I’m sitting in a lush Moroccan garden in the leafy ambassadorial suburbs of Rabat, cascades of frangipani falling over the razor wire at the top of the fence, behind electric doors and bullet proof shutters, and a hibiscus hedge that drips opulent blooms into the pool that trembles in the heat. Apart from a fountain whispering in the courtyard, nothing disturbs the silence but the kiss of my bare feet on the chilly marble tiles that stretch throughout the house like an ice field.
The maid is in the kitchen, hanging out the clothes in the walled women's quarters, the gardener is in some distant corner of the grounds with a hosepipe and three words of English, the guard who changes three times a day is in his sentry box at the front of the house, and the Ambassador is off, waving the flag on the front of his chauffeur driven BMW, doing something worthy, in a suitably stately fashion.
For the rest of the day, from breakfast until late afternoon when my friend the Ambassador returns and takes me out, I'm here alone with only the Booker short list for company, swinging indolently in a hammock, sipping lemonade.
It's like being in a fairly liberal harem, or rather it would be, had it not been for the eunuch, the other guest at the residence, who refuses to leave me alone.
Every time I turn he's behind me, watching me intently. If I move, he's there, his eyes staring at me like prey. If I go to my room, he needs no excuse to walk in univited, and when my friend comes home at 4pm and calls my name around the echoing marble halls, he comes too, as insistently present as a chaperone.
It's like being stalked.
'I'm sorry, but there's a catch,' my host had said as he drove me back from the airport.'I should have told you before but I didn't want to put you off.'
'What is it?' I asked, fearing his mother who is formidable and not my number one fan. Or then again, it could be his wife. As above, possibly, but since I haven't seen her in twenty years I can't be sure though it's a safe bet she's wondering why I couldn't have gone somewhere else to soothe my battered heart. I didn't even want to broach the anxiety that it might be his children whom I have never met, and who I'm sure are charming and delightful but hadn't been factored in to my plans to escape my own charming and delightful offspring.
'No, no, goodness, my children can't stand it here, and my wife's just gone back. She sends her regards by the way. `And mother's in Paris. She warned me to be careful when I told her you were coming,' he added darkly.
As I said, not my number one fan.
'So, what's the catch?'
'We have a dog at home. It's my daughter's actually, not mine. Definitely not mine, but I seem to be lumbered with it. Do you hate dogs?'
'Noooooo, I don't hate them,' I said, crossing my fingers. 'Is it a great big slobbering thing that's going to jump at me and bark?'
'No, not at all. It only barks a little, and it doesn't really jump. Much.'
'Well as long as it doesn't hump my leg.'
'Of course not,' he said, sounding shocked at the idea, in his aristocratic rich, round, Kenko coffee voice - all dark brown polished mahogany, and reassuring.
'Good, it'll be fine.' I replied, smiling benignly into the Casablanca suburbs...
And then a hundred kilometers down the highway, the armoured gates swung open and the car rolled down the drive, and there waiting for us like a rat on springs was Kiki - the Chihuahua from hell.
Two Malteser eyes on stalks gleamed as he leapt out of the shrubbery like a crazed coke fiend, jumping up and down as though on elastic, his little rodent paws scratching in the air as he yipped and yapped, and jumped and jumped, darting back and forth before unceremoniously scrabbling up the front of my skirt.
'He likes you,' said the Ambassador.
'Perhaps a bit too much,' I suggested as I backed down the path while the animal proceeded to lick my knees, my thighs and my calves, all under cover of my clothing.
'He'll settle down in a minute, Kiki, Kiki, behave yourself,' he said sternly, as the dog, large tufted ears pointed like old fashioned television antenna tuned to a distant channel, continued to lick, yip, pant, lick, bark, jump, lick, yip, pant, and I attempted to hold down enough clothing to maintain the minimum standards of decency in front of the chauffeur, trying to seat myself on a garden chair on the terrace, at which point the dog leapt on to my knee and transferred its attentions to my face with a serious case of dog breath.
'He doesn't take to everyone like this,' the Ambassador assured me.
I tried to look pleased.
He asked me if I had a headache.
Obviously pain and pleasure are close cousins.
I took a tumbler with a centimeter of brandy in it as my friend joined me with his own drink. Immediately the dog was between us, licking us in turn until it was placed on the ground where it proceeded to lick every one of my toes, individually. I tried to kick him away. Casually - as though I had a twitch on my foot but he was stuck to me like leg wax. His tongue was fly paper.
'Can I get you something to eat?' my friend said, rising and going inside to see what he could offer me since the maid had left for the day. 'Come into the kitchen and see what you would like.'
I rose to follow him and then stopped, unable to drag myself away.
'What's the matter, is everything all right?' he asked, coming back to help me.
But I still couldn't move.
The bloody dog was humping my leg.
Since then, I've managed to keep him at a safe distance but only if I make sure my feet are above the ground as much as possible. Hiding in the jaw of the hammock he can't reach me but whimpers underneath instead. At night he scratches at my bedroom door and cries to be let in, then has to be forceably dragged away or bribed with dog biscuits and locked in the Ambassador's bedroom. It's quite a sight to see a very senior diplomat (who was once the nerdy student who set fire to my kitchen making cheese fondue) in a monogrammed dressing gown dancing down a marble hallway slapping his thigh and snapping his fingers calling 'Kiki, Kiki' in a falsetto sing-song voice, trying to coax, usually in vain, a small manic chihuahau hanging by his bared teeth from my door handle.
I mean, it's not that it hasn't been on my list of things to do before I die to have a male beg to be let into my bedroom, but I didn't anticipate it having triangular ears and a tail.
And all this is played out to the background of the Ambassador, as a respectable married man being absolutely appalled that the maid, the gardener or the guard might think that there was anything going on between he and I since, rabid rat-faced dog and three staff apart, we are alone in the house. So an exclusion zone of at least three feet is maintained at all times, even in the pool, with much loud soliliquising in French and Arabic being made to seemingly empty rooms every time we inadvertently touch whilst, say - for instance - passing a tea cup, or watching television together - most of which, thanks to aforementioned rabid rat-face dog, are unnecessary since it is usually boinging up and down, panting, in the middle of us.
Until one night there was a thunderstorm and the lights went out and rabid rat face became hysterical walking on back legs, somersaulting, yipping, yapping, shivering, quaking rat face in my bed, into which it slipped while I was brushing my teeth, refusing to come out and leaping all over me like a freaked out mini gazelle.
It was like something out of the Hammer House of Dog Horror.
'Monsieur Ambassador, will please come and get your *ing stupid *ing dog,' I yelled down the thundercracking, lightening lit hall.
'It's not my dog, I keep telling you,' came his distant voice as, CRACK, flash, CRACK, yip, bark, whine, he eventually roused himself from his own dog-free quarters, and padded towards me from the other end of the house in, I noticed, matching monogrammed slippers (who, for *s sake stops to put slippers and a dressing gown when a woman calls out your name in the middle of a thunderstorm? This is how innocent victims in ripper films get their throats cut).
'Shh,' he hissed, 'you'll wake the servants,' and walked into my room to try and lift the offending, offensive animal that was, by now, making retching sounds of fear and welded to my arm (the legs were under the covers).
Then the downstairs door clicked.
The animal went silent for a second and began to howl in earnest.
My friend walked out on to the landing outside my bedroom and peered through the gloom into the hall down the curl of the staircase, just as the light snapped on and there stood the gardener.
There followed a long exchange in Fran-abic during which he attempted to explain that the dog was upset by the storm, while the animal fell suddenly and dutifully quiet, and tapped his little claws daintily, skipping out to stick his snout through the banister, wagging his tail as though he hadn't a care in the world.
'Well, that was embarrassing,' he said, returning with a face as red as his robe as Kiki skipped back to my bed and after a few circuits of the pillow, curled up peacefully beside me. and attempted to lick my face.
Yep, irresistible to dogs. That’s me.
Or at least sex-crazed Chihuahuas.
Sunday 28 September 2008
Tuesday 23 September 2008
Out of office...
I’m away from my desk.
Should you wish to contact me urgently during my absence please refer first to these FAQ:
1. There is no paper.
Yes there is.
2. There are no lightbulbs.
You’re right.
3. The photocopier isn’t working.
Too bad, huh?
4. You want a lift home (and you are a family member).
No.
5. You want a lift home (and you are not a family member, but suddenly have a pressing desire to see me on the night you arrive back from Heathrow).
Damn, no.
6. You want to submit your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words.
You can’t.
7. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet.
Consider the possibility that it’s a no, then.
8. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet, so now you want to complain.
Call my ex-husband, my sister, my former friend Laura, my ex-lover’s wife or the marketing consultant from Barking with whom I unwisely went on a date, all of whom would be only too pleased to add their own, very personal, comments on my shortcomings.
Alternatively, you can wait and I will deal with your emails when I get back, along with 2,000 offers of fake Rolexes, pharmacy assured Vicodin, Viagra and Regaine (at massive discounts), and ways to increase my size, girth and popularity.
Clearly, only the last is pertinent.
Meanwhile, dear callers, I will be in Morocco, going forward into the past.
Please leave a message...
Should you wish to contact me urgently during my absence please refer first to these FAQ:
1. There is no paper.
Yes there is.
