|
|
 |
|
|
12/01/2006 - 30/03/2006
|
|
|
|
|
|
Third time lucky |
|
Four seasons in one day
Thursday 30 March, 2006
9.09.21PM
Caught the second episode of a new TV reality show. Some B-list celebrities are experiencing the harsh conditions following an ordeal that shook the world over 30 years ago, when it emerged that the survivors of a plane crash in the Andes had eaten human flesh. I think it’s important not to forget momentous events, but am I the only one to think that it’s in bad taste? What’s next? Auschwitz re-enacted with a candid camera?
To be honest, I’m not that keen on reality shows, but I have to keep up with them as they are covered by the magazines I work for. I only watch the minimum just to know who’s who. Let’s face it, they are deadly boring, with people droning on for hours about stupid stuff.
However, the recent Celebrity BB was a must-see. That bunch of celebrity misfits was really entertaining, whether their antics were genuine or an act. I was subsequently enticed to watch that Chantelle’s show on E4, but it was boring, perhaps because she is not a bona-fide celeb, so she has got nothing to hide or expose.
On the work front, it has been a quiet week at Fashionista. I am worried that they might get rid of me soon. There isn’t enough work to go round. I was even told to slow down, make the work last! So I’m following a thread on the subs’ forum about pay rates. Yes, things are that bad. Some magazines pay a fortune, what am I doing here? They are also discussing having a strike. Would I strike? I think the rates are a disgrace, but would I be able to turn down work? It’s not so plentiful at the moment.
Even Andy is suffering, although he is on the design side. He lost a big client and he is worried. He enjoys being self-employed, he doesn’t want a permanent job. Like me, he is unemployable, we’ve both been freelance freaks too long and if we don’t like an assignment, we don’t take it on. But what if things get worse?
Mind you, I was moaning about the work situation last year and then got snowed under by bookings till Christmas. Maybe things will pick up in the summer. But I haven’t had a single call for weeks and it’s a bit scary.
Friday 24 March, 2006
6.09.15PM
It’s Friday and there’s a beauty sale! It’s the second since I’ve been here and despite having spent £20 on heaps of make-up and toiletries a few weeks ago, here I am, pushing and shoving to reach the boardroom and grab some loot!
I love magazine sales; you can have amazing products for a few pounds and then come back later and scavenge among the remains, priced to go at 20p per item! This time the venue for the sale is a bit on the small side and I can’t even get near the table where all the goodies are displayed. So I decide to go back to my desk and wait for the email announcing the 20p bonanza.
An hour later I am routing among the uncapped toiletries, sticky bottles of hair products and unboxed goodies and find a Versace eyeshadow duet, a Cacharel perfume, two bottles of antidandruff shampoos, a body lotion, a CD of movie soundtracks with a cracked case and a kit to remodel eyebrows. I don’t need any of this, but I buy the lot at 20p apiece.
Back home, Andy spots me forcing the toiletries in the already stuffed cupboard on the landing. ‘Another magazine sale?’ he sniggers.
‘This stuff comes in handy,’ I reply smugly. I wait until he’s back in his room and gloat at my goodies. I know, it will take ages to use all these hair and beauty products, if ever, but I’m addicted to bargains.
When I go shopping I can’t resist special offers, whether they are BOGOFs, buy three for the price of two, or buy one and get another item at half price. And keep me away from my local poundshop. Since I found out they sell discounted designer toiletries imported from abroad, I am in there every Saturday!
Monday 13 March, 2006
7.23.43PM
I’ve been lent by Fashionista to a sister magazine called Shopping. And this fascinating monthly (not!) is true to its pedestrian title! It’s basically photos with captions.
I feel like I’m in factchecker’s hell. I’m ringing up fashion and beauty PRs, department stores and boutiques and double-checking/finding out prices all day. I just hate it. I ring up, some moron replies and it takes ages to get to speak to the only person who has the information, if you can get through.
I’m constantly being cut off, passed to the wrong person, told that the product doesn’t exist by some switchboard ninny or worse still being treated suspiciously as if I’m a spy from the competition.
