For some bizarre reason, I remember it with frightening clarity.
May 17th 2004.
A Monday, in fact. The weather was clement. My boyfriend of a mere two days had come round and we spent the day in the garden, chatting and generally finding out more about each other. We sat there on the bench by my Fat Dad's shed, enjoying the sunshine and topping up our tans. I tried not to scream every time a bee came near me, as I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of this young man I was supposed to be impressing. I failed miserably.
We drank Malibu and Coke, which is probably what attracted the bees in the first place. We listened to Don Henley’s Boys Of Summer... And some cheesy-pop shite that he’d bought in HMV on the way over. My tubby next-door neighbour came out and hung some clothes on her washing line. She said ‘Hello’. I didn’t.
(Three and a half years ago – Why do I still remember details like that?!)
And then the phone rang. I dashed into the house to pick it up, and in doing so remembered I’d drunk pretty much a whole bottle of Malibu. I tried desperately not to slur my words as I answered the call:
- “Hello, can I speak to Wayne please?”
- “Ssshhhhhhhhhpeaking...”
It was Yvonne. Lovely, lovely Yvonne. She was ringing to inform me that I had got the job of News Analyst at a below-par media monitoring company based in Bromley. I was ecstatic.
- “Thank you ssshhhoo muchhh, I can sshhhhtart on Wednessshhhday”
It seems weird now, but I was genuinely over the moon. I’d been unemployed for about seven months, and it was really getting me down. The Fat Dad had been ever-so politely requesting that I might want to “GET A FUCKING JOB!” every single day of those seven months. I’d had rejection letter after rejection letter, and when I did finally get some interviews, I managed to cock them up spectacularly. Mainly by just attending. And now I had a new gentleman in my life, I was in need of a bit of dollar to subsidise our ‘wild party lifestyle’.
So getting that phone call from Yvonne – lovely, lovely Yvonne – was a turning point. Pathetic as it may sound, May 17th 2004 was one of the happiest days of my life. Well... Certainly in the Top 500. Maybe? Possibly?
Except then, of course, came the reality. Working nights AND weekends was never going to be a barrel of fun, but even I - pessimist that I am - failed to comprehend just how bad it would be. I missed out on random nights of drinking, I lost touch with friends purely because I was never free to see them... My health suffered, as it does with most people on nights. (I mean, look at Marilyn – Nothing to do with the 87 cigarettes she smokes a day. NO – purely down to night work!)
I lost all my energy and enthusiasm – I just felt like a zombie. And any relationships I found myself in seemed to crash and burn spectacularly. Not that I’m blaming it ALL on night work – Me being a twat probably had a lot more to do with it! But the stupid working hours certainly didn’t help matters. I was always tired or too busy sleeping to do anything fun. Too tired to do anything other than laze around watching TV and eating pizza. And sooner or later, that was bound to cause problems. Everything became a bit too routine. A bit too boring.
I should have left the company after the first relationship died a death, but I enjoyed the job. And I was good at it. (Totally 100% amazing, I’m sure you’ll all agree!) Pay rises, promotions and a four-day week all convinced me to stick around. Tricked me into thinking that things would get better. It was a bit like being an abused wife. I’d put up with all the shit just for that little glimmer of hope. It was like being Little Mo to Eggplant’s Trevor. We’d have a falling out, Eggplant would make good by saying nice things about me or offering me a pay rise, then out of nowhere things would deteriorate and Eggplant would shove my face in the Christmas dinner or rape me on the bathroom floor.
But nothing the company offered could give me back my energy, or my weekends, or my social life, or my ability to hold down a relationship. So after three and a half years, I think it’s about time I reclaimed all those things.
30th November 2007.
A Friday, in fact. The weather may or may not be clement, but either way, it will be my last-ever night shift at a below-par media monitoring company. After three and a half years, I am heading to pastures new.
