Merry Christmas

Jimmy (and his desk) wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas.

Have a nice day!!!

Essentially, my new job consists of being really, reeeaaally nice to people. On Wednesday I sat through 4 hours of corporate orientation, which was effectively one long lecture about how the company wants you to be outgoing, helpful and just generally gosh-darn friendly with everyone.

I don't have a problem with people. I like people. And common sense tells me people enjoying great snow, great food and even better beer in the world's best ski resort should stand even less chance than usual of getting on my tits. As much as the orientation flew by, and was actually surprisingly engaging, all the acronyms and talk of "creating memories" caught me a little off-guard.

On reflection, I think it's because I'm British. Back at home, the words "service culture" register with your average shop assistant or bartender about as much as the words "Hershey" or "line of scrimmage" - that is, not at all. British service is seldom about anything other than surliness, whereas in Canada (and I speak only for this most northern of countries, as we dont venture south of the border until May) the people in the shops are encouraged to be genuinely nice to you. And not in a high-street-branch-of-Gap, "Hi can I help you?", forced-smile-and-unconvincing-tone-of-voice kind of a way. Get this guys - they dont care any more or any less than you want to believe they do, but in a country where even the middle-aged blokes who drive the buses and the twenty-something ones who scan your lift passes are disarmingly friendly with you more often than not, you start believing.

I'm sure the first few days or smiling and asking perfect strangers how they are (starting at 7:45am tommorow) will be exhausting, but I'm very open to the idea that it will, in time, make me a better person.

Christmas cheer (and other additions to our digs)

Tis the season, after all, so yesterday Anna and I ventured to a faraway little corner of Whistler called Function Junction (which is known by a number of other names, the most memorable of which is 'Erection Section' - but that's quite enough of that) and paid a visit to the Re-Use It Centre, a kind of thrift store on steriods. After trawling thoughts quite literally lots of stuff, we happened across some splendid coloured lights and a rather spiffing wreath.

But our pride and joy and the fruit of my lady's creative flair is our 'Christmas Table':

Finally, after hearing they were selling a whole batch off cheap, I bought this telly from a hotel in the village.


We are now officially settled in.

Oh how I laughed.

Today was an amusing day for two reasons:

1. On leaving a bar this lunchtime (I had a hot chocolate) I was approach by a Canadian snowboarder who asked me if I knew where he could get any weed. Except that wasn't how he put it - the phrase he used was "Dude, you know where I can snag some doesh?" (spelling, anyone?). I was a little taken aback and had to ask him to repeat himself, before issuing a very English "No, sorry I've no idea mate" and heading for the lift.
   

2. My moustache froze as I skiied down the last couple of runs. Crunchy.

First day up the hill

Much excitement today - our first day up the hill in Whistler. Conditions on the piste were good, if a little icy/packed where it was shady, but pleasantly rough and ready (it is the early season after all). After the last two days of white-outs and snowfall, today's skies were a virtually unbroken, cloudless blue plain.

Today was indeed a day of firsts, and the source of even more excitement was our first taste of 'poutine'. This is essentially cheesy chips and gravy, Canadian mountain-style. Tasty.

We are in Whistler.

Finally, the moment has arrived. The moment the last 6 months or so has been (in truth) leading up to: arrival in Whistler. After an incredibly picturesque 3 hour Greyhound ride up windy roads alongside perfectly still blue waters (see image below), my travelling companion (or 'Anna' as she's known) have arrived in one of the world's best ski resorts.

Such was our excitement that even the faff of having to get 2 taxi rides to check in and then get to our accomodation (the level of baggage we're traipsing round with is quite ridiculous) didn't dampen our spirits. Speaking of which, I hear Canadian Club over ice goes down quite well... More soon.

Oh Canada! Go Canucks!

We've arrived! Vancouver is a pretty pleasant city (you can really see why they film NY-set productions on the cheap here, it bears and uncanny resemblance). We've done a few admin bits and are just chilling now, but the real fun starts some time tommorow afternoon when we arrive in Whistler.

It's raining here, but that must mean it's snowing up the mountain, right...?

I'm leaving on a (British Airways) jet plane...

...and I have a very good idea of when I'll be back again. Not quite as catchy but it works all the same.

My bags are packed, my luggage weighed, lights turned off, etc. etc., so on and so forth. I'll be posting an update when her indoors and I have arrived safely.

