Remember my mate The Dove who fucked off to London (again) at the end of last year? And I had a poen-wobble?
Well, I received this email from her yesterday:
So I'm fucking off to Spain next week to live.
Going to do a Spanish course, work on boats and occasionally in film, paint, write a bit, fetch a croissant each day from the little corner café down the pebbled street that I can see from my Romeo & Juliet balcony, and close the shutters on a Sunday when some greasy Spaniard attempts to sing to me on his knees from the road with a rose in his mouth, but then fall in love with his more realistic and better looking friend who will later apologise for his mate’s love-sick delirium.
In short - I'm sick of London so I'm packing up and moving to Palma. On my own.
How are you?
Well, well well…and what the fuck???
Well this is a long story, so bear with me as I will type at a speed of which I am not capable:
It was initially the plan to go there for holiday when friends came over. Work is thin, and I'm not attempting to look for long-term work that I will actually enjoy ‘cos it's low pay, and my travel plans will go down the tubes.
I think one of the final straws amongst a shared fish bowl at Primi Piatti was that I had an interview with [a large investment bank] that would have been quite nice cash. Thinking that I could just do some random temp work, make the money and fuck off to Palma in May.
So, I walk in there in a borrowed suit and high heels, and it is immediately obvious that I am not all that comfortable, and am definitely not the owner of the pin-striped attire, while those dirty white strings sticking out of my handbag are in fact the laces from my high top All Stars that I have just taken off in their bathroom that probably send lazer beams up your arse while you're having a piss to see that you haven't rolled up stolen confidential documents lying on a stray desk.
I'm taken to this room that is honestly one of 800 on one level, and some chick asks me what interests me about the bank and which of their principals I admire and how it's possible to transfer film skills to recruitment skills and why I'm interested in moving from something that sounds so exciting to something that sounds like ‘boring as fuck.’
I’ve done my research, and I now know my shit about the bank, so I rattle off all this bollocks about stock markets and current trends and fixed income, currency and commodities as though I was the granddaughter of, say, Mr Marcus Goldman or Mr Samuel Sachs.
But, the slip up came in – and this is an important one - when the one girl asked me if I had any questions to ask. Hmmm. Here, that is more important than the interview itself- you asking them questions - so, I ask some random crap about something that I’ve kind of got off their website. Then, the next interviewer comes in and asks me what I was told about the position by the prior interviewer. Now I'm fucked ‘cos I haven't been listening to a word that has come out of her mouth, I really didn’t know what I was applying for here. My bad.
They both ask me about five times if I would object to sending the occasional fax and making them Tetley tea.
I’m like: YES YOU FUCKWITS, WILL YOU JUST GIVE ME THE JOB AND THE CASH AND STOP TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF I'M REALLY INTERESTED IN THIS POSITION BECAUSE I'M NOT BUT THAT'S WHERE THE NICE-FITTING SUIT AND YOUR IGNORANCE COUPLED WITH MY ACTING SKILLS COME IN.
Didn't quite say that but that's what I was thinking.
Anyway, I didn't get the job ‘cos they thought it wouldn't be challenging enough - NO SHIT - and I thought well screw this for a ball of bank notes, even if I did get the job, walking into that ant empire everyday, and not being recognised even if I had a sign on my head saying I'M AS GOOD ON THE BANKING FLOOR AS I AM IN BED SO YOU BETTA WATCH OUT YOU FUCKERS WITH THE BIG BONUSES COS I'M COMIN’ TO GET YA' covered in fairy lights and small speakers connected to an iPod that had 'Rape Me' by our dearest and dead Kurt Cobain playing on full blast and repeat.
Um, then, I met this German chick, who lives in Palma, Majorca, as luck would have it. A film director, with serious contacts. And after ten hours of sitting in the most famous arts club in London on Portobello Road drinking fifteen cups of coffee, and smoking 3 boxes of Lucky Strikes, we had both come up with a short film we want to shoot in Palma.
Quick as a flash, I opened my laptop, logged onto ‘Easijet.com’ and typed in my credit card details for the fastest flight outta here.
I won’t be living in a Romeo & Juliet balustrade just yet. I’m actually going to be parking off in a hostel somewhere, but it sure has to be better than this right now.
PS: If I did happen to get the job at the [investment bank], I’d have put up an anonymous sign at the entrance to the building saying: DO NOT BE FOOLED. THIS IS NOT AN INVESTMENT BANK - ALTHOUGH IT MAY LOOK LIKE IT, AND THE RECEPTIONISTS MAY WELCOME YOU WITH 'WELCOME TO [investment bank name]'. IT IS, IN FACT, A DRUG STORAGE FACILITY, AND ALL THESE PEOPLE CARRYING LARGE WADS OF WHAT LOOKS LIKE LEGAL DOCUMENTS, ARE INFACT CARRYING SHEETS OF ACID.
I’d love to. You know I would.
But little problem: I resigned last week after the editor from hell decided to lambchop me with a 'how dare you resign before telling me about it' scenario, where I promptly told her to fuck right off - not really - but with similar sentiment. Why have I resigned? Well in essence, I am sick of writing about ethnic foods and beverages that come in premium packaging. Call me crazy, but I have finite reserves of interest in, say, ginger ale and hot Belgian stew.
And, more importantly, I’m about to start a business with someone. Yip – ME. An E.N.T.R.E.P.R.E.N.E.U.R. That thing, yes, ME! But I’d love to come and stay in the Romeo & Juliet villa for a holiday. Provided you move out the hostel first.
Fuckin’ hell. That’s great. So now you’re going to become a corporate company bitch who screams orders over boardroom tables, like “LISTEN HERE, GOLDSTEIN. REMOVE YOUR UGLY MUG FROM MY OFFICE UNTIL YOU GET THAT PRESENTATION TO ME ON THE DOUBLE. And in a whingey voice: “OH, YOUR DOG DIED TODAY?” BOO HOO HOO GOLDSTEIN, DON’T MAKE YOUR PROBLEMS MY PROBLEMS, YOU SCUMBAG, JUST GET THAT PRESENTATION TO ME, AND IF I SEE YOU USING POWERPOINT, I’LL CHOP YOUR GONADS OFF.
POWERPOINT IS FOR WUSSIES, GOLDSTEIN.
PS: I might take a walk along the beach with the Spanish dude I plan on bumping in to on the plane on his way home from directing a movie in LA, and chat about the possibility of me writing his next film, having his children, and parking off in his mansion in the mountains while he fucks off around the world.
And a bag of chips. Although I probably won’t scream at a man called Goldstein.
PS: Graunched anything lately? Or are you passing on the Pommy for the Palmese?
Smoking Legs took me to Orient in Melrose Arch last night for dinner, ‘twas beautiful.