to pack up our bits and pieces. 5 minutes later, Mr CD-Shameface hovers back around our 'doorway'.
"OK OK" he says. "I've got you another 2 weeks."
Me and D didn't know whether to laugh with relief of 2 weeks more in warm, safe agency environment ... or cry with the knowledge of dragging ourselves through more continued invisibilized torture.
Maybe I should have changed careers and gone to RADA?
Monday, 25 October 2010
Voodoo Coat
Never under-estimate the power of a new coat.
The Coat of Power is upon me, and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow on the way to town, I SHALL fear no evil.
It's amazing (and frankly, quite shallow) how much a new coat and a new perfume can lift your spirits as the year turns.
Since I bought the New Coat I have resolved:
1. To stop drinking every day
2. To eat more healthy food again
3. To lose AT LEAST 2 stone for my health and my children's sake
4. To start walking or running every day
5. To look after myself more
6. To have more patience and not live with constant regret
7. To stop berating and accusing myself for every small mistake or slip I may make
8. To stop seeking approval from the people in my life; I AM OK
The Coat has a mysterious power, and it is working over and through me.
It is a shiny black Parka with silver zips and toggles and has a furry rimmed hood. It makes me feel extraordinarily good when I wear it. So therefore I am acting more like the woman-in-the-coat I want and hope to be.
I can't wait to walk and go out in it!!!
Maybe it is a Voodoo coat??? Drenched in power from some unknowable lady who worked on its silver accoutrements, binding spells into its shining lining, singing strange words in a low voice to an ancient tune and breathing ritual positivity into its fur-lined hood.
It was in the Sale at House of Fraser down from £250 to £175.
Bargain.
The Coat of Power is upon me, and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow on the way to town, I SHALL fear no evil.
It's amazing (and frankly, quite shallow) how much a new coat and a new perfume can lift your spirits as the year turns.
Since I bought the New Coat I have resolved:
1. To stop drinking every day
2. To eat more healthy food again
3. To lose AT LEAST 2 stone for my health and my children's sake
4. To start walking or running every day
5. To look after myself more
6. To have more patience and not live with constant regret
7. To stop berating and accusing myself for every small mistake or slip I may make
8. To stop seeking approval from the people in my life; I AM OK
The Coat has a mysterious power, and it is working over and through me.
It is a shiny black Parka with silver zips and toggles and has a furry rimmed hood. It makes me feel extraordinarily good when I wear it. So therefore I am acting more like the woman-in-the-coat I want and hope to be.
I can't wait to walk and go out in it!!!
Maybe it is a Voodoo coat??? Drenched in power from some unknowable lady who worked on its silver accoutrements, binding spells into its shining lining, singing strange words in a low voice to an ancient tune and breathing ritual positivity into its fur-lined hood.
It was in the Sale at House of Fraser down from £250 to £175.
Bargain.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Apple Bobbing Hell
I was press-ganged into helping run a stall at the Infant's School Autumn fete this weekend. I was not keen, having done similar stints before, and having worked all the previous weekend on my own business and pulled two late-nighters midweek to finish up work. However, I find it quite hard to say 'no' to the mummies.
I would not say I am a weak person. Or particularly impressionable. As I enter the playground at pick-up time, a mummy will ask "Are you helping out at the Autumn Fete on Saturday?", and I will truthfully say 'No', and give full reasons why not.
But then something strange happens to me. The mummy will volunteer me to help run a stall and I can't make my lips say 'No'. Even though I have a better case not to volunteer than the mostly non-working women around me. (By the way, this all comes after having to provide a bottle of booze for the tombola (in return for 'Mufti Day' at school), a NEW toy for the Toy Tombola for feck's sake (in return for 'Mufti Day') and then a plate of home-made cakes for Mufti Day (snort -- 'home-made' by the good people at Waitrose bakery). I mean what do they want next, Blood for Mufti???
The idea then is, you waste your precious family time at a weekend running a stall, and then you can pay to win all your donated goods back. See?
Well, anyway, I couldn't say 'No' -- and when the mummy mentioned we were in the 'Halloween Theme' room and could dress up as witches I thought well, at least that might be a laugh. And it was Apple Bobbing. What could be stressful about that?
Come Saturday and I pull on my black and red stripey tights, do full face witchy make-up with blood red lips, long black Morticia Addams wig and huge pointy black hat, layers of black cloaky clothes, and off I go to have good community fun.
