The One Where I Apparently Apply for a Job with Google....

I’ve been back in the UK a week already, and it’s starting to feel like I was never away.

The leaf-less trees, the cold weather and the relatively rubbish-free streets still feel a little odd, but sleep patterns are pretty much back to normal (apart from not being able to stay awake past 9pm.)

I started job hunting this week, and had an idea that I would maybe get a bar job for a few days a week, just to get a bit of money back in the bank until I’ve decided what I’m actually going to do with my life.

There’s a new pub / café type place that’s opened in the Town Up The Hill advertising for staff, so I popped in there on Monday.

I was greeted by a smiley girl, who said I needed to speak to the manager.

The manager was sitting behind the bar, tip-tapping away at a lap top, his back to me.

For ten minutes I stood there and looked at the back of his shiny head and the little sausage-like rolls of fat on the back of his neck, while he continued to pretend to be very BUSY and IMPORTANT (I nearly typed 'impotent' there) and ignored me. He didn't even turn around for a second to say, 'I'll be with you in a sec,'. 

I was thinking about leaving when the bar girl went to remind him that I was there.

He came out of behind the bar, and looked around his kingdom, for where was this potential minion, who had come to speak to him, shuffling her feet and saying, ‘yessum sir, I sure do want a job in your fancy café bar, with its faux driftwood tables painted with bright colours,’?

‘Hello!’ I said, because his gaze was floating everywhere except where I was (I have no idea if this was deliberate or not.) ‘I see that you are advertising for bar staff,’ I added, in case he thought I was there for a muffin and a cup of terrible coffee. 

‘Yeah,’ he said ‘Pulling pints, wiping tables, serving food. Your basic pub job really,’ he gave me the hours, which unsurprising involved evenings and weekends, but he felt the need to add was because: ‘this is a pub,’ (really? I thought it was a crèche. I mean, you DO look like a large baby….)

He then said, ‘so, send us your CV. If we like you, you’ll come to an interview. If we like you in that one, you’ll come to a second. If you get through that, you’ll do a trial shift and we’ll decide if you’re suitable from there,’

FUCKIN. HELL.

The last time I worked in a pub (granted, it was about 15 years ago, but still) I did one shift, and after that, the land lord said, ‘Well, seems like you can count money and pour drinks, these are the hours if you want them,’

Just what was I potentially applying for here? NASA? MI5? Since when did applying for basic jobs become this hard?

There’s another pub in the same town. Here works The Most Miserable Man In a Pub. He ignores you. He rolls his eyes when you finally get his attention. He slams your drink down on the bar, slopping it all over the place. He throws your change at you. He’s been working there about 5 years, so HIS manager’s expectations of staff must be super low (unless he is the manager of course, which explains a lot.)

By comparison, there’s a country pub a few miles away. (Well, it’s technically not actually there at the moment, there was a fire involving hot tea towels, or something, and it burnt down.)

OK, so it IS a sort of pretentious place, where 90% of the clientele are wearing Boden, Hunter wellies and corduroy.  And they don’t sell crisps, but they do serve chili peanuts in a little bowl. BUT the service in that place couldn’t be more different (apart from the one Sunday afternoon when it seemed like a load of top-knotted teenage girls in  jodhpurs 

 and over-sized Aran jumpers had been left in charge, and they just  spent the whole time gazing at somewhere just beyond your left shoulder.)

You ask what dry white wines they do, and they’ll pour you a little taster selection and tell you about each one. They acknowledge you when you walk in. They don’t act like it’s a chore to serve you, even when they are really busy, which is every time I’ve been in there.

I have a feeling if I applied for that job (which I won’t now, mostly because I’m about to make some sweeping statements about what I think the management style is probably like), I would spend a lot of time muttering, ‘dick,’ under my breath. 

I think you can tell a lot about a person from observing the way that they treat the people that work for them.

To sit there and ignore someone for 10 minutes, I suspect that this man probably doesn’t value his staff. And if he doesn’t value them, he probably doesn’t value his customers very much, either. And I don’t want to work for someone like that. Add me to the list of fussy, workshy Brits that claim they’ll do any job, but won’t really, because, ‘reasons.’