By the afternoon, my polite veneer has worn off and I’m downright rude. I ring stockists’ numbers and put the phone down as soon as somebody says the shop’s name, and when confronted by unhelpful people, I start to threaten them that I will drop the product from the magazine if the price is not confirmed pronto! The other subs working near me are looking at me like I’m a loopy bitch. I feel like snarling at them. They leave this shitty job to the freelancer, moi, so what do they know? At the end of the day, the chief sub is pleased I got results and appreciative of my hard work. But I’m worried that I shot myself in the foot. If she is so pleased, she will ask me back. Help, I want to get out of here!
Tuesday 7 March, 2006
12.04.13PM
Where is spring? It’s still freezing, but in montlymagazineland it’s summer. I am subbing a feature on sandals, while my feet are encased in furry boots! And there’s a page on pedicures, too, called ‘Sweet summer feet’.
I suppose it’s better than yet another article on bloated tummies, the fave subject of women’s mags. Why do we, intelligent bints, kid ourselves that our fat tummy comes from a medical condition rather than from a junky diet? No, it’s not IBS, food intolerance or swallowing too much air, it’s gobbling too many cakes, crisps, burgers, fried foods… the list is endless. Yes, it’s all down to our daily intake of milk chocolate and fizzy drinks!
Even I’m not immune. I might be a size 8 due to my stressing, reluctance to prepare proper meals and fidgeting, but my tummy is quite rounded. The other day a kind young man gave up his seat in the tube. I gratefully plonked down only to later realise that he thought I was pregnant! When I told Andy, he informed me that it was an easy mistake to make as I tend to stroke my tummy a lot these days. ‘I’ve got my period and I have cramps,’ I whined, but he just shook his head and hastily retreated to his room.
I’m at Fashionista, waiting for the feature with my makeover to come through. It was not a glamorous affair, but I’m hoping for the best. And talking about unglamorous things, how glam could it be to have to ring up the Pile Hotline and check with the switchboard operator that it’s the right number? The woman at the other end sniggered when I mentioned I was calling from a magazine and kept saying, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to speak to the nurse?’ As if I was in denial! But let’s not despair, there are good moments, too. And I just got an email that cheered me up, there’s a sale going on in the lunchhour!
Friday 17 February, 2006
6.09.21PM
After my two days in the boardroom with the listings slaves, I entered the glamorous offices of Fashionista on a high. Angelina had arranged for me to take the afternoon off and join them at a photographer’s studio in Notting Hill. I spent the morning fantasising about the shoot, I had never been to one and would I know what to do or would I end up looking like a lemon?
I practised smiling naturally in the toilet and it was pretty hard. Let’s face it, I’m not a smiler. I cannot count the times when some cheeky chappy accosted me in the street saying: ‘Cheer up, love, it may never happen’. Like most Londoners I look grumpy, especially when I’m commuting to work. I walk fast, with a purpose, tutting if somebody gets in the way, and I’m a dab hand at elbowing people to make way.
I take the tube to Ladbroke Grove and exit in the less glamorous end of Notting Hill. My mood picks up when I leave the grubby high street and walk down the road where the studio is, which is full of stuccoed houses with columns and black iron spiked rails. They look immaculate and some houses are painted in soft pastel colours. I stop at what looks like a basement flat with a sturdy metal door. I ring the bell and I’m admitted.
It’s surprising light and airy inside, the walls and wooden floors are painted white and there are big French windows opening to a patio at the back. There is very little furniture, just an immaculate white sofa. A beautiful girl is sitting on it while a harassed young woman is manning a digital camera and shooting non stop. I walk into the next room, where some women are chatting loudly. It’s a kitchen and the table is full of half-eaten food and jumbled-up make-up paraphernalia. Two make-up artists are busy on two other stunners (are these girls real? I feel a complex of inferiority coming on).
The fashion team are huddled in a corner, busy getting stuff out of suitcases. When I’m finally spotted, they throw three outfits at me and tell me to get changed in the loo, which is off the kitchen. It’s a tiny bathroom with a crazy mosaic of fish on the walls and the tiniest mirror imaginable above a grubby sink. What was I expecting? I’m finding it all so unglamorous. The first outfit is a pair of black trousers and a red top. The trousers sag and the red top is too big. No wonder, they are a generous size 10! I try on the dress, a short black number with sequins, hardly a spring item and in size 12! The third outfit is a ghastly skirt and shirt combo in lime green, again a generous 10. I look awful, like an Eighties reject.
