Back to the old school...

Yesterday, whilst congregating and gossiping around the kettle in the office kitchen with several of my regular kettle-attendees for the umpteenth time that day (don't tell my boss), it struck me that the workplace is not unlike school. And the more I thought about it, the more comparisons I could make. Maybe I've seen Mean Girls too many many times.

School: The classy house-block loos were the place to bitch every break time.
Office: We meet in the kitchen to gossip several times a day.

School: Passing notes to friends in classes when bored about who we fancy.
Office: Write chain emails to equally bored colleagues about anything.

School: If you didn't do your homework your teacher shouted at you and put you on detention.
Office: Miss a deadline and your boss yells at you; you then have a silent cry in the toilets.

School: Sit at several desks throughout the day, often covered in graffiti and chewing gum.
Office: Sit at a desk. A very messy one with an overflowing in-tray.

School: Spend pocket money on make-up, clothes, junk you don't need and nights out.
Office: Spend payslip on make-up, clothes, junk you don't need, nights out and the bills.

School: Have lunch in the cafeteria with your mates. Moan when the bell goes for lessons again.
Office: Have lunch in the cafe with your pals. Moan when you can only manage a half-hour break.

School: Complaining to your PE teacher that you had terrible cramps would never get you out of cross country.
Office: Complaining about period pains in an office full of women gets you off nothing.

School: Watch new episodes of 'Friends'.
Office: Watch the endless repeats of old 'Friends' episodes on E4.

School: Reading magazines by stealth - under desks, behind textbooks etc - and giggling at the problem pages.
Office: Reading Digital Spy and Heatworld online, and closing the screen when someone important walks past. Forward on the articles with the celebrity shock-factor.

And the sad thing is, that after seven years of school and sixth form, four of uni and three of full-time work so far... I'm just as unmotivated now as I was then. And just as clumsy. At school I'd often walk into doors, fall off seats and drop things. Today, I'm well know for being completely unable to text-and-walk; frequently sit down where there is no seat; and yesterday I tripped over someone's bin and was caught by a quick-witted colleague who exclaimed very loudly that I'd just 'kicked the bucket.' Sigh.

That Sunday night feeling (on a Monday)...

Well, it's finally happened. It usually happens at about ten o'clock on a Sunday night actually, but because of the Bank Holiday, it's just hit me now. At least I bought myself another day. Yes, I'm back at work tomorrow. Can you tell I'm really pleased about it? There really is something about that horrible Sunday night feeling that makes you want to throw yourself into the nearest line of traffic just so you don't have to go back into work. Or wish that your Dad was a multi-millionaire so you could become an heiress. I'm sure I could find better ways to use up my time than Paris Hilton.

I had a lovely day today, as well. I feel like I've seen my gal pals quite a lot this week and done a lot of catching up. We took a trip into town and tried out a new restaurant we'd all been dying to go to (where they just do starters and desserts, the aptly-named Starters and Puds); and had a nice relaxing chat over a bottle of wine. Then I got home and spoilt it all by stewing over what's waiting in my in-tray for me, and what I need to sort out and whether my desk is even more littered with paper than it was before I left on my jollies last week. And whether or not my work wardrobe is all clean. And where the hell is my security pass? Is my phone charged up? More, importantly, is my iPod?? (This has been difficult as somehow the docking station seems to have broken. I take no responsibility for it.)

But anyway, I have to try and put all this out of my mind otherwise I'll be pacing about all night or having terrible work-related dreams. (Please say you've had them too; I don't want to be the only one who dreamt that the pile of papers consuming their desk toppled over and buried them alive in a paper avalanche. Or maybe you've had the one where there was a work-related emergency which caused you to wake up in a cold sweat - and promptly check your Outlook remotely? No? Perhaps I should take more time off.)

Ho hum, at least it's a four-day week. Roll on Friday night.

Nuclear cocktails and red hair...

You can't beat a good cocktail. Especially half-price ones on a Thursday night. Which is the conclusion myself and some gal pals reached this week when we took our twenty-something nostalgia out in our kitten heels to the former haunt of our seventeen-year-old-selves. They'd cut the cocktail menu in half since we were last there (or were we now just old enough to know what we liked to drink instead of working our way down the whole menu?) but we still managed to quaff our way through several bizarrely-titled tipples.

It would have been rude not to have twice as many since they were half price anyway, was our philosophy. So, after several Caribbean Romances; Total Knock-Outs; a few of that old staple - Sex on the Beach; and a one whose name I forget but was a rather strange radioactive-glowing-green Incredible Hulk colour, we consequently spent the night cackling in the corner like the Witches of Eastwick reminiscing about the ridiculous fashions we used to sport in the very same bar almost a decade previous, planning to take a trip together and generally having a good old gossip about things I couldn't possibly repeat. Friday morning I woke up - mercifully still on holiday - with a headache only fizzy tablets can cure and thirst like no other.

Still, I had an appointment to keep and since my hair has taken on a life of its own and turned into rabbit-hutch hay over the past few weeks, I wasn't about to miss it. Plus I fancied a change of colour. My hair's been the colour of stringy dull rat tails for too long. Wasn't sure what yet, perhaps inspiration would hit me in the stylist's chair. It did. Not only am I very pleased that the straw-like quality has disappeared, but the length has been halved and I now have a swept fringe. Plus I'm chestnutty-red. And don't have to get up specially an hour earlier in the mornings now to wash and straighten my tresses. Anything that gives me an extra hour in bed is fine by me.

