So, I got a job, in an office, with a desk, near an independent coffee shop with cool thin young people asking me which roast I would like (totally wasted on me, because they both taste like good coffee, but it is kind to ask), and there is a security tag which gets me into the building all official-like and it is on Fleet Street. Everything is clean and no one interrupts me.
This is me, not being interrupted, although not at work, either.
Anyway. I found Ned playing with his friend Anna and they were at Mark’s desk, doing something that looked a little bit like what I do in my job. Kind of furious tapping and a bit of sighing and quite a few breaks for tea. And then I saw Ned had written this and was passing it to Anna, who may well have been chatting about things non-work-related:
And I’m like “Dude, I hear you”, because when I am not going into the office in my disco clothes*, I am trying to work from home, in and around Otis when he sleeps or is otherwise engaged with non-sharp items. So I felt for the guy, you know, just a small little guy, trying to finish his tapping and clear his imaginary to-do list, and his chatterbox friend just couldn’t really understand the pressure he was under, and so he just felt the only thing left to do was to pass her a note, with a face that expressed his deep regret about the situation.
I would like to extend the same sentiment to you, and all the world, because the current employment setup feels as though I will never have time to write a blog post, or read the Daily Mail Sidebar of Shame, or check for split ends ever again. Of course, that is all utter nonsense, but I feel a bit like sometimes, you have to be careful what you wish for. So it is all about tiring the baby out, so that he will sleep, and I will get a few hours at least to do my editorial chores. And it kind of works, but I do feel like lunch has become an extravagance I cannot afford. And so I have to eat while Otis is still awake, but I am not hungry then, only suddenly starving to the point of nausea when he has gone to sleep in his cot and I have cracked open the laptop and I have my finger poised to begin my ungainly typing. And I can’t stop. I must work on, even though I am feeling sweaty from the low blood sugar and concave in the belly. No Time For A Sandwich is my new mantra.
*As for my disco outfit, I went to work yesterday in my outrageously expensive-but-they-were-on-sale Celine wool wide-legged trousers and a bright orange Courreges-esque top from Zara and my Acne riders and my vintage rabbit fur coat and when I picked Noah up from school, straight from the office, no less, he said
“Did anyone say anything about your clothes today? Because it really looks like you have been dancing in a disco. It’s actually mostly your pants. And your jacket. And your top. And your boots. But it looks like it was a fun disco.”
And then Ned says:
“Wow! you should go to a wedding and dance with dad in those beautiful shiny long clothes!”
And I’m like “Did I dress like a bit of a dick today?”
Reader, I think I did. Because I am out of practice and clueless, and I have to cobble things together from my schizophrenic wardrobe, which is a mashup of mumsy, ballgowny, museum curator-y, dirty, and above all else, inappropriate for most of the situations I find myself in. But try telling me to put down the beaded green velvet flares the next time I find myself in a sample sale, hyperventilating with excitement and imagining all of the places I could wear them to. Not that I will ever have have the time to go shopping again of course. Though, if I do, I shall be a tiny bird-like person from all the missed lunches.
Here we are, eating donuts at Brick Lane, on the weekend, when I used to have spare time:
And here is the baby, looking so edible in his combat gear:
I am delighted to say that Ronan, the beautiful tiny hair stylist, was right when he said that my micro fringe would suddenly sprout forth and fill my sparsely-folicled head with all the wonder and resulting warmth of a thickly tufted floor rug. I have this weird volume to my roots, like I have backcombed my whole head, which makes me look like a much older, larger version of Duffy. I feel duty-bound to wear Breton stripes and thin jeans, as well as dressing for discos.
So thats all good, then. Now, I have forty three minutes left before the baby wakes to ruin my working plans, so you’ll have to excuse me. Frankly, I haf too woc. xx