2. There are no lightbulbs.
You’re right.
3. The photocopier isn’t working.
Too bad, huh?
4. You want a lift home (and you are a family member).
No.
5. You want a lift home (and you are not a family member, but suddenly have a pressing desire to see me on the night you arrive back from Heathrow).
Damn, no.
6. You want to submit your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words.
You can’t.
7. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet.
Consider the possibility that it’s a no, then.
8. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet, so now you want to complain.
Call my ex-husband, my sister, my former friend Laura, my ex-lover’s wife or the marketing consultant from Barking with whom I unwisely went on a date, all of whom would be only too pleased to add their own, very personal, comments on my shortcomings.
Alternatively, you can wait and I will deal with your emails when I get back, along with 2,000 offers of fake Rolexes, pharmacy assured Vicodin, Viagra and Regaine (at massive discounts), and ways to increase my size, girth and popularity.
Clearly, only the last is pertinent.
Meanwhile, dear callers, I will be in Morocco, going forward into the past.
Please leave a message...
Monday 22 September 2008
Covert Action
Sarah - tall, strikingly beautiful and the first person I see every morning when I walk into the office, already at her desk, crouched over her computer screen where I fear they keep her chained over the weekend, has touchingly introduced me to one of her best friends - a man who works around the corner.
We exchanged a few emails and arranged to meet when I come back from Morocco. He suggested a bar nearby where, about ten years ago, I once arrived early to meet my now ex-husband, and found him sitting in a club chair waving around a cigarette.
Until then, I hadn't known he smoked.
I was wondering how we would recognise each other given that I apparently don't know the most basic details about men with whom I've raised children and owned goldfish, and he suggested that he would carry a copy of a book written by one of his authors, and that I should bring the White Tiger.
How Bloomsbury can you get? I can just see the ad in the London Review of Books personals.
Aspiring author seeks literary gent for mutual neuroses.
I thought it was sweet, though a tad risky, perhaps, to rely on carrying a book in this neighbourhood as a means of recognition. If you go to the Coach and Horses any lunchtime every second man has a hardback in his hand. (That sounded better in my head - vaguely obscene when you write it down.) Horrible memories of meeting the bald French photographer in the coffee shop in South Kensington came back when I turned up to discover that every man in the place was bald, and two of them had cameras, plus they were all French since I'd stupidly chosen the Institut Francais.
I shuddered inwardly as I pictured myself mincing around the bar in the high heels that vanity would dictate I wore, walking up to one man after another saying: 'Oh you must be... Ah, no - The Clothes on her Back - sorry, my mistake.'
I quickly reacquainted myself with the cover of the book by Googling it and then, once it was committed to memory - got on with my busy, busy morning. I've since realised that I could more simply have Googled the man himself. He's there. Talking, even. I should have done my research.
Mel, our intern had brought in a box of chocolates to thank us for graciously letting her work for free and do all the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and the lovely glossy package was 'in the usual place' - ie beside the franking machine which I assure you is the only time any of the Chiefs ever go near it - I swear they think its function is in some way linked to dispensing chocolate biscuits. This, of course, meant that much of my work that morning involved weighing a great many unnecessary envelopes and walking past the postbag on numerous occasions. It was a very large box of truffles and it seemed only fair to sample all the different varieties.
Ah - if only those people with the 2:1 in English from regional universities who are so keen to work for nothing in publishing knew that the real way to ingratiate themselves was to buy confectionary. To hell with all the 'passionate about books' stuff (and while we're on the subject, do yourselves a favour with your superior 2:1 command of English literature chaps and chapettes and come up with something different because everybody says that - it's about as original as Hugh Heffner saying he loves women and no woman wants to loved simply because of her mammaries - I fear the books feel the same).
I cut through the slush pile with a letter knife - it's like a slasher film but with a stapler, sent out a couple of proof copies, gave Mel a few really important jobs to do (believe me, if I'm delegating tasks then you can only imagine the depths to which the heroic girl is sinking) when a messenger came in: a white Rasta with dreads in a tall crustie hat who flushed with annoyance when I asked him who the packages were for. He looked at the address labels and clammed up, then refused to meet my eye as he threw them at my desk. It only occurred to me later that perhaps the poor guy couldn't read. It would be tasteless to suggest that he would be ideally placed to manage the slush pile and, in my defence, just to point out that I've done lots of literacy work over the years, the slush pile not being one of them. That would be an oxymoron.
Next a rep came in for a meeting with the sales team, Penguin New Zealand were passing by later, a large delivery of boxes arrived in reception, and just as I was padding past the franking machine for the Chocolate Cappuccino Cream with Crepes (bizarre but delicious) in my stocking feet, falling out of my dress which was askew from wrestling with the recycling, my hair waving angrily all over the place like a mob of Islamic fundamentalists at a rally, another man walked into the office, handed me a parcel then backed out wearing an alarmed and bemused expression.
Fifteen minutes later - Ping - an email arrived.
It was from lovely friend and said: 'I think we’ve already met. I just handed you a package for Sarah. '
Dear Lord of Lard.
At any rate, I don't suppose I need to carry a copy of White Tiger any more. I'm guessing my hair will be enough of a distinguishing feature. If he hasn't entered the witness protection program by then.
We exchanged a few emails and arranged to meet when I come back from Morocco. He suggested a bar nearby where, about ten years ago, I once arrived early to meet my now ex-husband, and found him sitting in a club chair waving around a cigarette.
Until then, I hadn't known he smoked.
I was wondering how we would recognise each other given that I apparently don't know the most basic details about men with whom I've raised children and owned goldfish, and he suggested that he would carry a copy of a book written by one of his authors, and that I should bring the White Tiger.
How Bloomsbury can you get? I can just see the ad in the London Review of Books personals.
Aspiring author seeks literary gent for mutual neuroses.
I thought it was sweet, though a tad risky, perhaps, to rely on carrying a book in this neighbourhood as a means of recognition. If you go to the Coach and Horses any lunchtime every second man has a hardback in his hand. (That sounded better in my head - vaguely obscene when you write it down.) Horrible memories of meeting the bald French photographer in the coffee shop in South Kensington came back when I turned up to discover that every man in the place was bald, and two of them had cameras, plus they were all French since I'd stupidly chosen the Institut Francais.
I shuddered inwardly as I pictured myself mincing around the bar in the high heels that vanity would dictate I wore, walking up to one man after another saying: 'Oh you must be... Ah, no - The Clothes on her Back - sorry, my mistake.'
I quickly reacquainted myself with the cover of the book by Googling it and then, once it was committed to memory - got on with my busy, busy morning. I've since realised that I could more simply have Googled the man himself. He's there. Talking, even. I should have done my research.
Mel, our intern had brought in a box of chocolates to thank us for graciously letting her work for free and do all the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and the lovely glossy package was 'in the usual place' - ie beside the franking machine which I assure you is the only time any of the Chiefs ever go near it - I swear they think its function is in some way linked to dispensing chocolate biscuits. This, of course, meant that much of my work that morning involved weighing a great many unnecessary envelopes and walking past the postbag on numerous occasions. It was a very large box of truffles and it seemed only fair to sample all the different varieties.
Ah - if only those people with the 2:1 in English from regional universities who are so keen to work for nothing in publishing knew that the real way to ingratiate themselves was to buy confectionary. To hell with all the 'passionate about books' stuff (and while we're on the subject, do yourselves a favour with your superior 2:1 command of English literature chaps and chapettes and come up with something different because everybody says that - it's about as original as Hugh Heffner saying he loves women and no woman wants to loved simply because of her mammaries - I fear the books feel the same).
I cut through the slush pile with a letter knife - it's like a slasher film but with a stapler, sent out a couple of proof copies, gave Mel a few really important jobs to do (believe me, if I'm delegating tasks then you can only imagine the depths to which the heroic girl is sinking) when a messenger came in: a white Rasta with dreads in a tall crustie hat who flushed with annoyance when I asked him who the packages were for. He looked at the address labels and clammed up, then refused to meet my eye as he threw them at my desk. It only occurred to me later that perhaps the poor guy couldn't read. It would be tasteless to suggest that he would be ideally placed to manage the slush pile and, in my defence, just to point out that I've done lots of literacy work over the years, the slush pile not being one of them. That would be an oxymoron.
Next a rep came in for a meeting with the sales team, Penguin New Zealand were passing by later, a large delivery of boxes arrived in reception, and just as I was padding past the franking machine for the Chocolate Cappuccino Cream with Crepes (bizarre but delicious) in my stocking feet, falling out of my dress which was askew from wrestling with the recycling, my hair waving angrily all over the place like a mob of Islamic fundamentalists at a rally, another man walked into the office, handed me a parcel then backed out wearing an alarmed and bemused expression.
Fifteen minutes later - Ping - an email arrived.
It was from lovely friend and said: 'I think we’ve already met. I just handed you a package for Sarah. '
Dear Lord of Lard.
At any rate, I don't suppose I need to carry a copy of White Tiger any more. I'm guessing my hair will be enough of a distinguishing feature. If he hasn't entered the witness protection program by then.