What a mistake a pointy hat and wig are in a hot, overcrowded classroom full of Freyas, Ellas, Caspers, Harrys and Hannahs.
First off the organiser (in chic sexy witch hat) rushes over to explain there are Health & Safety issues with Apple Bobbing.
1. NO CHILD may take part without a parent present to agree to the risks
2. We were handed a slip of paper with a Pediatrician's Emergency Number on it
Right. Before we could even get to grips with the dangers of death we had been given, the floodgates opened and a rush of spoiled grabby (but well-spoken) children swarmed in. I was in charge of stamping their tickets to show they had paid and played.
Try that when they are already heading towards the tank of water whislt you are holding onto your witches hat and wig and gabbling frantically "Have you got your mummy or daddy with you?"
THEN, while your back is turned, pushy mums and toddlers are over at your cauldron of prizes and fecking acting as if this is Lucky Dip -- just putting their hands in and helping themselves.
So you grab your hat and cloak and run back to the table to explain about the apple bobbing, the stamping, the queueing, the safety issues. Who designed the stamping areas so far apart from the bobbing area?? The children don't care or want to know about paying, or the issues of drowning in a lungful of snotty apple water. They are just going right up and putting their heads in the tank.
But then your helper (who is sensibly dressed, just wearing a comfy velvet hat) says "Have you stamped their tickets???" You grimly hold onto your wig as you bend over and try to stamp the soggy fiddly bits of paper thinking "Who's bloody stupid idea was this?"
BUT there is no time for that, because a constant stream (literally) of children is flowing from tank to table and prize cauldron and some of them just want to put their heads under water to get wet, which is fine, but trying to impose order on the chaos is mind numbingly, spirit crushingly awful.
Pushy mummies shove their 'cute' be-curled youngsters at you and say "He doesn't want to do Apple Bobbing. Can you just give him a prize?"
Er, no. ??? What sort of planet are these people living on? How fair would it be if I pushed to the front of the Hoop-La and said "My Simeon/Thomas/Grace doesn't want to throw a hoop. can she just have the prize?" !!!
I looked at my watch, thinking at least I was only down to do one hour on the stall. Barely 10 minutes had gone by.
The towels we had laid out were dripping wet. The prizes were mysteriously disappearing, faster then I could give out. My head was hot and itchy under the stupid wig and hat -- why on earth did I think this would be a 'laugh'?
As always, the 'relief' team arrived 5 minutes late (and let me tell you , those 5 minutes are like 5 hours in the Halloween Room) and then prettily faff about in their gorgeous silver pixy hats watching you hot and stressed as you heave towels, stamp limp bits of paper, try and give out prizes (WHERE DID THEY ALL GO???) and supervise the HSE rules on children who couldn't give a TOSS if their 'mummy or daddy' was there -- they just want to jump in with the apples for Christ sake!
At last, after wasting another 10 precious hot agonising minutes, the relief team say smilingly, 'I think I've got how it works' and I am FREE to go.
i tear off my hat and wig and go in search of a drink. Saying "Is your mummy or daddy with you?" 1,000 times gives you something of a thirst.
By the time I had drunk my own body weight in watery squash and tea there were no toys left on the tombola, no bottles left on the bottle tombola, and nothing much left except for me and my throbbing head and stupid outfit.
I would not say I am a weak person. Or particularly impressionable. As I enter the playground at pick-up time, a mummy will ask "Are you helping out at the Autumn Fete on Saturday?", and I will truthfully say 'No', and give full reasons why not.
But then something strange happens to me. The mummy will volunteer me to help run a stall and I can't make my lips say 'No'. Even though I have a better case not to volunteer than the mostly non-working women around me. (By the way, this all comes after having to provide a bottle of booze for the tombola (in return for 'Mufti Day' at school), a NEW toy for the Toy Tombola for feck's sake (in return for 'Mufti Day') and then a plate of home-made cakes for Mufti Day (snort -- 'home-made' by the good people at Waitrose bakery). I mean what do they want next, Blood for Mufti???
The idea then is, you waste your precious family time at a weekend running a stall, and then you can pay to win all your donated goods back. See?
Well, anyway, I couldn't say 'No' -- and when the mummy mentioned we were in the 'Halloween Theme' room and could dress up as witches I thought well, at least that might be a laugh. And it was Apple Bobbing. What could be stressful about that?