When I pop out wearing the black dress, holding it up with one hand and holding the discarded outfits with the other, the girls agree it’s the best choice for me. They put lots of pins in the back until the dress fits me, find me a pair of shoes in one size bigger than my foot and accessorise me with a pair of giant earrings Pat Butcher would kill for.
The make-up and hair artist looks at my limp hair and only brightens up when I suggest an updo. She applies little make-up in hurried brush strokes and sends me to the photographer. I snatch a look in a mirror hanging opposite the camera. I don’t look that special, I mean, I expected to look fabulous after having been handled by an expert. But, apparently, we are supposed to look like natural and normal women – drat! Who wants to look normal and natural? I can do that at home all the time!
Tuesday 14 February, 2006
8.56.38PM
It’s St Valentine’s Day and I’m gorging on PR chocolates at Fashionista. Yesterday I got all the details from Smarmy Simon and when I called the chief sub, she said somebody there was ill and asked me to come in on Tuesday till Friday. I explained about dirty Harry’s booking and they asked me to come in on Tuesday and Friday.
I had quite a nice chat with her and she said that if they liked me and I liked them (bless), the booking could turn into a part-time arrangement of two or three days a week as they have
supplements coming up and need extra hands on deck.
So, as you can imagine, I spent Monday afternoon jumping up and down for joy — and getting massively on Andy’s nerves as he works from home. So, as I unwrap another yummy choc, I’m feeling good, despite being the only person in the office without Valentine plans. I like it here, the premises are so luxurious and the work is easy as the magazines is more
pictures than words. On the downside, the rate is a measly £105 a day, but no fact-checking is involved, at least.
I’m sitting at the sick person’s desk and I have been given my own email account and log-in, amazing! For my first task, I’ve been asked to fake a couple of reader letters because what they get from the postbag is usually boring and I’m leafing through the magazine to find a subject to write
about. I’m also struggling to come up with the star letter, the one that wins the prize, a gorgeous beauty kit from Clarins — obviously it cannot be one of my fakes. Gosh, their readers are dull. I’m allowed to rewrite, but I can’t be too heavy-handed.
There’s a whole folder of letters inspired by a ‘How to get famous’ feature, it’s disheartening to see how many talentless girls aspire to being a celebrity. One sent a picture, she is short, fat and seems to have no personality nor talent, how on earth will she ever become famous? She maintains she is quite good at poledancing, but she’s hardly Stringfellows material.
When I check my inbox, something catches my eye. I open the email and read: thirtysomething real woman, size 8, wanted for fashion shoot this Friday, contact Angelina in Fashion. Claudia, the chief sub sidles up and suggests: ‘Why don’t you have a go, they are desperate!’
‘Can I take the time off, though?’ I ask, a flutter of hope in my voice. I want it badly, I have always wanted to be a model but couldn’t because I’m only 5ft 4in. To be perfectly honest, I’m as greedy for my five minutes of fame as the fat poledancer. ‘I’m sure we can spare you for a couple of hours,’ she smiles.
Friday 10 February, 2006
9.12.24PM
As any freelancer would know, there’s nothing more valuable than networking, so that’s why I’m dragging my sorry ass to a subs soirée organised by smarmy Simon. Let’s face it, I have a two-day-a week’s stint for the whole month and I might pick up some lead from a fellow freelancer, you never know.
It’s freezing cold and when I turn up Simon is already there, all alone. He sees me, beams and says: ‘Since you’re going to the bar, I’m having a pint of bitter, cheers.’ I buy the drinks and sit opposite him. I’m at loss to what to say, last time I engaged in conversation with Simon he launched into a tirade of how the union is not looking after freelancers’ interests, how he still works for the same rate he was paid a decade ago and then chided me for not wanting to join an anti-war march early on a Sunday morning. I felt so guilty I bought three of his Stop The War badges, now collecting dust on a shelf at home.