Wednesday 17 September 2008
Salt and Vinegar
My neighbour, who I've known since she did a job somewhat like mine, but with audio typing, in the Bloomsbury Triangle, always seemed to have the most glamorous life. There were author parties and author lunches and famous names popping in and out of her office and dropped into our conversations like fish food to a bowl of hungry guppies. And then, since she was also married to a publisher, there were even author parties held in her kitchen, a short dance up the two times table from us and to which I was sometimes lucky enough to be invited.
She has now gone on to run her own list at another publishing house and I've moved up the ranks from restaurant critic to, erm (today) flat pack furniture assembler at the cutting edge of quality literary fiction. (And I do mean cutting - I've discovered that the bread knife makes an excellent box cutter and comes in handy for waving around in a threatening fashion when the bloody bolts won't align and the only man in the place whose salary scale is DIY appropriate informs me that all I need is an Allen key to put the sodding chair together. It's that simple. Apparently. Or he thinks I am.)
Flat pack is one of my few skills so I'm terribly frustrated that nothing is going into the right hole, as it were. I once wrote an article in the Times about how effective I felt putting together Ikea furniture - sort of Lara Croft with a Black & Decker Hammer Drill, and you can eat my dust, baby.
It usually makes me feel like I have balls, but today it has occurred to me that anyone with balls in this place is sitting on a chair, not assembling one. Having balls really means you delegate someone else to do it (or to be fair, around here it's a lot less overt than that - you simply leave it sitting around in a box until another person trying desperately to ingratiate themselves - okay me - caves in and does it for you). It's a whole new acronym - LITSE (Leave It To Someone Else as in - 'Hi, what are you doing this weekend?' 'Oh just a spot of LITSE, you know... while I'm down the pub for a swift half.')
I was struggling to force a ribbed dowel into a plinth (I hope you realise the lengths I am going to here not to resort to sexual innuendo) when Ubereditor came in and said really gratefully: 'Oh you are sweet to do this.'
'No I'm not sweet, I'm a psychotic seething pit of vicious impotent rage, I snapped as the offending orifices still refused to line up.
'Em, I assume with the furniture...' He said hopefully.
'Yes, yes, don't worry, go in peace,' I said to his back as I eventually succeeded in driving the tool home (okay, okay, I failed on the sexual innuendo front).
In the end I managed all but one fairly essential screw. For a small fee I might point out which chair you shouldn't sit in. But then again, I might not.
'So do you like working in publishing?' asks my ex-Faber friendly neighbourhood editor when I went round last night for a look-I've-got-a-proof-copy-of-my-book celebratory drink (not such a novelty to her when almost everyone she knows is an author - and we're glossing, or at least spot UV-ing over the fact that 'working' and 'publishing' in my case is perhaps not entirely accurate).
'I love it, really love it.' I say (thinking please, please don't ask what I actually do there.)
'I wondered whether I might see you at [insert any party you might have been to in the last month with the exception of the one I crashed the other night]...'
Me: incoherent, em well, yes, but, terribly busy, no time for parties, only open other people's invites, muttering, while still trying to look bright and included and really really plugged into the circuit, as oppose to really good with the rawlplugs, darling.
Then she told me she had been out the other night and won Jeremy Irons in a charity auction. As you do.
'Won?'
'Jeremy Irons?'
'Like, to keep?'
'No, just to have a bit of a drink with him...'
'Just?'
'And so what did you do with him?'
'Oh we had great crack.'
Me: Giant swill of wine and furious eating of crisps so as not to burst into tears of envy.
'So, Jeremy Irons, eh what about that?' I said eventually, stuffing even more crisps into my mouth so I wouldn't be tempted to tell her all about the sort of male booby prizes I've been pulling out of the bran tub lately, in competitions I hadn't even realised I had entered, for evenings when the male boobies don't bother to turn up.
'So what was he like?' I crunched, eventually, aiming for an airy, I-mix-with-slebs-al-the-time-darling, all-the-sodding -time, nonchalance.
'Lovely.'
'Mmn'. More and more and more crisps.
I couldn't top that.
I can't remember her ever telling me that she spent her days at Faber spreadeagled on the floor of her Ubereditor's office with a screwdriver in her hands. Surely this isn't what they mean by sitting at the feet of greatness?
No it doesn't, because the Ubereditor's gone out to lunch.
She has now gone on to run her own list at another publishing house and I've moved up the ranks from restaurant critic to, erm (today) flat pack furniture assembler at the cutting edge of quality literary fiction. (And I do mean cutting - I've discovered that the bread knife makes an excellent box cutter and comes in handy for waving around in a threatening fashion when the bloody bolts won't align and the only man in the place whose salary scale is DIY appropriate informs me that all I need is an Allen key to put the sodding chair together. It's that simple. Apparently. Or he thinks I am.)
Flat pack is one of my few skills so I'm terribly frustrated that nothing is going into the right hole, as it were. I once wrote an article in the Times about how effective I felt putting together Ikea furniture - sort of Lara Croft with a Black & Decker Hammer Drill, and you can eat my dust, baby.
It usually makes me feel like I have balls, but today it has occurred to me that anyone with balls in this place is sitting on a chair, not assembling one. Having balls really means you delegate someone else to do it (or to be fair, around here it's a lot less overt than that - you simply leave it sitting around in a box until another person trying desperately to ingratiate themselves - okay me - caves in and does it for you). It's a whole new acronym - LITSE (Leave It To Someone Else as in - 'Hi, what are you doing this weekend?' 'Oh just a spot of LITSE, you know... while I'm down the pub for a swift half.')
I was struggling to force a ribbed dowel into a plinth (I hope you realise the lengths I am going to here not to resort to sexual innuendo) when Ubereditor came in and said really gratefully: 'Oh you are sweet to do this.'
'No I'm not sweet, I'm a psychotic seething pit of vicious impotent rage, I snapped as the offending orifices still refused to line up.
'Em, I assume with the furniture...' He said hopefully.
'Yes, yes, don't worry, go in peace,' I said to his back as I eventually succeeded in driving the tool home (okay, okay, I failed on the sexual innuendo front).
In the end I managed all but one fairly essential screw. For a small fee I might point out which chair you shouldn't sit in. But then again, I might not.
'So do you like working in publishing?' asks my ex-Faber friendly neighbourhood editor when I went round last night for a look-I've-got-a-proof-copy-of-my-book celebratory drink (not such a novelty to her when almost everyone she knows is an author - and we're glossing, or at least spot UV-ing over the fact that 'working' and 'publishing' in my case is perhaps not entirely accurate).
'I love it, really love it.' I say (thinking please, please don't ask what I actually do there.)
'I wondered whether I might see you at [insert any party you might have been to in the last month with the exception of the one I crashed the other night]...'
Me: incoherent, em well, yes, but, terribly busy, no time for parties, only open other people's invites, muttering, while still trying to look bright and included and really really plugged into the circuit, as oppose to really good with the rawlplugs, darling.
Then she told me she had been out the other night and won Jeremy Irons in a charity auction. As you do.
'Won?'
'Jeremy Irons?'
'Like, to keep?'
'No, just to have a bit of a drink with him...'
'Just?'
'And so what did you do with him?'
'Oh we had great crack.'
Me: Giant swill of wine and furious eating of crisps so as not to burst into tears of envy.
'So, Jeremy Irons, eh what about that?' I said eventually, stuffing even more crisps into my mouth so I wouldn't be tempted to tell her all about the sort of male booby prizes I've been pulling out of the bran tub lately, in competitions I hadn't even realised I had entered, for evenings when the male boobies don't bother to turn up.
'So what was he like?' I crunched, eventually, aiming for an airy, I-mix-with-slebs-al-the-time-darling, all-the-sodding -time, nonchalance.
'Lovely.'
'Mmn'. More and more and more crisps.
I couldn't top that.
I can't remember her ever telling me that she spent her days at Faber spreadeagled on the floor of her Ubereditor's office with a screwdriver in her hands. Surely this isn't what they mean by sitting at the feet of greatness?
No it doesn't, because the Ubereditor's gone out to lunch.
Ring Ring
‘Can I speak to your Uuuuuuuuuubereditor, please’
Who’s calling?
‘I'm an aaaaaaaaaagent and I need to ask him about a manuscript I've sent him,’
‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting can I take a message?’
‘Can I leave one?’
‘Yes.’
Silence, while I wait.
‘Okay, go ahead…’ I prompt.
‘Oh doesn’t he have voice mail?’
‘No it’s the old fashioned woman with a pen writing it down method.’
‘Ha ha ha ha ha…. (looooooong silence) …that’s funny.’
You see, all this and stand-up.
Who’s calling?
‘I'm an aaaaaaaaaagent and I need to ask him about a manuscript I've sent him,’
‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting can I take a message?’
‘Can I leave one?’
‘Yes.’
Silence, while I wait.
‘Okay, go ahead…’ I prompt.
‘Oh doesn’t he have voice mail?’
‘No it’s the old fashioned woman with a pen writing it down method.’
‘Ha ha ha ha ha…. (looooooong silence) …that’s funny.’
You see, all this and stand-up.
Tuesday 16 September 2008
On being submissive
A man wid' a wonderful Dutch accent rings and says he has 'yust bought a copy of zee Vriter's Handbook and vould like some clarification of our submission criteria.'