Come Saturday and I pull on my black and red stripey tights, do full face witchy make-up with blood red lips, long black Morticia Addams wig and huge pointy black hat, layers of black cloaky clothes, and off I go to have good community fun.
What a mistake a pointy hat and wig are in a hot, overcrowded classroom full of Freyas, Ellas, Caspers, Harrys and Hannahs.
First off the organiser (in chic sexy witch hat) rushes over to explain there are Health & Safety issues with Apple Bobbing.
1. NO CHILD may take part without a parent present to agree to the risks
2. We were handed a slip of paper with a Pediatrician's Emergency Number on it
Right. Before we could even get to grips with the dangers of death we had been given, the floodgates opened and a rush of spoiled grabby (but well-spoken) children swarmed in. I was in charge of stamping their tickets to show they had paid and played.
Try that when they are already heading towards the tank of water whislt you are holding onto your witches hat and wig and gabbling frantically "Have you got your mummy or daddy with you?"
THEN, while your back is turned, pushy mums and toddlers are over at your cauldron of prizes and fecking acting as if this is Lucky Dip -- just putting their hands in and helping themselves.
So you grab your hat and cloak and run back to the table to explain about the apple bobbing, the stamping, the queueing, the safety issues. Who designed the stamping areas so far apart from the bobbing area?? The children don't care or want to know about paying, or the issues of drowning in a lungful of snotty apple water. They are just going right up and putting their heads in the tank.
But then your helper (who is sensibly dressed, just wearing a comfy velvet hat) says "Have you stamped their tickets???" You grimly hold onto your wig as you bend over and try to stamp the soggy fiddly bits of paper thinking "Who's bloody stupid idea was this?"
BUT there is no time for that, because a constant stream (literally) of children is flowing from tank to table and prize cauldron and some of them just want to put their heads under water to get wet, which is fine, but trying to impose order on the chaos is mind numbingly, spirit crushingly awful.
Pushy mummies shove their 'cute' be-curled youngsters at you and say "He doesn't want to do Apple Bobbing. Can you just give him a prize?"
Er, no. ??? What sort of planet are these people living on? How fair would it be if I pushed to the front of the Hoop-La and said "My Simeon/Thomas/Grace doesn't want to throw a hoop. can she just have the prize?" !!!
I looked at my watch, thinking at least I was only down to do one hour on the stall. Barely 10 minutes had gone by.
The towels we had laid out were dripping wet. The prizes were mysteriously disappearing, faster then I could give out. My head was hot and itchy under the stupid wig and hat -- why on earth did I think this would be a 'laugh'?
As always, the 'relief' team arrived 5 minutes late (and let me tell you , those 5 minutes are like 5 hours in the Halloween Room) and then prettily faff about in their gorgeous silver pixy hats watching you hot and stressed as you heave towels, stamp limp bits of paper, try and give out prizes (WHERE DID THEY ALL GO???) and supervise the HSE rules on children who couldn't give a TOSS if their 'mummy or daddy' was there -- they just want to jump in with the apples for Christ sake!
At last, after wasting another 10 precious hot agonising minutes, the relief team say smilingly, 'I think I've got how it works' and I am FREE to go.
i tear off my hat and wig and go in search of a drink. Saying "Is your mummy or daddy with you?" 1,000 times gives you something of a thirst.
By the time I had drunk my own body weight in watery squash and tea there were no toys left on the tombola, no bottles left on the bottle tombola, and nothing much left except for me and my throbbing head and stupid outfit.
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Redundant old me
Well it has finally happened. The agency I work for is closing its doors at the end of the month and this old hack is heading back into the big wide world to compete with younger and lovelier writers for the scant amount of work that exists out there.
I'm not feeling sorry for myself really. People all over the country are losing their jobs and it looks like things are going to get worse. At least I don't have the worry of childcare costs and school fees like some of my colleagues. But eeeeh pet, it does make you think.