Though it would be fun to quit his tyrannical employ in this manner: 

You've Got to Go There to Come Back

The strangeness of England doesn’t hit me until we reach a familiar road on the way home. Everything is so neat and clean. There’s no rubbish piled at the sides of the road, no half-built, falling down houses being choked with climbing plants. The pavements don’t have steep curbs with huge trees growing out of them. You can’t hear the constant sounds of chanting, temple bells, drums, motorbikes. Children don’t follow you around, doing peace signs and asking what your name is.  There’s no tail-less, teeny cats looking for food. Worst of all, there’s no almond Snickers.

The English sky is the colour of the roads, and it’s cold, cold, cold. The trees are still bare and it still feels like winter, even though the daffs are out.

Coming back, it feels like everything’s changed and it’s all stayed the same.

The flight home was easy; I managed to sleep on the 6 hour Phuket – Dubai leg of the flight, which made the bright light craziness of Dubai airport at 5am bearable, though paying £5 for a Starbucks coffee was painful.

Watched 3 films on the Dubai-London leg, and was surprised at the number of passengers that remained in their seats for the entire 6 hour plus flight, not even getting up to go to the loo. I am sure they thought I was crazy, getting up every half an hour or so to pace up and down the aisle in between trips to the loo.  There was one other woman who had a good half an hour wander up and down the aisles, looping one way and then the other, up and down, over and over again.

When you get to Heathrow after coming from Phuket airport, you realise how well ordered and clean things are here. Everything is so shiny and new looking and not covered in a fine layer of reddish dust or held together with tape. It adds to the sense of disorientation and ‘otherness’.

I suppose tiredness contributes to the sense of feeling at odds with your home country, and thinking that you had expected things to be changed in some way, but they’re not.

During my last week in Cambodia, I was ready to come home. There were things I was missing about England; the order, the green, being able to have the bedroom windows open at night, cheese, BBC programming, hot showers, being able to flush loo paper away, the normality and cosiness of ‘home’.

Now I’m back, I’m missing Cambodia. The sun, being able to cycle around without worrying about car drivers mowing you down, the Asana bar cocktails, the Touiche Restaurant veggie Khmer curry, the temple bells and chanting, the kids that follow you down the street and ask what your name is, not feeling guilty at not having anything to do other than whatever you want…..

I am sure after a few days, getting back into the routine of normal things, finding a job and catching up with friends, it will be like I was never away. It already feels like the last three months belong to another life, or happened to someone else. 

An Open Letter to Friends Past and Present

There was a Friends reunion on TV recently. Not the kind that fans of the show had hoped for, where we would find out what had happened to the 6 now forty-something New Yorkers that took over Friday night TV between 1994 and 2004.

Instead, 5 of the friends (Matthew Perry was in London, where he’s written and is starring in a West End play), sat on a sofa and had an awkward conversation about what good friends they are in real life.

To quote Carrie Bradshaw, (more on her later) it got me thinking.

I am a terrible friend.

About a year ago, having a clear out, I found some letters from a girl I used to work with.  I’ll call her B. B moved back to her home country in early 2000, and for a while we kept in touch via letters and postcards. We spoke on the phone a few times and she visited the UK.

I don’t know who stopped writing first – it may have been me. It was probably me, but I had thought about her on and off over the years. 

When I read over her letters, I decided I’d see if I could get in touch with her again. Of course, Facebook, Twitter, etc has made this much easier, and I found her pretty much right away. I sent B an email I hoped was friendly, but not too stalky, and waited. And waited. And waited. I'm still waiting - she’s never replied.

Part of me felt the same rejection I would have felt as a child, not being invited to the party or being picked last for PE teams. I had stupidly thought that despite the passing years, B would be pleased to hear from me and that she would respond.

Then I thought about all the other friendships I’ve had, and all the friendships that I’ve fucked up.