Given the negative impact the job has had on all aspects of my life, you would think I’d be overjoyed. Yet, for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s fear of change (as per usual) or maybe it’s just because – despite everything – there are certain things I’m really going to miss...
The people. (No, REALLY! Stop sniggering at the back!)
Not everyone, obviously. Let’s face it, the night-shift is blessed with a few odd sorts. But there are a few people I’m going to miss working with. I’m certainly going to miss Dave and his lovely collection of ridiculous sighs/grunts/cusses/bodily excretions. John The Paper “Boy” and his amazing musical bumhole. Donna and her early morning rants! (I actually WILL miss Donna – She made me chuckle for the last two hours of every shift, which was certainly needed at 6am!)
I will miss reading the papers, particularly the Mariella Frostrup column. And Vicky & Octavia in Stella Magazine! And the bloke from the Gucci adverts!
:-p
I’ll also miss bitching about the ineptitude of certain management-type people, which was a popular pastime and pretty much helped get me through the night! And I do have some fond memories. Mainly every day Perry came into the office wearing just a vest! And CERTAINLY the day Mr C came into the office with his tits hanging out of a mothballed-cardigan! Such visual treats!
There was the ‘salacious gossip’ about a former Big Boss Man. It shocked us to the very core, so it did.
Happy memories of sneaking off with my mobile phone to receive drunken texts of varying sauciness, then going back into the office as if nothing had happened!
FIFTY whole hours of awake-ness, due to work, REM concert and then work again. By the end of the shift I was dribbling, falling in and out of sleep, and hallucinating that I’d entered the names of people I know into the Journalist field by mistake. My GOD, that was a long fifty hours!
Dirty Kebabs with Mr Soo. The constant cries of "Can I go home now?" from Chris. Geoff's first-day snottage. Melvin and Perry furnishing the nightshift with seventy-twelve bags of chips after the Christmas Party. The Pretty One from Dayshift who I may have ever-so-slightly, just a little bit, lusted over every now and then. Wonder what happened to him...?
New Years Eve... Staggering back from Geoff’s, pissed as a bollock and deciding not to go home to sleep. Instead, I decided to make my way to the office (as it was nearer than my house) and sleep on the floor in Yvonne’s office – lovely, lovely Yvonne – before waking at 10am with dribble all over my face and terrible backache from the nasty, hard floor.
But without a shadow of a doubt, my favourite time at Eggplant was the whole ‘Jill/Dennis’ Era during 2006.
Infuriating and hilarious in equal measure, it was five months of ridiculous accusations (“Boys Club!”), wonderful questions (“What do you mean by ‘Click On The Start Menu’?!”) and mind-numbing stupidity (Have you seen Jill try and use a mouse?!)
Dennis was okay, if a little thick (as shit) but JILL... JILL and her Pretty Left Tit... My GOD, that woman was a fucking nightmare!! I just couldn’t believe how annoyed and amused I could be by one person. I wouldn’t stop ranting about her. Even at home! If Jill knew how many post-coital conversations she’d popped up in, I think she’d be stunned... And a little afraid. But I just couldn’t stop talking about her absolute, unequivocal, unbeatable retardation. It was probably one of the reasons my other half stopped asking me how my day had been... For fear I’d just launch into another tirade! He felt he knew Jill so well he was tempted to invite her along for Christmas Dinner! (And her Guardian-poster collecting daughter! What a Christmas that would have been!)
Jill and her Pretty Left Tit. If nothing else, she added a little excitement to the shift. It was fun guessing who she’d make a complaint against next! It was a sad day when she was asked to leave the company. I miss her so.
Who knows... Maybe she’ll be there waiting for me at my new place of work?! We can but hope...
So, that’s that. The end of an era. (‘Pull your baby nearer...’)
And the weird thing is, even though I KNOW it’s for the best, I’m still quite sad about it. Part of me doesn’t know how to end this entry. Part of me doesn’t want to end it. It becomes final then, I guess. No turning back.
Maybe that’s why I’m still typing.... Still typing... Still typing... Still typing...