There are many positive thing about being older. Confidence for a start - by this I mean confidence in your own abilities at being able to grasp and embrace the complications of a brief and creating copy that hits the mark running. Every writer I know has encountered blank page syndrome. Those are the days when all you can do is to sit there, staring at your computer screen with jumble of words going around in your head and not one making any sense. As you get older, facing up to the blank page becomes part of the writing process - you know enough to get up, walk away and come back again. My trick is to go to the loo. the minute I'm sat there with my nicks around my ankles, ideas start to flood into my head. The trick is to get back to my desk asap before I forget - so down the office I march, muttering the words over and over, which inevitably leads to some kind colleague asking if I'm alright. At that point, every thought leaves me - so I try to keep my head down and my thoughts intact until my fingers are tapping the keyboard.
Perhaps now I'm being made redundant, and will be working from home for at least some of the time, I should just sit on the loo all day.
Here's a question for all you crones out there. Do I put my age on my cv or portfolio? Or should I just slap on an extra layer of polyfilla and smile bravely as I shake the hand of the creative director young enough to be my grandson or daughter? It's a dilemma!
My miserable menses!
Honestly, one of the worst things about ageing is the fact that almost overnight your body stops being a trusted friend and morphs into some weird, unreliable enemy bent on catching you unawares. Take my periods (please, take them now!) Having not had one for three months I was beginning to come to terms with the menopause and onset of true cronedom, and amazingly, even beginning to welcome the freedom! But last night the flaming floodgates opened in the wee small hours and it's like I'm having a year's worth all at once.
My poor, poor other half. He went to bed innocent as a lamb and woke up like a lamb led to slaughter, covered head to toe in my blood! (drenched I tell you DRENCHED). He threw back the duvet and sat up in complete shock as he saw the carnage, thinking he'd severed an artery or something! He really thought it was him bleeding for a moment and all hell broke loose as he leapt from the bed screaming, only to uncover the real cause of the outpour, much to my shame and utter humiliation. It was like Nightmare on Elm Street meets the Chainsaw Massacre, and on our new white bed linen too. HOW does he put up with me? Not only that, today is our anniversary - what a present - brown clots sticking to him and all!
I apologise for the gory picture, but one of the reasons Bags and I keep coming back to blog on The Crone is that we feel the need to share our pain with other crones, and to warn younger women of what lies ahead. Hah! You younger women may laugh as you unwrap your 'light flow' tampons. It'll never happen to me, you may think as you mark a cross in your diary and plan your holiday around your periods. But let me tell you. I was once like you. My menses were as reliable as clockwork and as light as a drizzle. Now I'm sitting here with my legs crossed wearing tena-lady and an industrial-size tampon and hoping for the best!
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
We need money to paper over these cracks!
Crone 1 is planning a romantic dinner for two.
Is she excited? A little. But she is more worried that her S/O (Significant Other) will gaze at her over the table and see a washed out old hag. She's paranoid about another spate of thinning hair - despite spending a King's ransom on Perfectil. Now she begins to think about highlights -- they could, perchance, help mask out the fluorescent white skin beneath? But everything costs money! And Crone 1 is in imminent danger of losing her job.
Is she fretting about the mortgage? Worrying about being able to support her two sons through their further education? A bit. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY she is anxious that she may not be able to afford those oh-so essential highlights. And the sexy acrylic 'French manicure' nails, so crucial to her continued happiness. What will she do when she can't buy her trusty add-ons -- the absolute necessities that detract from the all too grim reality of aging beauty? I agree with her when she says that the men who make us redundant have a LOT to answer for.
Crone 2 (me) is out of work too
It's tragic! Shallow, but very, very tragic. My hair is having a bit of a renaissance right now, cos i had it cut off short THE WEAK FECKLESS BASTARD, but i know it is a temporary reprieve as it is thinning on top and the back.
It's one of my main reasons for losing weight: I could just about bear to look in the mirror and be old AND fat, but the idea of looking in the mirror and seeing a Les Dawson woman with a comb-over -- FAT and BALD and OLD -- is one too many things to overcome.
People may scorn us for our vanity, but they know not how much it costs to maintain a face and figure -- money, time, effort, pain, indignity, horror, humiliation, learning Vietnamese insults (and that's just at the nail salon).
One of the first things that crossed my mind when i was made redundant was not 'How I am going to pay the 'real' bills?', but 'How many more trips to my top hair salon for a cut 'n' colour could i afford?' Closely followed by, 'How many packs of No.7 Beauty Serum?' and 'How many pedicures?' ... 'How much Parisil Facial Home Wax?'
Men just don't understand: they can take away our crappy jobs, but we will fight to the end for our right to stay beautiful.