It's at times like these that you wish you came further down the alphabet.
However, I'm all loved up as Australian and South African Ducks are Waddling around the office for a sales conference and a few of them have read my book and liked it, and I've been kissed and hugged, had my photograph taken, and generally felt momentarily elevated from my position of authority as conference room cleaner in which, apparently, Mr T's 'coalition of the willing' consisted of me and me alone.
But the phones are always with us, and I had to drag myself back down to earth but not - spreading the joy, spreading the love - without a radiant, Mother Theresa smile on my face.
And so I didn't snap. Oh no, I waited patiently, enjoying his lovely undulating voice like a gentle fairground ride - gosh I like a Dutchman - and let him get all the way through his question (which was vondering vat the different categories such as history and biography meant) with calm and grace. I then explained, as kindly as though to a child about the limitations of Santa when it comes to wishing for a pony, that the most relevant criteria on our submissions policy was that we don't accept them.
'Oh...' He sounded dejected.
'We only accept submissions from literary agents, so what you should do is look at the section for agents and try there.'
'It's not for me, I'm trying to help a friend, but ve yust weren't sure where to send it. Now, since I've got you on the phone, could you clear something up for me...? If someone has vritten a book about demselves and deir life vat vould ve be calling it?'
A novel with the names changed, I didn't say. 'A memoir, or an autobiography?' I proposed instead.
'Even if it's only about part of der life - for instance der troubled childhood?'
'Yes, it doesn't have to be an exhaustingly comprehensive summary of their entire life.'
'So it vouldn't be, for instance, history?'
'No.'
'And dere isn't a specific yenre for say troubled childhoods?'
Oh dear Lord, I bit my tongue. I swallowed the words misery and that usually associated with it and said no.
'It's yust that dis book is a story about a troubled childhood,'
'So many of them are, unfortunately,' I said, sadly.
'You mean childhoods?'
'Troubled,' I agreed. 'Very troubled.'
'So dere's really no special category for dis?'
Now I could have said, yes, it's usually the top tray on my filing cabinet, overspilling like lava from a volcano of troubled childhoods, but I am mellow, I am empathetic, I feel their pain. It has been mine, albeit usually associated with tales of my miserable life regurgitated as journalism and renamed 'a feature' for £300 a pop.
'But vat if it's vritten in the t'ird person?'
'So it's a personal memoire, about a troubled childhood, written by the person who experienced it but in the third person?'
'Yes.'
'Ah well, it still doesn't have a specific category...' I say and wish him and his friend good luck.
I hesitate to say more. The last time I made even a vaguely encouraging remark it turned up on a letter to my agent masquerading as a recommendation. Then yesterday, I shook a book out of an envelope that was, unusually, addressed to me, and out fell a copy of this very same manuscript, self published, with my quote slapped on the back.
It was accompanied by several others (a slightly unusual ploy to put quotes from rejection letters on your book) headlined by a colleague at Cannongate, a couple of agents, and with 'my friend Dave' bringing up the bottom of the bill.
To add insult to injury he even spelt my name wrong.
I would write and tell him to remove it (along with the extra 'a') but I'm afraid I'm much too busy. The Ducks are still arriving, from India this time, and if anyone needs me I'll be upstairs in the conference room pushing in chairs and attending to the important business of making coffee.
Slap that on the back of a book jacket and see how much credibility it gets you.
It's at times like these that you wish you came further down the alphabet.
However, I'm all loved up as Australian and South African Ducks are Waddling around the office for a sales conference and a few of them have read my book and liked it, and I've been kissed and hugged, had my photograph taken, and generally felt momentarily elevated from my position of authority as conference room cleaner in which, apparently, Mr T's 'coalition of the willing' consisted of me and me alone.
But the phones are always with us, and I had to drag myself back down to earth but not - spreading the joy, spreading the love - without a radiant, Mother Theresa smile on my face.
And so I didn't snap. Oh no, I waited patiently, enjoying his lovely undulating voice like a gentle fairground ride - gosh I like a Dutchman - and let him get all the way through his question (which was vondering vat the different categories such as history and biography meant) with calm and grace. I then explained, as kindly as though to a child about the limitations of Santa when it comes to wishing for a pony, that the most relevant criteria on our submissions policy was that we don't accept them.
'Oh...' He sounded dejected.
'We only accept submissions from literary agents, so what you should do is look at the section for agents and try there.'
'It's not for me, I'm trying to help a friend, but ve yust weren't sure where to send it. Now, since I've got you on the phone, could you clear something up for me...? If someone has vritten a book about demselves and deir life vat vould ve be calling it?'
A novel with the names changed, I didn't say. 'A memoir, or an autobiography?' I proposed instead.
'Even if it's only about part of der life - for instance der troubled childhood?'
'Yes, it doesn't have to be an exhaustingly comprehensive summary of their entire life.'
'So it vouldn't be, for instance, history?'
'No.'
'And dere isn't a specific yenre for say troubled childhoods?'
Oh dear Lord, I bit my tongue. I swallowed the words misery and that usually associated with it and said no.
'It's yust that dis book is a story about a troubled childhood,'
'So many of them are, unfortunately,' I said, sadly.
'You mean childhoods?'
'Troubled,' I agreed. 'Very troubled.'
'So dere's really no special category for dis?'
Now I could have said, yes, it's usually the top tray on my filing cabinet, overspilling like lava from a volcano of troubled childhoods, but I am mellow, I am empathetic, I feel their pain. It has been mine, albeit usually associated with tales of my miserable life regurgitated as journalism and renamed 'a feature' for £300 a pop.
'But vat if it's vritten in the t'ird person?'
'So it's a personal memoire, about a troubled childhood, written by the person who experienced it but in the third person?'
'Yes.'
'Ah well, it still doesn't have a specific category...' I say and wish him and his friend good luck.
I hesitate to say more. The last time I made even a vaguely encouraging remark it turned up on a letter to my agent masquerading as a recommendation. Then yesterday, I shook a book out of an envelope that was, unusually, addressed to me, and out fell a copy of this very same manuscript, self published, with my quote slapped on the back.
It was accompanied by several others (a slightly unusual ploy to put quotes from rejection letters on your book) headlined by a colleague at Cannongate, a couple of agents, and with 'my friend Dave' bringing up the bottom of the bill.
To add insult to injury he even spelt my name wrong.
I would write and tell him to remove it (along with the extra 'a') but I'm afraid I'm much too busy. The Ducks are still arriving, from India this time, and if anyone needs me I'll be upstairs in the conference room pushing in chairs and attending to the important business of making coffee.
Slap that on the back of a book jacket and see how much credibility it gets you.
Thursday 11 September 2008
Party favours
Isn't publishing full of parties? You know, book launches, summer soirees, that sort of thing? Apparently so. I get the stiffies in the post for Mr T on an almost daily basis. Five on one night at Frankfurt alone, all of which, after dutifully accepting on his behalf, I have had to rescind due to his attendance at the Booker Prize Ceremony.
Last night he and the Ubereditor were both invited to a big bash at another publishing house nestling in the middle of the book equivalent of the Bermuda triangle, roughly consisting of us, Faber and Quercus. My literary friend was also invited and she called to see if I wanted to go with her. I didn't. And then I thought about my hot date with MTV, Football Manager, and the younger son's laundry and - miraculously - I did again. And so I found myself wedged into the corner of a pretty courtyard clutching a glass of Prosecco, warding off the evil eye of literary friend's cigarette, with which she was punctuating a very angry sentence (full moon - we're all mightily pissed off at the moment).
'It's crammed with aging gents,' she said wearily.
'Just what I need,' I perked up immediately and scanned the throng which, indeed, was full of men, a large proportion of whom could fall into the silver fox category.
'No you don't,' she hissed.
'I do.'
'You've already got an agent, why do you need another one?'
'I thought you said "aging gents"' I told her as she shot me a 'shut up' look and dug me in the ribs, hard as several of the same jostled past, most of whom were also ending long sentences with lit cigarettes including an incredibly handsome craggy man with a lit cigarette in both hands. Now that's what I call a conversation.
It was an unpublished writer's wet dream - a room full of people to pitch to. There should be people clutching manuscripts outside on the pavement. I recognised one of the agents, a woman who once came to my house for dinner, but though I elbowed through the crowds to say hello and she seemed incredibly pleased to see me, I fear had absolutely no *ing idea who I was. Ditto a blank look from another agent who I met at a friend's house the previous week and to whom I have spoken on the phone in my capacity as receptionist several times.
'You're not that forgettable,' said the literary friend, implying that they remembered me all too well and just didn't want to speak to me.
From afar, I noted a few of the telephonically challenged from my blacklist and vowed to avoid them lest I got drunk and started dishing out advice on charm and telephone manner, thus ensuring that I really never would work in this town again - and watched as our very own lovely Ubereditor deservedly hugged and kissed his way through congratulations for the Booker nomination.
I also met the scout who coincidentally sold my book to the Dutch (I loved her) and had a chat with someone I knew from Waddling Duck who asked me if I was still writing and, when prompted had, 'come to think of it', 'seen my name' somewhere. But by then had exhausted both my topics of conversation and my acquaintances in the world of publishing movers and shakers, so it was back to the old standbys of canapes (perfectly bite sized and delicious) and cava.