England fail. McLaren sacked.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Set alarm clock to 'snooze'

My latest period of being a proper working grown-up, short-lived as it was, has now come to an end, and I am left with a few days to get my shizzle together (see last post below) ready for Canada. However, before I consign my receptionist days to the hazy backwaters of memory, here's some things I've learned:

1. Human beings have the inexplicable capacity to be complete and utter wankers. While the number of such ignorant people I met was extremely small (perhaps 1 for every week I sat as my desk) they can really get on your tits. Don't let the bastards grind you down.

2. If you can, move to within a few minutes walk of your local train/tube stations. Rammed-out buses are shit, bad traffic is worse, and as to the people who decide to close roads and dig fuck-off great holes in them without warning or justification at a moments notice - they are something else.

3. The presence of Krispy Kreme donut shacks in major mainline stations are both a blessing and a curse.

4. I love jalapeno and cheese-flavoured pretzels and Valenciana orange milkshakes from AMT Coffee.

5. I should really focus more on what happens in the office rather than on lunchtime outside of it.

Off the hizzay...

It must be my being chained to a desk 7.5 hours a day which has increased my appetite for funny websites. www.gizoogle.com translates any word, phrase or website into the vernacular of our 'street' brethren. So, if you have ever wondered what this blog would read like in gangster lingo (I know I have) then now you can see it for yourself. Fo' shizzle.

The first day on the job

Today was my first day conning my new employers out of some wages. In a word, dull. Essentially my job consists of waiting for the phone to ring, along with a bit of button-pressing and the odd piece of envelope stuffing (no paper-cuts yet, but its early days).

Apparently, they've been trying to fill the position with a permanent member of staff for a year. SO glad I'm only going to be there for 3 weeks...

Hallelujah...HAAAAALLELUJAH!!

This lunchtime I was sitting on my sofa, jogging bottom-clad, watching Scrubs and playing Football Manager on my laptop. And that's when it happened.

Yes, that's right, I recieved a phone call offering me three weeks work, right up until my departure to Canada. It's on reception for a legal firm, so I'll be sure to dust off my short skirt and plump up my man-cleavage for the occasion of my first day on Monday (it always pays to make a good first impression).

My fellow job-hunters, even in the depths of self-doubt, there is always hope.

Martin Jol has left the building.

Well not quite: as I write this, he's apparently in the WHL boardroom (hopefully delivering a few parting shots to the assembled suits who have made his last few months in the job a thoroughly torrid affair, before leaving with a reported £4m in compensation), but what is clear is that the most popular Spurs manager since Bill Nicholson has overseen his last game in for the club.

It would be unnecessary to grind out the raft of rumours which have circulated since about 8:45 this evening (when ITV4's coverage broke the story) but as yet nothing has been confirmed, other than that for the time being Jol is officially unemployed.

I, along with just about every other true Tottenham fan out there, wish him well and will remain grateful for the style and the passion with which he has rejuvinated the club during his (nearly) three years in charge. I only hope that the debacle which has been his protracted departure doesn't sour his or anyone else's memory of his time in N17. Thanks Martin, and good luck.

Get the official party line here.

An inescapable rattling sound in my brain.

There are men working outside my house using jackhammers to dig up and then relay the pavement. The pavement is perfectly fine. And today I need to make a number of important phone calls.

Can anyone else see the madness in this situation? My head hurts. More later...

I am a statistic

I've had no full-time work since I left university and, believe me, it hasn't been for lack of effort. After a somewhat fruitless attempt to get onto the property ladder and make some money in development, I turned my hand to journalism, attempting to get publishing anywhere and everywhere in the hope that it might land me some cash. However, things have been getting increasingly desperate as my departure date for Canada looms and my bar job is not really allowing me to accumulate anything even slightly resembling a 'running away fund'.

Calling recruitment agencies is like a kind of telephonic Russian Roulette. For every 6 calls you make, there's usually 5 where the revolver (or, if the metaphor is lost on you, 'handset') clicks and the person on the other end is pleasant, articulate and chirpy. However, like clockwork, there comes the instance where the person you've phoned is grumpy, terse and deeply unhelpful (and, usually, male). Bang! And now I've got to clean bits of brain off the sofa upholstery. It's a fairly soul-destroying process at the best of time, ringing around for temp work, and its made all the more unpleasant by these miserable bastards you have to speak to every so often. Shame on them.

A triumph.

I've just returned home, braving the risk of eye strain and a sleepless night by blogging at this ungodly hour, to share my joy at having seen Patrick Stewart in Macbeth, at the Gielgud Theatre, London. Tonight was my long-overdue first time seeing Shakespeare on stage, and I feel I have been spoilt beyond measure, so much so that I wonder if anything subsequent to this is destined to disappoint.