I needn’t have worried, Simon is on cloud nine as he has been offered an eight-month contract at a music magazine. He is going to cover the sabbatical of the deputy chief, who’s touring with his band. It’s not uncommon for actors and musicians to earn a crust subbing, although once I was very cross when an actor/sub managed to leave at 3pm on a Wednesday maintaining he had an audition.
Second jobbers can often be irritating as these half-hearted freelancers take the work from dedicated subs like moi and then manage to work less than anybody else as they aren’t as fast, don’t know the software as well and spend ages on the phone talking to their agent. It makes me wonder why they’re asked back.
Anyhow, Simon said that an email had gone round the company asking for a Friday sub on Fashionista. ‘So if you want to the gig, just drop me a line on my hotmail address and I will pass your name on.’ I assured him I would and felt vindicated for paying for his drink. Alas, only five other
people turned up and the conversation revolved around the difference between Quark and InDesign. The seconds flew by.
I left well before the last bell and watched a late French movie on TV with Andy, who is an aficionado of the subtitled movie as he claims the sex scenes in foreign films are more revealing. I think he was bit miffed this time, all the characters did was
talk, talk, talk.
Thursday 2 February, 2006
10.35.34PM
Harry pounces on me as soon as I arrive and escorts me to his desk. ‘My deputy is off today, you can sit by me,’ he says and smiles sinisterly like he’s giving me the world. I imagine him dressed like the devil on top of a mountain: ‘Look, all this could be yours…’
But I soon realise I’d rather be back in pariahland. Harry is ogling me all the time, I cannot even glance at my watch or talk to anybody here. My slightest movement sets him up. He looks at me, I smile like a trapped animal and he goes back to his pile of proofs, his red pen poised to mark a mistake. I feel like I’m back at school, when I had to sit in the first row so I would stop chatting to my best friend.
Later, he offers me one of his mini Scotch eggs. He has a stash of food in his drawer among the stationery. I spot a pack of opened pork pies when he grabs the stapler. While pretending to read a schedule, I try to imagine what his life is like. But, hang on, has he got one? He’s always the first in and the last out. He never socialises with his staff and looking at his pained expression, you feel life is big disappointment for him. I focus back on the work on hand, I don’t need to feel pity for Harry.
An unhappy vibe hangs above the office. It’s only when Harry goes off to buy his lunch that the team relax and get chatty. The girl sitting behind me invites me to join them at the pub and she’s happy for Mary to come too. It’s a smoky, old-fashioned local with patterned carpet, chairs and stools upholstered in green velvet and cosy corners. I find everybody there, except Harry. I sip my gin and tonic and enjoy the ferocious bitching, mostly about Harry. The editorial assistant reveals that once he threw a chair at a freelancer because he made one mistake too many. I keep my mouth shut and my ears open, and I cannot help laughing. For once, I’m feeling included.
Wednesday 1 February, 2006
6.54.23PM
As a seasoned freelancer, I should have known that you can never rest on your laurels, but I lapsed again, too depressed to pick up the phone. Was I hoping another client would pop out of the blue and engage me for a long stretch? After a week spent in the doldrums, reading depressing posts on the online subs forum about the lack of work, unpaid invoices and bookings being cancelled left and right, I psyched myself up and rang Harry.
I cringed while he gleefully booked me for the whole month, two days a week. I don’t like doing split weeks and I think proofreading TV listings is a slow death, but beggars can’t be choosers. So here I am, passing my sentence in a dingy, neon-lit boardroom with four other slaves.
We are all squinting to read tiny print and checking against smudged photocopied TV schedules for potential mistakes. I have some dull stuff to check from ghastly cable channels I’ve never heard of. I plod on while sipping some disgusting tea from the free-vend machine and make tiny marks in the margins. Once or twice, I catch myself falling asleep, so I get up and experiment with the free-vend machine to extract some less revolting beverage. My kit is useless here as kettle and toasters are banned as fire hazards.
I glanced at my watch, time is passing extra slowly, like dust particles falling into a giant hourglass. Every so often Harry pops in and tells somebody off about not spotting a missing comma, using the wrong spelling of an actor’s name or not noticing the designer has used the wrong font in a programme title.
As I’m smugly correcting a typo, I feel Harry breathing on my neck. I look up and he gives me a hurt look. ‘Russian Revolution, we use upper R for Revolution, you didn’t change it,’ he drones and leaves me in what he believes is the silence of shame.