My literary friend, being short, was frustrated in her attempts to do the whole networking thing because she couldn't see anyone. In heels I could pick off the bloody London Eye and the Essex coast, so she kept asking me 'can you see a tall bloke with sort of greying hair and a blazer?' which didn't narrow it down much as it more or less described half the party. It was a relief then when an Irish chap pitched up and claimed to recognise her. Within two seconds we had all established a common bond. He knew one of her authors. He was one of Pedantic's authors. Her author and my ex-husband were friends. And our author had once organised a talk with my ex-husband and her author. Keep up, keep up, it's a cocktail party not rocket science.
'I thought I recognised you - didn't you used to do that column with Horsley?' asked our author. I nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn't elaborate. 'So when did the husband * off then?' he wondered, before telling me that he had also recently split up with his girlfriend, thus prompting a few minutes of mutual dumpee banter. Any day now, they're going to tow us up the Thames on a barge.
'I'm off to the cinema in a few minutes,' he said. 'In fact I've got two tickets, do you want to come?' he looked down into the lower stratosphere and asked my literary friend.
'I have to be in bed by nine thirty,' she replied, 'this is just party Mogadon,' holding up her glass of rose.
About fifteen glacier forming millennia went past. In silence. Then he turned up to my mist-swirling heights and said: 'What about you - do you want to come?'
I declined.
Visible relief unwrinkled his brow, like one of those ads for headaches when the painkiller kicks in.
Mr T pressed past me with a quizzical 'who invited you' look on his face, so it seemed like a good time to leave, put my shoes back on (abandoned under a potted shrub) and collect our goodie bags on the way out.
I opened mine on the bus.
Not unsurprisingly it contained a mug.
'
Last night he and the Ubereditor were both invited to a big bash at another publishing house nestling in the middle of the book equivalent of the Bermuda triangle, roughly consisting of us, Faber and Quercus. My literary friend was also invited and she called to see if I wanted to go with her. I didn't. And then I thought about my hot date with MTV, Football Manager, and the younger son's laundry and - miraculously - I did again. And so I found myself wedged into the corner of a pretty courtyard clutching a glass of Prosecco, warding off the evil eye of literary friend's cigarette, with which she was punctuating a very angry sentence (full moon - we're all mightily pissed off at the moment).
'It's crammed with aging gents,' she said wearily.
'Just what I need,' I perked up immediately and scanned the throng which, indeed, was full of men, a large proportion of whom could fall into the silver fox category.
'No you don't,' she hissed.
'I do.'
'You've already got an agent, why do you need another one?'
'I thought you said "aging gents"' I told her as she shot me a 'shut up' look and dug me in the ribs, hard as several of the same jostled past, most of whom were also ending long sentences with lit cigarettes including an incredibly handsome craggy man with a lit cigarette in both hands. Now that's what I call a conversation.
It was an unpublished writer's wet dream - a room full of people to pitch to. There should be people clutching manuscripts outside on the pavement. I recognised one of the agents, a woman who once came to my house for dinner, but though I elbowed through the crowds to say hello and she seemed incredibly pleased to see me, I fear had absolutely no *ing idea who I was. Ditto a blank look from another agent who I met at a friend's house the previous week and to whom I have spoken on the phone in my capacity as receptionist several times.
'You're not that forgettable,' said the literary friend, implying that they remembered me all too well and just didn't want to speak to me.
From afar, I noted a few of the telephonically challenged from my blacklist and vowed to avoid them lest I got drunk and started dishing out advice on charm and telephone manner, thus ensuring that I really never would work in this town again - and watched as our very own lovely Ubereditor deservedly hugged and kissed his way through congratulations for the Booker nomination.
I also met the scout who coincidentally sold my book to the Dutch (I loved her) and had a chat with someone I knew from Waddling Duck who asked me if I was still writing and, when prompted had, 'come to think of it', 'seen my name' somewhere. But by then had exhausted both my topics of conversation and my acquaintances in the world of publishing movers and shakers, so it was back to the old standbys of canapes (perfectly bite sized and delicious) and cava.
My literary friend, being short, was frustrated in her attempts to do the whole networking thing because she couldn't see anyone. In heels I could pick off the bloody London Eye and the Essex coast, so she kept asking me 'can you see a tall bloke with sort of greying hair and a blazer?' which didn't narrow it down much as it more or less described half the party. It was a relief then when an Irish chap pitched up and claimed to recognise her. Within two seconds we had all established a common bond. He knew one of her authors. He was one of Pedantic's authors. Her author and my ex-husband were friends. And our author had once organised a talk with my ex-husband and her author. Keep up, keep up, it's a cocktail party not rocket science.
'I thought I recognised you - didn't you used to do that column with Horsley?' asked our author. I nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn't elaborate. 'So when did the husband * off then?' he wondered, before telling me that he had also recently split up with his girlfriend, thus prompting a few minutes of mutual dumpee banter. Any day now, they're going to tow us up the Thames on a barge.
'I'm off to the cinema in a few minutes,' he said. 'In fact I've got two tickets, do you want to come?' he looked down into the lower stratosphere and asked my literary friend.
'I have to be in bed by nine thirty,' she replied, 'this is just party Mogadon,' holding up her glass of rose.
About fifteen glacier forming millennia went past. In silence. Then he turned up to my mist-swirling heights and said: 'What about you - do you want to come?'
I declined.
Visible relief unwrinkled his brow, like one of those ads for headaches when the painkiller kicks in.
Mr T pressed past me with a quizzical 'who invited you' look on his face, so it seemed like a good time to leave, put my shoes back on (abandoned under a potted shrub) and collect our goodie bags on the way out.
I opened mine on the bus.
Not unsurprisingly it contained a mug.
'
The other man thing
I like to get in early in the morning. I don't officially start work until 9.30 but there's something restful about the hush of an eight o'clock office with nothing but the hum of the printers to accompany that gentle first coffee buzz.
Often Mr T is typing furiously in his Office, and more often than not MD's bike is already leaning drunkenly against the wall in the entrance hall with its handlebars ready to goose you as you walk past, but on the whole it's only the core four - an editor, two publicists, and a senior representative of the sales department wafting in for whichever party she has been to the night before. I usually burst through the door at about quarter past eight on a good day, when publicity are already deep into the newspapers, sales half way through either a bagel or a brace of Paracetamol (depending on the party) and the editor buried behind a wall of manuscripts, detectable only by her cinnamony perfume. And so it begins...
...usually with me, as this morning, in mid rant about anything from the Republican Convention to the lack of telephone manners amongst the dialing public.
I mean, nothing makes your job worthwhile like having a caller spit his number disdainfully down the phone at you then carefully annunciate his message, each word spread with a thick layer of scorn, after you've told him the person he wants to speak to is in a meeting (ie not in his office, outside having a fag, in the loo, standing five feet away from you talking to an author, not in the building yet, or indeed really in a meeting). There's something so life affirming about being spoken to like an idiot by someone who assumes you're subnormal just because you momentarily stumble when dragging your attention away from juggling the Frankfurt Book Fair schedule (which believe me is like Air Traffic Control with publishers).
However, even the subnormal can make assumptions.
I take down names on my rude hit-list and write them in my little mental black book, and am just licking the tip of the imaginary pencil adding another whilst pointing my finger in the air giving a good impression of Sarah Palin censoring libraries (and who has so obviously been to Specsavers) when, yawn, the door swings open and in comes one of the convivial Chiefs. He does his morning stations of the cross - editorial (nobody - the early morning editor is hiding in the conference room), Mr T's office (empty), kitchen (no coffee, no milk). MD's office (in India) and then rounds the filing cabinets of the open office looking for cheery conversation, just as I'm delivering a final jab of the index along with a diatribe on the last caller's piggery (they assume I'm an idiot, I assume they are mean and sexually inadequate).
He looks surprised, his eyes popping as his head recoiled from the invective.
'You've interrupted our morning moaning session,' I tell him, lapsing (reluctantly) into silence. The last caller, after all, had been for him.
'It's the bitching hour,' says Fran, who to be fair, rarely does more than frown when irritated.
'We like to use this time to let off steam and ease ourselves into the day,' says Alice, at which point we all smile at him, sweetly benign, and wait for him to go.
Which he does.
Reluctantly.
With a worried backward glance.
A room full of irritated women must be fairly intimidating to a lone man who has left the comfort of his nice, safe, paper-barricaded room with a closeable door, to brave the oestrogen of the open office plains. It's like being a Mormon with none of the benefits. One can only imagine how our newest member of staff who arrived today must feel because, yes indeed, strangely enough, he is also male.
'A man?' went the chorus of nine female voices when he was hired as Contract's Manager. 'What will it be like having a man in the office?' someone (okay it was me) wondered aloud, before being reminded that both Mr T, MD and the Ubereditor were, in fact, all men.
'Oh yes,' said another looking thoughtful, 'I suppose they are.' But in Pedantic Press, you have a closeable door first, and a Y chromosome second. Or you work in accounts which is a different country, far far, and many continents away on the other side of reception.