Crone 1 reminisces ...
So true! I cannot imagine having to ask S/O for money to cover fripperish sounding yet absolutely necessary necessities such as nail infills/pedicures/hair highlights,lowlights + artful layering to hide bald patches/unwanted hair removal from other parts/Perfectil/industrial strength wrinkle filler/leave-on-overnight (although you're not supposed to) collagen face mask/super extra super-super max absorbency I didn't think I HAD this much blood tampons/miracle under foundation dewy virgin look cream/magic over dewy virgin look cream foundation with extra fish scales for added luminescence/anti-age spot hand cream etc etc etc let alone the BOTOX!
I am so high maintenance these days. I remember when I thought washing my face with Camay soap was the height of sophisticated opulence, and I could get away with a slick of tinted moisturiser and a fingertip full of Miner's moss green eyeshadow. Not now though.
My make-up bag alone could sink a battleship. : (
We need money and we need it NOW
I can't even give my S/O oral sex, lest he run his fingers through my carefully arranged thinning hair and finds a bald patch ... then I would be paranoid as he closes his eyes -- wondering what/who he is fantasizing about, in order to close out the un-erotic vision of Deputy Dawg (balding) going down on him ...
Is she excited? A little. But she is more worried that her S/O (Significant Other) will gaze at her over the table and see a washed out old hag. She's paranoid about another spate of thinning hair - despite spending a King's ransom on Perfectil. Now she begins to think about highlights -- they could, perchance, help mask out the fluorescent white skin beneath? But everything costs money! And Crone 1 is in imminent danger of losing her job.
Is she fretting about the mortgage? Worrying about being able to support her two sons through their further education? A bit. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY she is anxious that she may not be able to afford those oh-so essential highlights. And the sexy acrylic 'French manicure' nails, so crucial to her continued happiness. What will she do when she can't buy her trusty add-ons -- the absolute necessities that detract from the all too grim reality of aging beauty? I agree with her when she says that the men who make us redundant have a LOT to answer for.
Crone 2 (me) is out of work too
It's tragic! Shallow, but very, very tragic. My hair is having a bit of a renaissance right now, cos i had it cut off short THE WEAK FECKLESS BASTARD, but i know it is a temporary reprieve as it is thinning on top and the back.
It's one of my main reasons for losing weight: I could just about bear to look in the mirror and be old AND fat, but the idea of looking in the mirror and seeing a Les Dawson woman with a comb-over -- FAT and BALD and OLD -- is one too many things to overcome.
People may scorn us for our vanity, but they know not how much it costs to maintain a face and figure -- money, time, effort, pain, indignity, horror, humiliation, learning Vietnamese insults (and that's just at the nail salon).
One of the first things that crossed my mind when i was made redundant was not 'How I am going to pay the 'real' bills?', but 'How many more trips to my top hair salon for a cut 'n' colour could i afford?' Closely followed by, 'How many packs of No.7 Beauty Serum?' and 'How many pedicures?' ... 'How much Parisil Facial Home Wax?'
Men just don't understand: they can take away our crappy jobs, but we will fight to the end for our right to stay beautiful.
Crone 1 reminisces ...
So true! I cannot imagine having to ask S/O for money to cover fripperish sounding yet absolutely necessary necessities such as nail infills/pedicures/hair highlights,lowlights + artful layering to hide bald patches/unwanted hair removal from other parts/Perfectil/industrial strength wrinkle filler/leave-on-overnight (although you're not supposed to) collagen face mask/super extra super-super max absorbency I didn't think I HAD this much blood tampons/miracle under foundation dewy virgin look cream/magic over dewy virgin look cream foundation with extra fish scales for added luminescence/anti-age spot hand cream etc etc etc let alone the BOTOX!
I am so high maintenance these days. I remember when I thought washing my face with Camay soap was the height of sophisticated opulence, and I could get away with a slick of tinted moisturiser and a fingertip full of Miner's moss green eyeshadow. Not now though.
My make-up bag alone could sink a battleship. : (
We need money and we need it NOW
I can't even give my S/O oral sex, lest he run his fingers through my carefully arranged thinning hair and finds a bald patch ... then I would be paranoid as he closes his eyes -- wondering what/who he is fantasizing about, in order to close out the un-erotic vision of Deputy Dawg (balding) going down on him ...
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