Patrick Stewart is brilliant in the lead role, but his presence as a big-name star seems to have attracted the best the London theatre scene has to offer, all of whom are currently on five-star form. 'Pin-drop', reverential silence met Michael Feast's rendering of the moment that Macduff is informed his wife, children and servants have been slaughtered at the hand of his former kinsman, gasps attended the pivotal scene at the end of the first act where Banquo's bloodied ghost arrives at the banquet to the astonishment and terror of the eponymous hero, and rapturous applause greeted the entire cast once the breath-taking performance had come to an end.

It was a staging drenched with Soviet, Stalin-esque imagery, the paraphernalia of an extremist state evident in the set design, the costumes, et al - and the programme notes (with their quotes from the aforementioned Russia dictator alongside the likes of 20th century agitator-general George Orwell, among others) underscored this brilliantly. The use of a grainy television set and full-colour projected imagery, skewered with interference and a CCTV-like resolution quality, evoked the staging's allusions to our surveillance culture, implying an Orwellian prescience.

Macbeth is at once a play which tells us something undeniable about the human condition, but at the same time incorporates elements so removed from the overwhelming majority of human experience so that the audience gravitates to and is repelled by its array of ever more blood-thirsty characters in equal measure. This production highlights the relevance of Shakespeare with supreme success - it is exactly this sort of theatre which keeps Shakespeare alive, more than four centuries after its being written, and ensures generation after generation continue to re-read and re-interpret his canon of work. For even the most sceptical about Shakespeare, this production will win you over.

For the Guardian review, in which Michael Billington reflects on the production's brilliance in far more articulate and lucid terms than I can muster, click here.

Feel the burn

If you read my previous post (if not, why are you not checking this page daily? Well?) you'll know that I have spent the last week at the gym, the lucky recipient of a free week following a friend's referral. I realised, as I stepped onto the treadmill at 5.30 on Monday afternoon, that I had not seen the inside of a gym for around 4 months. And do you know, I was a little disgusted.

I intended to use my tinge of self-loathing as impetus to make the most of the situation, and made a committment to visit every day for 7 days in a row. Needless to say, I cannot begin describe the sharp ache coarsing through my chest, arms and back come waking-up time on Wednesday morning. Ouch indeed.

Follow the red light.

Today I went to the opticians. To start with, it went as it usually does: I sat and waited for ages while some elderly people 'ummed' and 'ahhed' about which pair of massive specs to buy for doing their crosswords and picking winners on Channel 4 racing; then I entered the brightly lit room, had the scary-looking contraption put on my face and told the friendly lady whether it was "better...or worse" with each change of slide. However, just as I was about to pay my £5 and leave (I'm a cheapskate, I did go to Specsavers) when I was told one more test was required, this time to assess my peripheral vision. I walked into a little room to one side, which I had never so much as thought of entering before, dimly-lit and often occupied by an old bloke staring into a light box with a clicker in his hand. I was peturbed, to say the least.

The process is as follow: you wear a fetching pair of dusty old specs with one lense taped over while following a red dot around a screen, clicking the clicker once for every green dot (between none and four may appear with every mechanised whirring and shift of the red dot), before repeating with the other eye covered. Fairly boring, after only a few minutes. But on emerging from the little dark room, I was told I had to do the test for my left eye again. After this repeat performance, I was told I was missing dots in the same section of my vision each time and therefore yet another test was required. I'd was wondering, albeit for a split second, if my family's history of glaucoma had caught up with me a bit early, or something.

After the third time of asking, I was told everything was fine (I had, in effect, 'passed') and it was probably just because I had got a bit bored. Panic over.

I don't know if you heard me counting. I did over a thousand.

Today I begin a free week at the gym, thanks to a friend who's just become a member, and I can't wait. I've been going cold turkey since I left university, where I was down at my local uni facilities 5 times a week, jogging to and from given that it was only 3 minutes away, and ever since I moved home I've been getting the shakes and waking up in the middle of the night reaching for the treadmill. Not that I'm some sort of vain, fitness freak you understand. My oft-espoused reason for this was that the more exercise you do, the more energy you feel you have in the long-run, and while I was at university trying to finish my degree, visit my missus who lived 2 1/2 hours away and keep up a part-time bar job I needed all the lead in my pencil that I could muster. I'll report back at the end of the week (when, no doubt, I've pulled every muscle in my body and suffered a stress fracture in my knees, or something).