May 17th 2004.
A Monday, in fact. The weather was clement. My boyfriend of a mere two days had come round and we spent the day in the garden, chatting and generally finding out more about each other. We sat there on the bench by my Fat Dad's shed, enjoying the sunshine and topping up our tans. I tried not to scream every time a bee came near me, as I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of this young man I was supposed to be impressing. I failed miserably.
We drank Malibu and Coke, which is probably what attracted the bees in the first place. We listened to Don Henley’s Boys Of Summer... And some cheesy-pop shite that he’d bought in HMV on the way over. My tubby next-door neighbour came out and hung some clothes on her washing line. She said ‘Hello’. I didn’t.
(Three and a half years ago – Why do I still remember details like that?!)
And then the phone rang. I dashed into the house to pick it up, and in doing so remembered I’d drunk pretty much a whole bottle of Malibu. I tried desperately not to slur my words as I answered the call:
- “Hello, can I speak to Wayne please?”
- “Ssshhhhhhhhhpeaking...”
It was Yvonne. Lovely, lovely Yvonne. She was ringing to inform me that I had got the job of News Analyst at a below-par media monitoring company based in Bromley. I was ecstatic.
- “Thank you ssshhhoo muchhh, I can sshhhhtart on Wednessshhhday”
It seems weird now, but I was genuinely over the moon. I’d been unemployed for about seven months, and it was really getting me down. The Fat Dad had been ever-so politely requesting that I might want to “GET A FUCKING JOB!” every single day of those seven months. I’d had rejection letter after rejection letter, and when I did finally get some interviews, I managed to cock them up spectacularly. Mainly by just attending. And now I had a new gentleman in my life, I was in need of a bit of dollar to subsidise our ‘wild party lifestyle’.
So getting that phone call from Yvonne – lovely, lovely Yvonne – was a turning point. Pathetic as it may sound, May 17th 2004 was one of the happiest days of my life. Well... Certainly in the Top 500. Maybe? Possibly?
Except then, of course, came the reality. Working nights AND weekends was never going to be a barrel of fun, but even I - pessimist that I am - failed to comprehend just how bad it would be. I missed out on random nights of drinking, I lost touch with friends purely because I was never free to see them... My health suffered, as it does with most people on nights. (I mean, look at Marilyn – Nothing to do with the 87 cigarettes she smokes a day. NO – purely down to night work!)
I lost all my energy and enthusiasm – I just felt like a zombie. And any relationships I found myself in seemed to crash and burn spectacularly. Not that I’m blaming it ALL on night work – Me being a twat probably had a lot more to do with it! But the stupid working hours certainly didn’t help matters. I was always tired or too busy sleeping to do anything fun. Too tired to do anything other than laze around watching TV and eating pizza. And sooner or later, that was bound to cause problems. Everything became a bit too routine. A bit too boring.
I should have left the company after the first relationship died a death, but I enjoyed the job. And I was good at it. (Totally 100% amazing, I’m sure you’ll all agree!) Pay rises, promotions and a four-day week all convinced me to stick around. Tricked me into thinking that things would get better. It was a bit like being an abused wife. I’d put up with all the shit just for that little glimmer of hope. It was like being Little Mo to Eggplant’s Trevor. We’d have a falling out, Eggplant would make good by saying nice things about me or offering me a pay rise, then out of nowhere things would deteriorate and Eggplant would shove my face in the Christmas dinner or rape me on the bathroom floor.
But nothing the company offered could give me back my energy, or my weekends, or my social life, or my ability to hold down a relationship. So after three and a half years, I think it’s about time I reclaimed all those things.
30th November 2007.
A Friday, in fact. The weather may or may not be clement, but either way, it will be my last-ever night shift at a below-par media monitoring company. After three and a half years, I am heading to pastures new.
Given the negative impact the job has had on all aspects of my life, you would think I’d be overjoyed. Yet, for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s fear of change (as per usual) or maybe it’s just because – despite everything – there are certain things I’m really going to miss...
