Tuesday, 17 May 2011

* The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers (William Shakespeare, King Henry VI)

There are all kinds of morons in this world: estate agents, cheesy sales people, Piers Morgan, overconfident teenagers and people who like pop-punk but none of them quite reach the high levels of wankerness as lawyers do.

I work in the legal profession and the amount of idiots I have to deal with is staggering. There are five types of lawyers:

The trainee lawyer: One word - clueless. It’s slightly worrying when a lawyer asks me basic questions on basic procedures. Did you get your degree in a cereal box? If you were a racehorse they would have shot you by now.

The banterless lawyer: You know the old cliché that all lawyers are boring? Well it’s true. God knows how many of my precious comedy gems I’ve wasted on boring lawyers.  You will have better luck with beating a confession out of Jack Bauer than squeezing a witty repartee out of a lawyer.

The money-grabbing dickhead lawyer: Self-explanatory really. Die, die, die!

The confused lawyer: You’d assume the ability of being on top of things is a prerequisite for becoming a lawyer? Well you assumed wrong. It once took me a week to get something very straightforward organised and the lawyer in question later apologised for being dopey. If you’re a self-confessed half-wit at least be smart enough to hire an assistant who can think for you.

The occasional nice lawyer: Most of them are women to be honest. I guess being a woman in this profession has it’s cons. In order to survive you have to be twice as on the ball as men and therefore women are more socially aware.

*This blog post is meant to be a warning to people who have half a brain and are considering becoming an assistant/PA/secretary in the Legal world. My advice is: RUN! Before the bastards get you and completely kill your creativeness and spark. 

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Too lazy to look good

I’m quite lazy by nature. I have much more potential than I care to pursue. It normally doesn’t worry me but sometimes I get annoyed with myself and just say “ffs get a grip woman“. 

When I go to work I hardy ever make any effort to look my best. I wake up in the morning and my priority is to get that 10 minutes of extra sleep rather than doing my hair. I’m always struck blind by my lack of creativity when it comes to my weekday clothing: „Oh those jeans will do and that boring top too“ This situation wouldn’t be a problem if I lived and worked in Bermondsey but I live in the vicinity of Portobello Road and work in Mayfair.

By the time it’s 8.15am and I’m sat on the no. 23 bus, it’s always the same thing. Besides couple of obligatory chavs, most people who get on the bus are perfectly groomed women, with shiny hair and well thought out outfits. That’s the Westbourne Grove and Portobello effect. It makes me feel like a Susan Boyle in a room full of Cheryl Coles.

Warm and sunny days are the worst. Come lunch time, all the restaurants and cafes are filled with beautiful smiling women whilst I check out my reflection in the windows and curse myself for wearing this fucking top! So I quickly get my sandwich from Greggs and try to avoid eye-contact with people sitting outside Napket (what a bunch of posers!).

The worst thing to happen to anyone‘s self-esteem is to get lunch from Itsu in Hanover Square as it's right next to the Vogue House-the mother ship of fashion publishing.

When I approach the shop the inevitable happens. I can assure you that every single one of those perfect looking women secretly ridicule my generic fashion sense and the fact that I couldn’t be arsed to do a *fringe-wash that morning.

I do scrub up once in a while, but only when I have an actual event to go to. Putting in that effort really pays off and I feel great about myself but at the end of the night, when those false eye lashes and high heels come off, I know I won‘t be doing this any time soon again. Pheeeew!

* method of just washing your fringe and in result making rest of your hair look clean. Pure genius.  

Monday, 2 May 2011

Bank Holiday Weekend

I was having a blissful Saturday morning sleep when I was woken up by some weird noises. It turned out to be my boyfriend making every effort possible to wake me up at 8am. When I opened my eyes I saw him looking in the distance. He looked like a guy in some serious distress. The evil side of me wanted to go straight back to sleep but then I remembered the Support Clause in the girlfriend contract. Luckily I had read the small print.

Was his sadness caused by work problems?  Was he worried about the situation in Libya? Or perhaps it was a sudden panic about not emptying the dishwasher? 

I'm afraid not.

Apparently he had been worrying about the future of QPR, the football club he supports. He had been worrying about it for weeks. I'm not kidding.

Are women missing out? I mean we don't have a passion that unites us like men are united by football. I can't imagine a shopping trip to Westfield ending with hugging people you don't know in some grotty pub and singing ridiculous songs. Wait a minute. It all sounds a bit familiar...

Well I didn't have to worry about him for too long. It's now 8am on a Sunday and he is his walking around the flat singing "We are the champions" whilst balancing a QPR tea mug in his hand.

One of those days

There is nothing more depressing than being 27 and stuck in a job that doesn’t excite you creatively none what so ever. Well I guess I’m exaggerating. Sure there are more depressing things in life like cancer, famine, war and Keira Knightley’s acting skills. 

I spend 8,5 hours from Mon-Fri sitting here looking out of the window praying for a better job. I'm waiting for the day the perfect job is brought to me on a silver platter. Surely, I'm talented enough to get that kind of service? I know I should be working harder on finding a new job. But you see the problem is that I don’t know what I would like to do when I grow up.

The prospect of getting another PA role to provide support to some overweight middle-aged guy who is completely devoid of personality just depresses me. I’d rather stay where I am till I get the perfect opportunity. I know, I know this is not how life works but I’m way too lazy and old to change my ways. Now that’s a scientific fact.

So I spend my days doing research on  Google, finding answers to all important questions like: What face shape do I have? How many calories in a large glass of wine? How do they get the fortune inside the cookie?  Or send pictures of cute bulldog puppies to my boyfriend, who comes back with equally as lame emails.

If our ancient forefathers had had all this free time in their hands they would have invented the wheel much earlier and teleportation and hoverboards would be part of our daily lives by now. 

There are days when I think, “fuck this”, I’m going to leave this stupid job and join a  hippie commune somewhere in Thailand. Who cares about the perfect career and CV? Who cares about having loads of money? Who cares about all these superficial things that are suppose to make me happy? But then five minutes later I get distracted by an amazing dress on asos.com and all my fuck yous go out of the window.

So I crawl back to my cave of self-pity, bow to the Gods of online shopping and continue with being unsatisfied.

Normal service is resumed.