I am actually pissed off, but try to not to look it. Mary, a regular freelancer I bitch with in my lunch hour, gives me the eye. I accompany her downstairs to let off steam while she’s smoking her fag. ‘Ah, teacher’s pet got the ruler,’ she teases.
‘Yeah, right,’ I exhale. ‘We are paid peanuts, work in a dump and we have to take that crap, too.’
‘Well, it’s regular work and it comes in handy when I’m desperate,’ she laughs. ‘I don’t mind it that much, besides I’m going to be moved to a Mac next week.’
‘Good for you and about time,’ I say with a twinge of envy. The lucky people who put our changes onto the Quark pages have a marginally more interesting job and they get to work in the office, which is above us, the pariahs of the boardroom. But then Mary has been there on and off for a year, and her loyalty should be rewarded. I reprimand myself, the last thing I need right now is to wallow in self-pity.
Monday 23 January, 2006
5.31.12PM
So I spent Monday afternoon writing about some fizzy tablets that claimed to perk you up so you could recover your ‘get up and go’ attitude and forget all about modern stresses... yeah, right, I thought while I tried to find some interesting causes of stress to spice my copy with. Perhaps working in a cupboard might work as number one.
On Tuesday I received glowing feedback and was given copy to edit about a multi-vitamins brochure and other bits and pieces that kept me occupied till the end. I wrote, guzzled free hot drinks, taking pleasure in ordering the most expensive coffee combos from Starbucks and was quite happy, despite the fact that I was still stuck in the cupboard.
Fenella was off and nobody had bothered to fix me a space elsewhere. Wednesday was much the same, same space, more health copy, more pricey coffees. I started to enjoy the fact that I was left alone to get on with it, it is far worse when the chief sub is constantly breathing on your neck with faux-kind enquiries such as: ‘So, how are you doing with that feature on the menopause’ and giving me premature hot flushes as I attempt to cut ten lines, write the headline and sell and give it a final read in under half an hour.
There wasn’t any sociable vibe in the air anyway, people worked with their heads down and their bums stuck to their seats. I hardly saw them leaving their stations to go to the toilet or wander around the water dispenser. They must be as well seasoned as camels. I nearly felt like a freak with my regular toilet and drink breaks.
Fenella called Selina on Thursday to give her some instructions for me and to apologise for leaving me all alone in the cupboard, but they were all struggling to finish the project on time and she hoped I didn’t mind pitching in. I refrained from glaring when Selina related all this - if there’s one thing I hate it’s when they treat you like a freelancer (dodgy desk, no perks) but try to make you work as hard as a staffer (unpaid overtime, unrealistic workload, scary deadline, bitching about you when you’re not there). I ended up working late on Thursday like everybody else. To add insult to injury, the staff were able to order some food in, but there was no budget for me. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Selina, maybe we can share some vegetarian noodles,’ she offered. I resorted to scoffing the packet of biscuits out of my kit.
On Friday morning Fenella stepped in the cupboard, apologised profusely about the food mishap and invited me to join the team at a bar for free drinks and nibbles. ‘It’s the least I can do, so sorry for the food and for leaving you in the cupboard for a week. I am quite happy with your work and I will definitely call you again. The good news is that thanks to yesterday’s hard graft, we don’t have as much to do today, so you’re free to have a long lunchbreak. Just be back by 3pm to finish off a few bits and bobs.’
I smiled, trying to look grateful but felt like strangling her. I would have preferred to work today and avoid staying late yesterday. And I had lost the chance of a free press screening of a movie I really wanted to see. Still, free drinks, here I come!
Saturday 21 January, 2006
1.26.23PM
I’m in paradise. The sun shines, the sea is blue, I’m holding a frozen margarita in my right hand and adjusting my sunglasses with my left. A tanned hunk is sprawled on a towel by my side and I feel fabulous. Then an irritating beep, beep, beep shatters the blue sky. I get up and look out of the window, it’s threatening rain, again! I am about to dash downstairs for a shower when I realise it’s Saturday.