The ex-school mate who contacted me via Facebook and I actually asked him if he was in my year when I knew full well he was.

The girl who I used to work with, and with who I used to go to a once weekly aerobics class.

The two friends I lost total contact with, apart from having them on my FB friends list, after they moved away.

I have to think about why I am a terrible friend.

I don’t remember things, for a start. I forget important events, birthdays and anniversaries. I forget when people have been through terrible times and say incredibly insensitive things.

I always thought I was pretty good at keeping in touch. A halfhearted text or email every now and again is not a good enough effort. At the same time, do I know when to let it go? Have I persisted with a friendship when the friend clearly didn’t want to keep in touch?

I am incredibly self- absorbed.  A friend can come to me with a crisis, and I’ll manage to steer conversation away from their problems and get them to talk about my petty miseries.

One example I can give (the other one that sticks out in my mind is way too shameful for me to even put into words) was the time I had a bad haircut. It was the day before a friend’s wedding. I went round to her house after the haircut to help her with some last minute preparations. And all I could go on about was my hair. On and on and on I went, about my stupid fucking hair.

I inadvertently make people feel bad. This is because I frequently say things without thinking, and then spend the next 3 weeks apologising. This means people think of me as an oversensitive worrier and probably feel like they can't say anything, lest it cause me to obsessively fret. 

I’d rather let someone down then face my fears. (another example I’m too ashamed to put in words.)

The worst thing, the thing that makes me cringe, makes me feel sick, is the bitching. The thing with bitching is:

 1) It’s fun (well, fun in the way that doing something that later makes you feel terrible is fun, like getting drunk and smoking 15 cigarettes.) 

2) You feel like you’re part of a group.

 3) At the time, you don’t stop and think, ‘wait, if we’re bitching about this person, does it mean that you bitch about me when I’m not there?

Bitching has got me in trouble in the past. Did I learn my lesson? No. Have I stopped my bitchy ways now? I hope so. When I catch myself about to indulge, I have a quiet word with myself.

If I am self-aware enough to stop bitching, surely I can remember people’s birthdays, listen a little harder, absorb a little more, pay the speaker the full attention they deserve and not off-load all of my tiny worries onto my friends?

So, I would like to say:

Sorry to all the friends I’ve let down, lost touch with and been a dick to. Sorry to all the friends that came to me with problems and got an earful of mine instead.  Sorry to anyone I ever hurt with my thoughtless behaviour. I'm sorry.  

Thank you to the friends that have put up with and continue to put up with me, and weirdly, still seem to like me. Thank you for infinite patience when I have worried and worried and worried incessantly about a trivial thing. Thank you for taking it as part of who I am and just accepting it.  Thank you. 

I promise I’ll try and be a better friend. 

Case Study: Why Carrie Bradshaw is a Terrible Friend

Watching the SATC boxset, over ten years after the final episode, I’ve realised something. I am surprised when girls say they are ‘a Carrie’, because Carrie is actually kind of a douche. And here’s why:

1)     She’s always letting people down

The Bullshit Bagels: When Miranda hurts her neck and calls Carrie for help, Carrie sends round her boyfriend Aidan to help Miranda (who has thrown her neck out taking a shower, and is thus lying naked on the bathroom floor.) Carrie then later goes round ‘to apologise’ to Miranda for sending Aidan, but actually just wants an excuse to bitch about Aidan. Aidan that went to pick her friend up off the floor, and take her to hospital.

2)    She’s totally self –absorbed and selfish

‘Paper covers rock’: When Carrie is dumped by Post-it, by a man she has been seeing about five minutes and is having terrible sex with, she seems to think this is far more important  than Charlotte’s making it up with her long term boyfriend and getting engaged. Carrie slaps the aforementioned Post-It note across Charlotte's engagement ring and says, ‘yeah? Well paper covers rock!’

Chemo: Samantha is having chemo, so Carrie naturally thinks this is the perfect time to bang on about her sexy new boyfriend.

