Tuesday, August 30, 2005
I like to use self-deprecation, only I'm not very good at it.
I'm not setting off to London for 12 hours and I'm already knackered at the thought of it. The clothes! There must be more about my uneasy relationship with clothes when I can stomach getting my head around it (what?). I buy clothes that I am not brash enough to carry off. I do it all the fucking time. Hence, I will be followed to London by various items which will beg with evil eyes flashing to be worn so that they can make me feel cripplingly self-conscious and wreak their terrible revenge on me, and which will all be swept aside as I dive for the cosy refuge of That Same Black Dress.
Either that, or I will be blessed with bravado. Or the sudden epiphany that - gasp - no one actually gives a shit, or if they do, then I shouldn't. Or somefuckingthing.
Stupid clothes.
Anyway, I just spent an hour in open-mouthed horror editing the first chapter of a big ole novel. I must, someday, backstab/sleep/weasel my way into a proper editing position at an actual publishing house, where they only publish actual books that make some level of basic, basic sense. At a basic, basic level. It's hard to see what I'm supposed to be tweaking editorially through the forest of GCSE-level snafus and effortless buggerings-up of what could be a story. Sometimes it's like agreeing to wax a nice car, then being presented with something a crusher just ejected. Sigh. Rod, meet back.
I now have to
1) do something to my legs
2) do something to my weekend bag (fill it with clothes I won't wear)
3) coax the 'Garden State' soundtrack onto my non-pod
4) find out where the hell I'm supposed to be going times 5 and note it down somewhere I won't forget where it am at
5) do some hoovering (ha hahahahha, very funny)
6) oh fuck, attempt to divest new terribly slutty dress of smudge (it should have been £70, I got it for £10 - what is wrong with these people?)
7) oh shit, book return ticket
8) blow furiously on freshly-washed jeans
9) knot brow in anxiety until resemble 90-year-old woman
10) console self with knowledge that at least I did the washing up, and a short list of other mundane things
11) Oh yes, and sleep, if there's time.
Itinerary:
Weds - arrive, catch up with someone, go to someone else's house, go out, party.
Thurs - work, drink.
Fri - catch up with someone else, board a fucking boat, party, drink, try not to fall off/out/over.
Sat - you think there's going to be a Sat? Silly.
Either that, or I will be blessed with bravado. Or the sudden epiphany that - gasp - no one actually gives a shit, or if they do, then I shouldn't. Or somefuckingthing.
Stupid clothes.
Anyway, I just spent an hour in open-mouthed horror editing the first chapter of a big ole novel. I must, someday, backstab/sleep/weasel my way into a proper editing position at an actual publishing house, where they only publish actual books that make some level of basic, basic sense. At a basic, basic level. It's hard to see what I'm supposed to be tweaking editorially through the forest of GCSE-level snafus and effortless buggerings-up of what could be a story. Sometimes it's like agreeing to wax a nice car, then being presented with something a crusher just ejected. Sigh. Rod, meet back.
I now have to
1) do something to my legs
2) do something to my weekend bag (fill it with clothes I won't wear)
3) coax the 'Garden State' soundtrack onto my non-pod
4) find out where the hell I'm supposed to be going times 5 and note it down somewhere I won't forget where it am at
5) do some hoovering (ha hahahahha, very funny)
6) oh fuck, attempt to divest new terribly slutty dress of smudge (it should have been £70, I got it for £10 - what is wrong with these people?)
7) oh shit, book return ticket
8) blow furiously on freshly-washed jeans
9) knot brow in anxiety until resemble 90-year-old woman
10) console self with knowledge that at least I did the washing up, and a short list of other mundane things
11) Oh yes, and sleep, if there's time.
Itinerary:
Weds - arrive, catch up with someone, go to someone else's house, go out, party.
Thurs - work, drink.
Fri - catch up with someone else, board a fucking boat, party, drink, try not to fall off/out/over.
Sat - you think there's going to be a Sat? Silly.
