That's right...I get paid to sleep

Here’s another painting artist and fellow Braintree Ways member Steve Waring did of me. Have a look at his site:

I was watching the League of Gentlemen

I could move in with Eric and Sookie. She and I could bake while he goes out killing, it’d be like the fifties.

Anyway…hands down this has to be the weirdest job interview I’ve ever had. I’ve tried to find the name of the company it was with but I’ve not come across them, and it was back in 2007. My memory with names is cloudy like a Scottish mountain.

I like to try all different kinds of writing; scripts, comics, stories, books, so when I saw a vague ad on gumtree for an advertising firm in a nearby town I wondered if they needed any copywriters.

I applied and was offered an interview, so along I went to a smallish office building in Colchester and saw another nervous looking girl. “What time is your interview?” I asked.

“Two,” she replied. Same as mine. Odd, I thought, they must have two different interview rooms.

But no. They didn’t. A man in his early twenties and rivers of gel in his hair opened an office door and invited us both in. I wondered if we would have to fight to the death.

“This company,” he said, “gets everyone to start at grass-roots level, so we all have experience of each different part.”

I furrowed my brow. Surely everyone didn’t work in graphics, not everybody can do that?

“I’m only 24,” he continued, “and I have my own office and blah blah blah…” I began to drift away. He just went on, and on, and on about how great it was to have loads of money. It’s not my money, what do I care?

We both had to answer a myriad of questions, pretending to be people a company would want to hire. Eventually it came to an end and we went our seperate ways, but I quickly realised I had no idea what I’d just been interviewed for. The answer to every question I’d asked had floated deep within a cloud of management-speak.

However I was still pleased when I was asked back for another interview. This time there was no second girl and the gel-money-monster came to sit next to me in the waiting room.

“Today you’ll be shadowing these two,” he pointed out a male and female, both in their early twenties.

“OK,” I said, “but I wanted to ask, what exactly do you all do?”

“Different companies trust us,” he said, voice slanting into the ‘I’m giving a pitch’ tone once again, “to make other people aware of them and to raise their profile.”

“Yes,” I said, impatiently raising my hand, “but on a day-to-day basis, what would I be doing?”

“We inform the public of the companies we reperesent and let them know the work they do.”

“Right,” I snapped, getting quite cross, “so I could just stand out there,” I pointed to the window, “and tell people in the street?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said, blushing. “But anyway, go with (I’ve forgotten their names, I will call the girl Foofy and the boy Mr Fuffykins).”

So I got into a car with them, which seems a bit mental on reflection but at the time politeness forbids us from going against instruction. On the way Foofy pointed out a car she could see and told us how much she wanted one. She then informed us how close to purchasing it with all her recently earned lovely money she was. I wondered if I’d accidentally joined a cult.

The revelation came over lunch. We were eating fried chicken when I was told we would be literally trying to sell a company, or get people to sign up to it (I still don’t really understand) by speaking to them – cold-calling – door to door.

“You can do that can’t you?” asked Foofy.

“Um, yes?” I said. I still don’t know why I said yes.

We pulled into a residential area in Dunmow and I was given a jacket to put on.”I’ll take the odd number doors and you two take the evens,” instructed Foofy.

‘Speak,’ I told myself, and my voice sat at the bottom of my throat until I forced it up. “Um, I can’t do this,” I said in a weird, squeaky way.

They both stared at me. I made myself repeat it. “I can’t go door to door.”

They began to deliberate. “There’s a bus station nearby, it’s not far to walk,” said Mr Fuffykins.

“We can’t just leave her here,” said Foofy, a touch bitterly as though she wished they could.

In the end I convinced them to drop me off in town, where I had a coke and thought about things before I made my way home. The moral of the story is, when someone talks management-speak just start crying until they explain themselves.

My general attire

“Dinginess is death to a writer. When Keats was depressed he put on a clean shirt. When Radclyffe Hall was oppressed she ordered new sets of silk underwear from Jermyn Street.”

This has always worked for me and ever since I can remember I’ve been drawn to colourful things; clothes, decorations, and any bath products (baths are important to me) that are jolly or immature in any way make me ecstatic – Lush Cosmetics and Soap and Glory are the best for this.

Lush cosmetics

How can you not love a ‘bath bar’ shaped like a mushroom? In order to remain able to think up bizarre and silly stories it is vital that I never grow up.

One of the stories will be The Magic Forest and a comical homage to Edwardian ghost stories called The Train Journey to Hell, and Liverpool Street.

It reminds me of the ancient way of storytelling by the aborigines or the Saxons or American Indians. I like to think of them sitting around a fire passing on tales they heard from their grandfathers – about pimp trolls and trains that take people to Hell.

I was inspired to hurry up and learn all my lines after seeing Simon Munnery perform at Colchester Art Centre last night, his character monologues are genius.

It’s rude and there are spooky bits. What’s not to like? Look, that couple over there are reading it, and they own yachts. Read it here.

Warning: Over 18s only.

Today I shall be going on a date with my friend Rachel to see Woman in Black. I love the book so Daniel Radcliffe had better have taken some acting lessons. I’m sure he will be very good.

If myself or Rachel overhear any couples even thinking about talking near us we’re going to stand, point and scream a la Invasion of the Body Snatchers (70s version).

So just to get everyone in the mood, here’s a festive animation from David Firth of fat-pie.com.

Warning: please do not watch if you’re easily offended.

Weep with terror at the pictures of me reading poetry during my student beatnik years (I am ashamed of nothing)

Back in the heady days of 2001

2002 (I match the walls)

Yup, I'm the one in the rainbow hat

Although the general idea of holidays in Spain is to get a suntan and lie on the beach, one of my favourite places I’ve ever visited was Burgos in Northern Spain. I went with my Spanish class when we were 17 and we loved it with all the hysterical joy of teenage girls.

Its a little mountain town, it was freezing and there are beautiful tombs in the bowels of the monastery.

At the monastery

The snow and the pretty town had us shrieking in annoying joy. Each day our tiny group would go for chocolate con churros (basically hot chocolate and sweet bread) along with practicing terrible Spanish. Jollies!

Delicately picking at bread (right)

Anyway, the other thing that concerns me in this situation is opinion. We’re all human and can’t help having opinions, but it only seems to be people with very fixed ones who write for newspapers – or they at least have a very clear idea what their opinion needs to be at each different newspaper.

I also can’t watch the news without wondering about the other possible angles and viewpoints of the story – which is a good thing I know – but can’t they just tell us everything that’s happened? Perhaps look down the camera lens and say, “Well, those are all the facts, this happened in war, that man said this, all of this happened on this list here look. I’m not going to pretend that some actor slept with some actress because the truth is they didn’t, there you go.” But it’s just never that simple, partly I suppose because the news would go on for about four hours.

But sometimes its like I’m at a cheese and cracker party full of tedious people all desperate to explain what they think is wrong with the world, or are keeping others from speaking because it might hurt their client. Just tell me what’s happening!

Anyway, something on the subject that amused me was Charlie Brooker’s column on Sunday about the Daily Mail, which I’ve included below. He’s an opinionated man but at least he’s only writing for entertainment purposes. For anyone unfamiliar with the Daily Mail, it’s a bit like Fox News in written form:

When the Daily Mail calls rightwingers stupid, the result is Dumbogeddon

(by Charlie Brooker)