My flatmate Andy pops out of his room. ‘Bloody hell, why do you have to get up this early on a Saturday?’ He mutters and I go back to bed, where it all comes back to me. Yesterday it was my last day at the ad agency and they had a do to celebrate the end of the project, so last night I came back a bit worse for wear and set the alarm clock by mistake.
And what a week it has been! I stumbled into Creative Biz on Monday afternoon, my body black and blue from the fall and was taken to the stationery cupboard by a posh work experience girl called Selina. There was a computer on a rickety desk and a dodgy chair. Instinctively, I looked up to check if there was an air-conditioning vent above, too.
Yes, don’t you love it when they run out of space and you get the spare desk, the one with the slow computer, the torture chair and the freezing aircon vent above? But forewarned is forearmed and I always carry a freelance survival kit. So when Selina left, I inflated my plastic cushion, sat on it, switched the computer on and awaited my briefing. Five minutes passed and nobody came. So I tried to log onto the internet and found that there was no connection. Great, I muttered. How am I going to know if anybody emails me about any work?
I grabbed my bag and made my way towards the kitchen to get a hot drink. I opened a few cupboards, but there was nothing there, except a solitary kettle and running water. I got a mug, tea bag, plastic spoon and dried milk sachet from my kit (even bints, like scouts, have to be prepared sometimes) and made myself a cup of tea. When I stepped back into my cubby-hole, a glamorous brunette was waiting for me and gave my cuppa a funny look.
‘Oh, how organised,’ she gushed, ‘but didn’t Selina say that we have a free account at Starbucks? You ring the number on the phone and they deliver.’ Then she looked at the desk and realised there was no phone. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just for today, you’ll get a proper desk tomorrow.’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘My name is Fenella, I’m the creative director for this project. Anyhow, you will find the work that needs doing in the folder called To Do on the Special Projects Server. Save a copy on your desktop and when you’ve finished, just pop your version into Done.’
‘Do you have a particular house style?’ I asked.
‘Style? Of course you need plenty of style, it’s a major health account. Today you’ll be writing bits and pieces for us. I hope it’s OK, your CV says you also write.’
‘Yes, I did advertorials for several women’s magazines. Can I ask, where did you get my CV? I don’t remember sending it to you.’
‘Oh, it was emailed to me. A friend’s friend who works at a magazine with a technical name, I think it’s in Surrey or somewhere like that. He positively recommended you. Anyhow, must dash now, give Selina a shout if you want a drink, she sits by the door.’
‘Thanks.’
When she’s gone, I sink back into my inflatable cushion in disbelief, it could only be the bloke from Plastic Bulletin! Dull like ditchwater and located in the sticks, but £170 a day covers the train fare nicely.
Monday 16 January, 2006
5.46.21PM
Yep, it’s January, the time of drought. December was a mad scramble of triple bookings, turning down work I’d kill for, except I’d been booked by the cunning chief sub of Plastic Bulletin two months before and I’d never cancel. Damn, I could have worked for Fashionista instead, in the heart of the West End! But it’s first come, first served and I don’t want to upset people, you never know, the glossies might cut their freelance budget, while bread-and-butter subbing gigs at boring trade mags are up for grabs most of the time.
Except now — after spending two weeks at home, patting my festive stomach and trying to resist switching the TV on, I’ve reached my breaking point. I’ve emailed all the magazines I could think of with no result. And I am about to get a huge credit card bill for my Crimbo holiday at a five-star hotel in Rome. It’s going to be grim if I don’t land some work soon.
As I reach for a digestive biscuit to dunk in my tea, my mobile phone rings in the distance. Work? Shit, I left it downstairs in the loo. I run down the stairs in my slippers, skid and do the steps on my back, my bum dusting them all the way down. As I lay down, stunned, the mobile stops. Wincing, I drag myself on all fours towards the loo, grab the mobile and breathe a sigh of relief when I realise the caller has left a message.
I listen to the voicemail while aching all over and yes, it’s somebody wanting me to go in… today! I call them back and say I’ll be there in an hour. I drag myself upstairs, feeling like I’ve been tramped all over by an elephant. My back aches, my bum is bruised and I twisted my right foot, but yes, I will be going to work. It’s a new client and I’m not letting this opportunity slip through my fingers!
|
|
A R C H I V E
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|