Luckily our new man is upstairs in quarantine until he's acclimatised to our womanly ways (also with a closeable door) which seems to be the unofficial holding cell for new recruits. We all loved Octavia, his predecessor, who though she did have the female advantage, also had another professional negotiating skill much prized at Pedantic Press.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I'm wondering if Mr Contracts is much of a baker. If not - a word to the wise.
Hobnobs.
Often Mr T is typing furiously in his Office, and more often than not MD's bike is already leaning drunkenly against the wall in the entrance hall with its handlebars ready to goose you as you walk past, but on the whole it's only the core four - an editor, two publicists, and a senior representative of the sales department wafting in for whichever party she has been to the night before. I usually burst through the door at about quarter past eight on a good day, when publicity are already deep into the newspapers, sales half way through either a bagel or a brace of Paracetamol (depending on the party) and the editor buried behind a wall of manuscripts, detectable only by her cinnamony perfume. And so it begins...
...usually with me, as this morning, in mid rant about anything from the Republican Convention to the lack of telephone manners amongst the dialing public.
I mean, nothing makes your job worthwhile like having a caller spit his number disdainfully down the phone at you then carefully annunciate his message, each word spread with a thick layer of scorn, after you've told him the person he wants to speak to is in a meeting (ie not in his office, outside having a fag, in the loo, standing five feet away from you talking to an author, not in the building yet, or indeed really in a meeting). There's something so life affirming about being spoken to like an idiot by someone who assumes you're subnormal just because you momentarily stumble when dragging your attention away from juggling the Frankfurt Book Fair schedule (which believe me is like Air Traffic Control with publishers).
However, even the subnormal can make assumptions.
I take down names on my rude hit-list and write them in my little mental black book, and am just licking the tip of the imaginary pencil adding another whilst pointing my finger in the air giving a good impression of Sarah Palin censoring libraries (and who has so obviously been to Specsavers) when, yawn, the door swings open and in comes one of the convivial Chiefs. He does his morning stations of the cross - editorial (nobody - the early morning editor is hiding in the conference room), Mr T's office (empty), kitchen (no coffee, no milk). MD's office (in India) and then rounds the filing cabinets of the open office looking for cheery conversation, just as I'm delivering a final jab of the index along with a diatribe on the last caller's piggery (they assume I'm an idiot, I assume they are mean and sexually inadequate).
He looks surprised, his eyes popping as his head recoiled from the invective.
'You've interrupted our morning moaning session,' I tell him, lapsing (reluctantly) into silence. The last caller, after all, had been for him.
'It's the bitching hour,' says Fran, who to be fair, rarely does more than frown when irritated.
'We like to use this time to let off steam and ease ourselves into the day,' says Alice, at which point we all smile at him, sweetly benign, and wait for him to go.
Which he does.
Reluctantly.
With a worried backward glance.
A room full of irritated women must be fairly intimidating to a lone man who has left the comfort of his nice, safe, paper-barricaded room with a closeable door, to brave the oestrogen of the open office plains. It's like being a Mormon with none of the benefits. One can only imagine how our newest member of staff who arrived today must feel because, yes indeed, strangely enough, he is also male.
'A man?' went the chorus of nine female voices when he was hired as Contract's Manager. 'What will it be like having a man in the office?' someone (okay it was me) wondered aloud, before being reminded that both Mr T, MD and the Ubereditor were, in fact, all men.
'Oh yes,' said another looking thoughtful, 'I suppose they are.' But in Pedantic Press, you have a closeable door first, and a Y chromosome second. Or you work in accounts which is a different country, far far, and many continents away on the other side of reception.
Luckily our new man is upstairs in quarantine until he's acclimatised to our womanly ways (also with a closeable door) which seems to be the unofficial holding cell for new recruits. We all loved Octavia, his predecessor, who though she did have the female advantage, also had another professional negotiating skill much prized at Pedantic Press.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I'm wondering if Mr Contracts is much of a baker. If not - a word to the wise.
Hobnobs.
Tuesday 9 September 2008
and Booker
It's one of those publishing punch the air moments (which amongst the upper echelons, translates as slightly heightened complexions, modest nodding, gruff clearing of throats and a few awkward handshakes without making eye contact) as our very own Aravind Adiga has leapt from longlist to shortlist with his first novel White Tiger. Outside in the main office it's any excuse for a celebration with much whooping and screeching - even kissing and hugging - and corks will no doubt be popping later, or at the very least tops unscrewing.
I don't know why I'm jumping around looking delighted. I'll only be here for the hangovers. I'm wondering if my latest task of restocking the First Aid box is in any way related.
I don't know why I'm jumping around looking delighted. I'll only be here for the hangovers. I'm wondering if my latest task of restocking the First Aid box is in any way related.
Monday 8 September 2008
On books...
I came back from Yorkshire and found a parcel waiting for me with the familiar little Waddling Duck on the address label. I ripped off the paper like a child on Christmas morning and there awaiting me were five proof copies of my very own novel.
I waited for the drum roll from heaven and big Hollywood Aaah Aaah Aaah moment, but nothing - not even a tremor from a passing bus. The house, for once, was empty and so there wasn’t even anyone to show it to. Instead I had to settle for personal satisfaction.
For all of two minutes.
Who shall I call, I thought to myself? I ran through my mental address book very quickly from Absentee-children to X-husband (artistic license, though I could get right to the end of the alphabet if I included the Frenchman whose name begins with a Z but if I rang him I'd have to reintroduce myself), and so there was nothing to do but sit and stroke the cover of the book repeatedly whilst murmuring 'my lovely, my pretty, come to me my pretty,' like Golom in Lord of the Rings. I then opened the flyleaf to read all about myself: 'feisty new talent' (this comment alone has elicited several loud snorts of laughter from those who call themselves my colleagues and friends. 'New' does not mean 'young', okay, so just get over yourselves.
However, according to the frontispiece I continue to live in West London with my husband and four children, and in the acknowledgments I'm still indebted to him for all his help. Worse, I dedicated the book to him the day before he announced he was leaving. 'Strong voice and black humour' indeed. If you don't laugh you cry. I've tried it both ways.
'Why don't you have any quotes on the back cover?' asked my youngest.
'Because nobody's read it yet,'
'I think you should definitely have some - you know, like JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer telling you how great it is,' she insisted. 'You need to get them to write something.'
'I'll get right on it,' I promised. Surely JK and Stephanie are watching for the postman as I type, simply thrilled at the prospect of yet another unsolicited work of women's literary fiction arriving on their desks (and yes, that's what they're calling it so you can scrub that chic lit smirk off your faces, I should be so lucky) . Why stop there - let's get on to Salman and Zadie and Lionel. Hey, what about our very own Aravind? He's on the Booker longlist, it's only a matter of time before he's rent-a-quote royalty. And we're going to be such good friends. I can just feel it.
At work, the arrival of uncorrected proofs is always cause for excitement, if not narcissistic gloating. When the boxes arrive, everyone rushes to get their hands on the first bound copies and those of us who haven't read the book in manuscript, grab it to take home so that we can be the first to have an opinion on it during the office discussions. Okay, not so much American Prometheus which, when Mr T. suggested I read it I went car-crash pale and sent it instead to my Cambridge professor friend who gave me crib notes (but alas didn’t draw my attention to the printing error on page 434 – though I can’t imagine why…) Even so, I must have the tallest pile of books on my bedside table of any woman in London, so I guess if I ever get truly sick of the Frenchman, I could just give Baking Cakes in Kigali at the bottom of the tower a little push and bury him underneath '40 Years of Shite'.
So, by way of celebration I took a copy of my own book into the office and left it idly lying around and waited for a suitably enthusiastic response then, when that failed, waved it around accepting congratulations until the phone began to ring.
and ring
and ring...
A sweet Indian man asking: 'Will you be printing books there?'
I said we don't 'print' books but that we do 'publish' them, and struggled to explain the difference. 'Thank you,' he said eventually and hung up.
Two seconds later he called again: 'Will you be publishing books there?'
Sigh.
Next up was a man with a really, really bored syrupy accent who wanted to leave his telephone number for one of the editorial staff. As I copied down the sequence of repeating numbers I remarked that it was an easy one to remember - a dull comment, yes, I grant you that, but we receptionists have to get our kicks where we can.
'Why do you say that - are you a numerologist?' he asked me.
Note to self: keep your stupid observations to yourself.
'No, I'm a feisty new talent,' I nearly said, but didn't. I'm having it printed up on headed stationery instead.
I then tried to book the Christmas Party at a well known private club much frequented by our senior staff. The person I spoke to didn't seem to think it would be possible for our minuscule workforce to take over one of their private rooms as they are too large and there aren't enough of us, but he would enquire.
'Oh well, find out and let me know the price per head. If it makes any difference Mr T is a member,'
The person at the other end of the phone coughed. 'Ahem well, I think you'll find the rules are pretty rigid and we don't make any exceptions.'
It took me a second to realise that he thought I was trying to name drop in order to bribe him. I mean, come on - really? Dear goodness, to get my kid into Oxford maybe (unnecessary actually, she got in on her own), but to put 26 of us onto one table at the Onion Club? I explained that I only meant that there might be a special rate for members when hiring a room.
He sniffed.
So did I.
Doesn't he know who I am?
I waited for the drum roll from heaven and big Hollywood Aaah Aaah Aaah moment, but nothing - not even a tremor from a passing bus. The house, for once, was empty and so there wasn’t even anyone to show it to. Instead I had to settle for personal satisfaction.
