In my old life I fancied myself a budding career woman, a lady on a path to pinstripe suits, high heels and a personal secretary. Currently I am as far from that as a newborn is to taking its first steps. My career is sitting on a shelf; my MacBook swapped for a cash register and a delivery vehicle. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Stress used to be glamorous. Defeating deadlines and trying to be my creative best was a heady mix which left me feeling that I was inching closer towards the corporate somebody I wanted to be. Presently the most worrying parts of my day include ensuring that the goods are nicely wrapped and that I keep the peace with the GPS lady.
As banal as this may seem, truthfully it is the most stressful job that I have ever had. The task of correctly apportioning stock, cutting it evenly, wrapping it, taping orders, writing postage addresses onto boxes and finding my way around town is taxing enough to induce premature ageing. And if I'm honest, apart from discovering that I'm a pretty good sales woman, I'm pretty crap at everything else, especially the driving.
In fairness, I have never believed myself to be a terribly good driver. I'm ok. Safe enough. Not too bad, or so I thought. London has however taught me otherwise. Don't believe me? How's this for a track record (bearing in mind I've only been driving in London for about 2 months):
• 1 x unfortunate incident which led to a smashed side window
• 1 x puncture which cost over £600 to repair
• 2x flat battery incidents
• 1 x £60 parking fine
• 1 x £120 parking fine
... and so the list goes on, leaving me feeling like the worst employee my boss has ever hired. In fact, I am sure that if it weren't for my baby-blues and dashing smile Bryan would have let me go within days.
I'm beginning to think that may actually have been a good thing, especially since nowadays, every time I announce that I need to talk to him his reply is: 'Perton, what have you done to the car?' Fair enough, I'm a deserving candidate for such lack of faith.
Unfortunately, so adamant am I to prove to my boss that I'm not a complete write-off, this throw away comment has my stomach in knots. Driving has become one of my bigger fears. It's not helped any by the lying GPS lady who has me going down one way streets and inventing roads that don't exist. She has cast an invisible leash around my neck and seems adamant she's going to navigate me off London Bridge (or anything higher) if she's able. As against the idea as I am, if she succeeds then I do hope I don't survive the fall. I simply couldn't bear another one of those saddened head shakes and 'Oh Perton, what now?' sighs from Bryan.
It used to be about typos and bad design, sending artwork to the printers late or explaining to irate clients why it was that something went wrong with their ad. These days it's about cellotape, cling film and dented doors, which begs the question: 'how the hell did I get here?'
Please understand that I ask this in the most humoured sense. Looking at my situation from a distance it is amusing. I have fallen so far from the mark that it's as if I've landed in a field that's miles from civilisation. As I look about me all that churns around in my head, is 'how on earth do I get back?'
I think it's a good question to be asking and one that I'll be addressing in the weeks to come. This sleepwalker has woken and is rubbing the mildew from her eyes and for now all that she can say is that despite the fact that she likes the view that she has from her sitting position on the fence she reckons that now is probably a good time to shit or get off the pot.
L
Stress used to be glamorous. Defeating deadlines and trying to be my creative best was a heady mix which left me feeling that I was inching closer towards the corporate somebody I wanted to be. Presently the most worrying parts of my day include ensuring that the goods are nicely wrapped and that I keep the peace with the GPS lady.
As banal as this may seem, truthfully it is the most stressful job that I have ever had. The task of correctly apportioning stock, cutting it evenly, wrapping it, taping orders, writing postage addresses onto boxes and finding my way around town is taxing enough to induce premature ageing. And if I'm honest, apart from discovering that I'm a pretty good sales woman, I'm pretty crap at everything else, especially the driving.
In fairness, I have never believed myself to be a terribly good driver. I'm ok. Safe enough. Not too bad, or so I thought. London has however taught me otherwise. Don't believe me? How's this for a track record (bearing in mind I've only been driving in London for about 2 months):
• 1 x unfortunate incident which led to a smashed side window
• 1 x puncture which cost over £600 to repair
• 2x flat battery incidents
• 1 x £60 parking fine
• 1 x £120 parking fine
... and so the list goes on, leaving me feeling like the worst employee my boss has ever hired. In fact, I am sure that if it weren't for my baby-blues and dashing smile Bryan would have let me go within days.
I'm beginning to think that may actually have been a good thing, especially since nowadays, every time I announce that I need to talk to him his reply is: 'Perton, what have you done to the car?' Fair enough, I'm a deserving candidate for such lack of faith.
Unfortunately, so adamant am I to prove to my boss that I'm not a complete write-off, this throw away comment has my stomach in knots. Driving has become one of my bigger fears. It's not helped any by the lying GPS lady who has me going down one way streets and inventing roads that don't exist. She has cast an invisible leash around my neck and seems adamant she's going to navigate me off London Bridge (or anything higher) if she's able. As against the idea as I am, if she succeeds then I do hope I don't survive the fall. I simply couldn't bear another one of those saddened head shakes and 'Oh Perton, what now?' sighs from Bryan.
It used to be about typos and bad design, sending artwork to the printers late or explaining to irate clients why it was that something went wrong with their ad. These days it's about cellotape, cling film and dented doors, which begs the question: 'how the hell did I get here?'
Please understand that I ask this in the most humoured sense. Looking at my situation from a distance it is amusing. I have fallen so far from the mark that it's as if I've landed in a field that's miles from civilisation. As I look about me all that churns around in my head, is 'how on earth do I get back?'
I think it's a good question to be asking and one that I'll be addressing in the weeks to come. This sleepwalker has woken and is rubbing the mildew from her eyes and for now all that she can say is that despite the fact that she likes the view that she has from her sitting position on the fence she reckons that now is probably a good time to shit or get off the pot.
L
No less of an inspiration online as you are in real life my dear. Keep up the good work and remember, there is no point in getting your knickers in a knot; it won't solve anything and it'll make you walk funny.
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to when next we meet.
x
Nice one buddy!
ReplyDelete