The people. (No, REALLY! Stop sniggering at the back!)
Not everyone, obviously. Let’s face it, the night-shift is blessed with a few odd sorts. But there are a few people I’m going to miss working with. I’m certainly going to miss Dave and his lovely collection of ridiculous sighs/grunts/cusses/bodily excretions. John The Paper “Boy” and his amazing musical bumhole. Donna and her early morning rants! (I actually WILL miss Donna – She made me chuckle for the last two hours of every shift, which was certainly needed at 6am!)
I will miss reading the papers, particularly the Mariella Frostrup column. And Vicky & Octavia in Stella Magazine! And the bloke from the Gucci adverts!
:-p
I’ll also miss bitching about the ineptitude of certain management-type people, which was a popular pastime and pretty much helped get me through the night! And I do have some fond memories. Mainly every day Perry came into the office wearing just a vest! And CERTAINLY the day Mr C came into the office with his tits hanging out of a mothballed-cardigan! Such visual treats!
There was the ‘salacious gossip’ about a former Big Boss Man. It shocked us to the very core, so it did.
Happy memories of sneaking off with my mobile phone to receive drunken texts of varying sauciness, then going back into the office as if nothing had happened!
FIFTY whole hours of awake-ness, due to work, REM concert and then work again. By the end of the shift I was dribbling, falling in and out of sleep, and hallucinating that I’d entered the names of people I know into the Journalist field by mistake. My GOD, that was a long fifty hours!
Dirty Kebabs with Mr Soo. The constant cries of "Can I go home now?" from Chris. Geoff's first-day snottage. Melvin and Perry furnishing the nightshift with seventy-twelve bags of chips after the Christmas Party. The Pretty One from Dayshift who I may have ever-so-slightly, just a little bit, lusted over every now and then. Wonder what happened to him...?
New Years Eve... Staggering back from Geoff’s, pissed as a bollock and deciding not to go home to sleep. Instead, I decided to make my way to the office (as it was nearer than my house) and sleep on the floor in Yvonne’s office – lovely, lovely Yvonne – before waking at 10am with dribble all over my face and terrible backache from the nasty, hard floor.
But without a shadow of a doubt, my favourite time at Eggplant was the whole ‘Jill/Dennis’ Era during 2006.
Infuriating and hilarious in equal measure, it was five months of ridiculous accusations (“Boys Club!”), wonderful questions (“What do you mean by ‘Click On The Start Menu’?!”) and mind-numbing stupidity (Have you seen Jill try and use a mouse?!)
Dennis was okay, if a little thick (as shit) but JILL... JILL and her Pretty Left Tit... My GOD, that woman was a fucking nightmare!! I just couldn’t believe how annoyed and amused I could be by one person. I wouldn’t stop ranting about her. Even at home! If Jill knew how many post-coital conversations she’d popped up in, I think she’d be stunned... And a little afraid. But I just couldn’t stop talking about her absolute, unequivocal, unbeatable retardation. It was probably one of the reasons my other half stopped asking me how my day had been... For fear I’d just launch into another tirade! He felt he knew Jill so well he was tempted to invite her along for Christmas Dinner! (And her Guardian-poster collecting daughter! What a Christmas that would have been!)
Jill and her Pretty Left Tit. If nothing else, she added a little excitement to the shift. It was fun guessing who she’d make a complaint against next! It was a sad day when she was asked to leave the company. I miss her so.
Who knows... Maybe she’ll be there waiting for me at my new place of work?! We can but hope...
So, that’s that. The end of an era. (‘Pull your baby nearer...’)
And the weird thing is, even though I KNOW it’s for the best, I’m still quite sad about it. Part of me doesn’t know how to end this entry. Part of me doesn’t want to end it. It becomes final then, I guess. No turning back.
Maybe that’s why I’m still typing.... Still typing... Still typing... Still typing...