For all of two minutes.
Who shall I call, I thought to myself? I ran through my mental address book very quickly from Absentee-children to X-husband (artistic license, though I could get right to the end of the alphabet if I included the Frenchman whose name begins with a Z but if I rang him I'd have to reintroduce myself), and so there was nothing to do but sit and stroke the cover of the book repeatedly whilst murmuring 'my lovely, my pretty, come to me my pretty,' like Golom in Lord of the Rings. I then opened the flyleaf to read all about myself: 'feisty new talent' (this comment alone has elicited several loud snorts of laughter from those who call themselves my colleagues and friends. 'New' does not mean 'young', okay, so just get over yourselves.
However, according to the frontispiece I continue to live in West London with my husband and four children, and in the acknowledgments I'm still indebted to him for all his help. Worse, I dedicated the book to him the day before he announced he was leaving. 'Strong voice and black humour' indeed. If you don't laugh you cry. I've tried it both ways.
'Why don't you have any quotes on the back cover?' asked my youngest.
'Because nobody's read it yet,'
'I think you should definitely have some - you know, like JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer telling you how great it is,' she insisted. 'You need to get them to write something.'
'I'll get right on it,' I promised. Surely JK and Stephanie are watching for the postman as I type, simply thrilled at the prospect of yet another unsolicited work of women's literary fiction arriving on their desks (and yes, that's what they're calling it so you can scrub that chic lit smirk off your faces, I should be so lucky) . Why stop there - let's get on to Salman and Zadie and Lionel. Hey, what about our very own Aravind? He's on the Booker longlist, it's only a matter of time before he's rent-a-quote royalty. And we're going to be such good friends. I can just feel it.
At work, the arrival of uncorrected proofs is always cause for excitement, if not narcissistic gloating. When the boxes arrive, everyone rushes to get their hands on the first bound copies and those of us who haven't read the book in manuscript, grab it to take home so that we can be the first to have an opinion on it during the office discussions. Okay, not so much American Prometheus which, when Mr T. suggested I read it I went car-crash pale and sent it instead to my Cambridge professor friend who gave me crib notes (but alas didn’t draw my attention to the printing error on page 434 – though I can’t imagine why…) Even so, I must have the tallest pile of books on my bedside table of any woman in London, so I guess if I ever get truly sick of the Frenchman, I could just give Baking Cakes in Kigali at the bottom of the tower a little push and bury him underneath '40 Years of Shite'.
So, by way of celebration I took a copy of my own book into the office and left it idly lying around and waited for a suitably enthusiastic response then, when that failed, waved it around accepting congratulations until the phone began to ring.
and ring
and ring...
A sweet Indian man asking: 'Will you be printing books there?'
I said we don't 'print' books but that we do 'publish' them, and struggled to explain the difference. 'Thank you,' he said eventually and hung up.
Two seconds later he called again: 'Will you be publishing books there?'
Sigh.
Next up was a man with a really, really bored syrupy accent who wanted to leave his telephone number for one of the editorial staff. As I copied down the sequence of repeating numbers I remarked that it was an easy one to remember - a dull comment, yes, I grant you that, but we receptionists have to get our kicks where we can.
'Why do you say that - are you a numerologist?' he asked me.
Note to self: keep your stupid observations to yourself.
'No, I'm a feisty new talent,' I nearly said, but didn't. I'm having it printed up on headed stationery instead.
I then tried to book the Christmas Party at a well known private club much frequented by our senior staff. The person I spoke to didn't seem to think it would be possible for our minuscule workforce to take over one of their private rooms as they are too large and there aren't enough of us, but he would enquire.
'Oh well, find out and let me know the price per head. If it makes any difference Mr T is a member,'
The person at the other end of the phone coughed. 'Ahem well, I think you'll find the rules are pretty rigid and we don't make any exceptions.'
It took me a second to realise that he thought I was trying to name drop in order to bribe him. I mean, come on - really? Dear goodness, to get my kid into Oxford maybe (unnecessary actually, she got in on her own), but to put 26 of us onto one table at the Onion Club? I explained that I only meant that there might be a special rate for members when hiring a room.
He sniffed.
So did I.
Doesn't he know who I am?
Fire alarm
We had an Alliance party last night. I know what you're thinking, but step away from the fantasy - you're wrong.
When I first started working here and everyone spoke about ‘the Alliance’ I immediately thought Star Wars seeing men dressed as Storm Troopers, women with their hair coiled like Cumberland sausages in Princess Leya plaits, the force being with us, etc, all of which, I admit, is more than faintly ridiculous considering we’re based in Holborn, not in a galaxy on the other side of the solar system – other side of Southampton Row, more like it.
I confess, the fantasy is more appealing than the reality, so if you don’t want to learn the truth, look away now. It turns out the Alliance, according to our website is: 'a global alliance of ten UK publishers and their international partners who share a common vision of editorial excellence, original, diverse publishing, innovation in marketing and commercial success'. I thought it was just so we could just have better parties but it's obviously a lot more serious than that.
Damn it.
One of our 'international partners' appears to run their business out of a basement round the corner from where I live. I was trying to talk to him before he disappeared hoping we could bond over the postcode but I couldn't catch him. Instead I was confronted with a publisher who often comes into the office and to whom I lamely introduced myself saying: 'Hi, I’m Mr Ts Assistant,' in much the same way as I've spent my life saying that I'm someone's mother, someone's daughter, someone's wife.
Ah, so that’s the explanation. At this point our MD threaded his way through the crowds of people who have doors (because they need them): 'Marion,' he said enthusiastically, giving me a momentary feeling of importance, ' You’re our fire officer, aren’t you?'
'No,' I choked in mid-sip of wine.
'No, I think she's Health and Safety,'
'I know for a fact that I’m not the Fire Officer because I only work part time. What would you do if there was a fire and I wasn’t there to marshall you all to safety? (Now there's a thought.) Maybe it's Lynsey (open plains)?'
Lynsey shoots me an arrow of poisoned dismay which I recognise and accept as deserved as she sidles round behind a pillar - it's the party equivalent of a covered wagon.
'Yes, that’s a point,' says MD.
'Really MD, what more rubbishy responsibilities do you want me to give me around here?' I blurt, suddenly full of red wine courage. 'I tell you what, if I get to wear thigh boots and a peaked cap, then I’ll do it.'
On second thoughts, the MD didn't seem to think it was such a good idea after all.
Funny that.
When I first started working here and everyone spoke about ‘the Alliance’ I immediately thought Star Wars seeing men dressed as Storm Troopers, women with their hair coiled like Cumberland sausages in Princess Leya plaits, the force being with us, etc, all of which, I admit, is more than faintly ridiculous considering we’re based in Holborn, not in a galaxy on the other side of the solar system – other side of Southampton Row, more like it.
I confess, the fantasy is more appealing than the reality, so if you don’t want to learn the truth, look away now. It turns out the Alliance, according to our website is: 'a global alliance of ten UK publishers and their international partners who share a common vision of editorial excellence, original, diverse publishing, innovation in marketing and commercial success'. I thought it was just so we could just have better parties but it's obviously a lot more serious than that.
Damn it.
One of our 'international partners' appears to run their business out of a basement round the corner from where I live. I was trying to talk to him before he disappeared hoping we could bond over the postcode but I couldn't catch him. Instead I was confronted with a publisher who often comes into the office and to whom I lamely introduced myself saying: 'Hi, I’m Mr Ts Assistant,' in much the same way as I've spent my life saying that I'm someone's mother, someone's daughter, someone's wife.
‘Of course you are,' he replied, looking slightly startled, like you when accosted by a person on day release from the asylum who walks up and announces they are really the Archduke Ferdinand.
He backed off, and disappeared into the throng as I would I have done myself, but confronted with a room full of people that you don't know there is only one thing to do - drink and eat canapés, and a plate was wending its way towards me.
The thing about canapés is that they are supposed to be small, bite sized even, or at the very least two bite sized, preferably designed so that they don’t disintegrate the first time you touch them with your teeth so that you’re left holding the corner of a crumb with the rest of the canapé down the front of your cleavage. So out of the kitchen came these mammoth skewers with half the North Sea in batter threaded on to them which you could sell in a basket for £6.99 each if they came with chips, and impossible to eat without doing the mouth equivalent of the limbo dance, shimmying underneath them, bobbing up from behind, dodging to the side, and none of them elegant.
It seemed safer to stick to drink.
I spoke to another guy who looked pretty senior, not in years, I add (that would be me) but I suggested that he might be sufficiently up the hierarchy in his company to have a door that closes. In Pedantic we are divided into the have and have nots. The Indians of course just sit around on the open plains, dodging buffalo, motorcycle messengers and annoying phone calls from Reed Recruitment (can I just say that we're not, repeat NOT hiring though I appreciate the offer - when I tried a few days in accounts, I thought I was being paid by the hour to be dead).
He told me that ‘people who need doors that close, tend to have them'.
Ah, so that’s the explanation.
'No,' I choked in mid-sip of wine.
'Are you sure?'
'Isn't it Irina (door that closes)?'