Maybe I should rename this 'the indecisive musings of a blasé partial-redhead?' Not so catchy? Yeah, well, it'll probably wash out soon anyway.

Shake, rattle and norimaki rolls...

I'm on holiday from work this week. It's great. I don't have to worry about staying up late on a school night and dragging myself in the next morning to face my colleagues, looking like Wurzel Gummidge's lesser known sister crossed with the corpse bride, oh no. (For those of you who don't remember Wurzel Gummidge, he was a scarecrow. And quite a freaky one at that.) I'm just frightening my Other Half with that guise on a daily basis instead of my co-workers. Being a lady of leisure has many fringe benefits. There's the lie-ins, time to potter and the knowledge that you can go anywhere and do anything (or not - but it's nice to have the option).

Going out during the day and laughing and pointing at people who have to work is near the top of the list of pluses, though. But so is going out to eat. Oh yes, lunch somewhere lovely without having to plumb for a Boots Meal Deal, and without looking at the clock on your phone every two minutes and wondering if you have time to finish and make it back in time for the weekly team meeting. Which is why my good self and The Other Half decided upon a leisurely meander around town in the sunshine followed by some sushi. And I'll stop you there - that's not a euphemism. Sadly, the world and his dog were conspiring against us.

Mishap #1 - no parking spaces. Not a major issue, but we got dizzy going round and round the multi-storey. Mishap #2 - when we did finally find a space, the heavens opened as we left the car. I did not plan ahead and bring a brolly. Mishap #3 - umbrella-less, my hair began to frizz and both our jeans were soaked up to the flamin' knee. Mishap #4 - long queue at sushi place. Seems a lot of people had the same idea as us to avoid said rain. Mishap #5 - chef warfare. This is the one we really couldn't have planned for. A heated argument erupts in the open-plan kitchen. A plate of norimaki rolls crashes to the floor. Something whizzes past our heads. Then we feel the dreaded splat. We look at each other. Two waitresses look at us with open jaws. Both of us resemble abstract expressionist artists let loose in the studio. Except the canvas was our shirts and the paint was hoi-sin sauce.

Maybe this is my karma because I laugh and point at people who have to go to work. Anyway. I'm off to wash the gloop off my already rain-sodden jeans. Think I might have been better off at work today. And I definitely need to sort my hair out.

Lipstick Jungle or American Psycho...

New books. I love the smell of new books. Almost as much as I love choosing them in the bookshop. Examining the titles and poring over the covers; picking up ones that sound interesting or just plain bizarre; thumbing through the pages breathing in that first intoxicating aroma of the characters and storylines. Unfortunately, these days my bookshop of convenience has become the internet, and reading user comments and glancing at star ratings is du jour. Saying that, it's not so bad. There's still that thrill of new books arriving through the post and hitting the doormat, waiting for you to open them. And you can order stuff at work when you're bored and nobody is looking. Bonus.

I started reading Candace Bushnell's 'Lipstick Jungle' a wee while ago. I liked 'Sex and the City' but 'Trading Up' was a bit irritating...however I thought I'd give 'Lipstick Jungle' a chance as it was all pretty and girly and had a cocktail on the front, and also happened to come free with the copy of Cosmo I'd picked up in the supermarket which promised 'a great summer read' and had the intriguing guide to becoming 'a sex goddess in 9 steps' on the cover. I really shouldn't have bothered. The one-dimensional vacuous characters are like older, bitter, harsher and less amusing versions of the SATC girls. I just didn't care about the plot. There are only so many fashion shows and champagne parties you can read about. At least in SATC, it was funny. And the crap characters all have rubbish names. Victory Ford, anyone? Sounds like a commemorative car. So, I gave up after a few chapters and started reading my old friend 'American Psycho' again. But I've been itching for something new to read- new characters to love, so online I went.

Amazon's personalised recommendations always make me giggle. 'You once bought a cookery book, so you might be interested in this, 'Build Your own Garden Shed' - that kind of thing. Hmm. But this time they seemed to get it right, suggesting authors along the lines I was looking. Bret Easton Ellis was in my head. I loved 'American Psycho' so much, but haven't actually read any of his other stuff. And they looked appealing enough. After a few minutes of dithering I plumbed for 'Less Than Zero' and 'The Rules of Attraction.' Plus a DVD of Parenthood to take me up to the free delivery limit. Don't judge.

Sorted. New books to read by Saturday. Fantastic. I could do with a reading day. Wrong! Even though I was up early yesterday and listening out for the postman especially, I still managed to miss him. Turns out the flamin' doorbell is kaput and the little Royal Mail note pushed through the door says not to bother collecting my package from the depot for 48 hrs. Now not only do I not have anything to read - but 'Lipstick Jungle' is glaring at me from the shelf. It's my own fault. I shouldn't buy magazines for the free books. Particularly magazines whose covers proudly display bold statements like 'Climb the Career Ladder - Fast' alongside 'How to Knit Your Own Lingerie'.