Hotel: She makes Samantha take a terrible sleeper train journey across the county. When they finally get to their hotel, Samantha naturally wants to take a nice hot bath. No such luck, Sam! Carrie wants to bang Big in the room. Off you fuck!

Talking about Samantha….Carrie constantly slut shames her, even though Samantha remains completely judgement free about Carrie’s questionable choices.

3)    She messes with people’s feelings

Aidan: I am not sure that Carrie ever really liked furniture maker Aidan (until she couldn’t have him) After all, you don’t tell someone that you’re mad keen on that you should ‘see each other less so you can miss each other more,’ do you?

She cheats on Aidan (with a married Mr Big) then decides she wants Aidan back (probably because he’s lost weight, has cut his hair and has stopped wearing turquoise rings and because Carrie has all the depth of a toilet bowl.)

She invites a broken-hearted Big to come and stay at Aidan’s country house and then is shocked when they have a fight.

She won’t wear Aidan’s engagement ring on her finger, but on a chain around her neck, because 'it's closer to my heart this way,' (not because she doesn't actually want to marry Aidan and can't admit it.)

Natasha: Big’s wife, finds out that Carrie is banging her husband when she catches her semi-naked in her kitchen. Natasha chases Carrie (who does what all big girls do, and that’s run away,) until Natasha slips on steps and knocks a tooth out.

When Natasha refuses to take Carrie’s calls, Carrie stalks her to the restaurant where she’s having lunch. She then gets annoyed that Natasha won’t forgive her. I suspect that Carrie apologises not because she is genuinely sorry, but to have the feelings of guilt lifted by being forgiven.

AND THEN the only thing she has to say about the whole thing is that she is responsible for Natasha being single again!

4)    She’s a bit of a bunny boiler

Carrie has been seeing Big for about six months. She dumps him when he won’t say ‘you’re the one,’ and then spends the next few weeks walking around crying and wearing sun glasses because she’s soooo heartbroken.

5)    She says she’s a writer but:

There are no books in her house, you never see her read a book and she never talks about books. Only Vogue.

6)    She’s just a dick

When she gets annoyed with Charlotte for not immediately offering to bail her out of her financial troubles; when Miranda gets pregnant and is trying to decide if she should keep the baby or not, Carrie brings it back to the abortion she had 13 years ago; when she goes out until 4am and gets trashed the night before she has a magazine photo shoot; when she bumps into Aidan with his new baby, all she says is ‘I have a date!’; when Aidan bought her a new computer after hers fucked up and she wasn’t grateful; when she invited Miranda on a double date with Aidan and Steve and then told Miranda to go and take Steve with her as she wanted to be alone with Aidan….

Over the course of the six season run of SATC, the three other women grow and change. Carrie remains the same; selfish, self-absorbed and childish.

Back in 1998, I may have said I was most like Carrie. In 2016, I really, really, hope I’m not. I hope I’ve grown. I hope I’ve changed.

USA v UK

 After a terrible night’s sleep (too hot, air-con not working properly, the world’s worst guard dogs barking at absolutely nothing for HOURS) the motivation to work today is zero. I got stuck in of those YouTube loops, where you start of looking for one thing and 3 hours later you’re watching list videos and wishing you had popcorn.

I watched a few clips from British films. My days, they’re bleak, aren’t they? Gritty. Grey. Violent. Council estates. Chips. Rain sodden bus stops. Lots of cigarettes. Where are all those thatched cottages and village greens, red phone boxes and country pubs? In American films about Britain, that’s where.

A quick, just for fun comparison… 

'It's all abaht faaaamily'

A Merry Eastenders Christmas! (1985-)

 

'It's A Wonderful Life' 1946

 High School Life

'Angus, Thongs, & Perfect Snogging' 2008

'Mean Girls' 2004

 Revenge...American Style...

Kill Bill V1, 2003

Aaaaand...how the Brits do it....

'Dead Man's Shoes' , 2004

Holiday...celebrate... 

'London to Brighton', 2006

'Forgetting Sarah Marshall' 2008

Where Americans think we live:

Where we ACTUALLY live....