'No, I think she's Health and Safety,'
'I know for a fact that I’m not the Fire Officer because I only work part time. What would you do if there was a fire and I wasn’t there to marshall you all to safety? (Now there's a thought.) Maybe it's Lynsey (open plains)?'
Lynsey shoots me an arrow of poisoned dismay which I recognise and accept as deserved as she sidles round behind a pillar - it's the party equivalent of a covered wagon.
'Yes, that’s a point,' says MD.
'Really MD, what more rubbishy responsibilities do you want me to give me around here?' I blurt, suddenly full of red wine courage. 'I tell you what, if I get to wear thigh boots and a peaked cap, then I’ll do it.'
'Oh and an axe, I definitely want an axe.'
'And you'll get first dibs on the firemen, said Alice.
'And you'll get first dibs on the firemen, said Alice.
On second thoughts, the MD didn't seem to think it was such a good idea after all.
Funny that.
Remember to bolt the door
In Yorkshire at the Ginger Pig farm.
Clouds glower on the horizon felting up the moors and mist chokes the valleys like exhaust, clinging fearfully to the ghostly shadows of the trees. It's all very Heathcliff and Cathy.
We’re in the kitchen. A long oak table runs down the centre of the room, the planks a crosshatch to the Cadbury’s Flake beams on the ceiling from which hangs a Gothic wrought iron candelabra, dripping sharp edges and soft waxy candles the size of a small child’s thigh. A dog sleeps near the warmth of the Aga. Some cheerfully harmless mugs cluster around a tea pot. Tim sits enthroned in a high-backed carver that is gabled like the Victoria and Albert Museum, instructing Sarah to ring the Abattoir and tell them that if he can’t have his blood back he’ll have to do his killing elsewhere.
Given the atmospherics, it's fitting that Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley both visited the Whitby area while they were dreaming up their horror stories, it's only surprising than neither of them spent any time on a farm. This is Dracula with pigs.
We’ve had ‘the bucket of blood’ conversation before. It’s for black pudding, don’t you know, but I’m trying to wipe it from the white board of my memory only to discover that it’s been written in indelible ink.
In red.
I haven’t had any breakfast yet this morning and even the hot sweet tea isn’t helping the sudden revolt in my stomach.
I know the reality of farming. I can see the pair of pig’s heads nestling like Pinky and Perky masks on the floor of the wagon that delivers the carcasses swinging on their shivering steel hooks to the meat safe at the far end of the yard. I've been inside with the red eyed haunches and the puddles of blood. I’m even, sort of, getting used to the sweet smell of flesh and blood that drifts through from the butchery on the other side of the farmhouse kitchen and which, just like the scent of damp dog in an old Range Rover, nobody else seems to notice.
‘It’s difficult, you see,’ says Tim, trying to explain though in my head I’m singing Christmas Carols, and Blur’s Greatest Hits, trying not to hear him.
Deck the halls wi...‘They tell you all sorts...' Girls that do boys that do... 'that it isn’t allowed, and that it’s against regulations, but...' Away in a manger (nope, that's a bad song choice) '... they just don’t want the bother of it, because, you know, they’ve got to collect it.’
I nod, so give me coffee and tv, peacefully, mentally tapping out the beat, my eyes glazed like a stunned calf.
‘They cut the throat…’
And that’s it. My hand is up and I’m calling time. I’ve had it. Enough already. I give in. I surrender. I have hit my squeamish point.
‘and you have to keep stirring it so it doesn’t congeal,’ he continues.
I can’t listen anymore.
Farming might be 30 percent sex and 70 percent violence, but please, give me the porn movie and not the snuff film.
I swallow.
Hard.
And then Kevin comes in with something wrapped in a paper towel and puts it in a drawer.
Tim looks cross. ‘Why have you taken that?’
‘A youw, just like t'other one – septic pleurisy, we could only use t' back end, and it’s just fit for t’dogs,’
‘So what ‘ave you done with it?’
‘I dressed it,’ says Kevin.
I’m picturing it in a Shepherdesses outfit with a little crook and ribbons in its fleece, but just as ‘work’ is a euphemism for ‘professional shagging’ in male animals from bulls to boars to rams - dressed means something a little different in farming vocabulary from wearing a pair of stilettos and a boob tube in York town centre of a Saturday night. It means the animal has been eviscerated.
‘But what’s the matter?’ I asked, wondering why Tim was so upset, and by way of explanation he reopens the drawer and takes out a machine that looks like a metal icing plunger, except that it doesn’t force royal icing through the nozzle on the end. It’s a bolt gun, and it’s for shooting animals through the brain.
I recoil. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit. Soon I’ll have whiplash.
‘You don’t want an animal to suffer. It’s better to have a humane death that to leave it in pain,’
Quite but I’m still looking at the bolt gun.
In the bottom drawer of the kitchen. Where I keep a rolling pin and a fairy cake baking tray.
‘Isn’t it dangerous to have it just lying around?’
‘No, it can’t harm you unless you hold it against something,’ and Tim demonstrates by pressing it against the table and not firing it.
I have three large antique wing chairs in my bedroom like a stately Old Folk’s Home convention. One of them will being pushed against the door tonight.
Clouds glower on the horizon felting up the moors and mist chokes the valleys like exhaust, clinging fearfully to the ghostly shadows of the trees. It's all very Heathcliff and Cathy.
We’re in the kitchen. A long oak table runs down the centre of the room, the planks a crosshatch to the Cadbury’s Flake beams on the ceiling from which hangs a Gothic wrought iron candelabra, dripping sharp edges and soft waxy candles the size of a small child’s thigh. A dog sleeps near the warmth of the Aga. Some cheerfully harmless mugs cluster around a tea pot. Tim sits enthroned in a high-backed carver that is gabled like the Victoria and Albert Museum, instructing Sarah to ring the Abattoir and tell them that if he can’t have his blood back he’ll have to do his killing elsewhere.
Given the atmospherics, it's fitting that Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley both visited the Whitby area while they were dreaming up their horror stories, it's only surprising than neither of them spent any time on a farm. This is Dracula with pigs.
We’ve had ‘the bucket of blood’ conversation before. It’s for black pudding, don’t you know, but I’m trying to wipe it from the white board of my memory only to discover that it’s been written in indelible ink.
In red.
I haven’t had any breakfast yet this morning and even the hot sweet tea isn’t helping the sudden revolt in my stomach.
I know the reality of farming. I can see the pair of pig’s heads nestling like Pinky and Perky masks on the floor of the wagon that delivers the carcasses swinging on their shivering steel hooks to the meat safe at the far end of the yard. I've been inside with the red eyed haunches and the puddles of blood. I’m even, sort of, getting used to the sweet smell of flesh and blood that drifts through from the butchery on the other side of the farmhouse kitchen and which, just like the scent of damp dog in an old Range Rover, nobody else seems to notice.
‘It’s difficult, you see,’ says Tim, trying to explain though in my head I’m singing Christmas Carols, and Blur’s Greatest Hits, trying not to hear him.
Deck the halls wi...‘They tell you all sorts...' Girls that do boys that do... 'that it isn’t allowed, and that it’s against regulations, but...' Away in a manger (nope, that's a bad song choice) '... they just don’t want the bother of it, because, you know, they’ve got to collect it.’
I nod, so give me coffee and tv, peacefully, mentally tapping out the beat, my eyes glazed like a stunned calf.
‘They cut the throat…’
And that’s it. My hand is up and I’m calling time. I’ve had it. Enough already. I give in. I surrender. I have hit my squeamish point.
‘and you have to keep stirring it so it doesn’t congeal,’ he continues.
I can’t listen anymore.
Farming might be 30 percent sex and 70 percent violence, but please, give me the porn movie and not the snuff film.
I swallow.
Hard.
And then Kevin comes in with something wrapped in a paper towel and puts it in a drawer.
Tim looks cross. ‘Why have you taken that?’
‘A youw, just like t'other one – septic pleurisy, we could only use t' back end, and it’s just fit for t’dogs,’
‘So what ‘ave you done with it?’
‘I dressed it,’ says Kevin.
I’m picturing it in a Shepherdesses outfit with a little crook and ribbons in its fleece, but just as ‘work’ is a euphemism for ‘professional shagging’ in male animals from bulls to boars to rams - dressed means something a little different in farming vocabulary from wearing a pair of stilettos and a boob tube in York town centre of a Saturday night. It means the animal has been eviscerated.
‘But what’s the matter?’ I asked, wondering why Tim was so upset, and by way of explanation he reopens the drawer and takes out a machine that looks like a metal icing plunger, except that it doesn’t force royal icing through the nozzle on the end. It’s a bolt gun, and it’s for shooting animals through the brain.
I recoil. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit. Soon I’ll have whiplash.
‘You don’t want an animal to suffer. It’s better to have a humane death that to leave it in pain,’
Quite but I’m still looking at the bolt gun.
In the bottom drawer of the kitchen. Where I keep a rolling pin and a fairy cake baking tray.
‘Isn’t it dangerous to have it just lying around?’
‘No, it can’t harm you unless you hold it against something,’ and Tim demonstrates by pressing it against the table and not firing it.
I have three large antique wing chairs in my bedroom like a stately Old Folk’s Home convention. One of them will being pushed against the door tonight.
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