smokingboot: (travelling wizard)
I've been here since before it rose.

Incredible pain in my shoulder and neck; I've had it for a couple of weeks now. Time for a new mattress perhaps.

Stretching my limbs and back feels incredibly good. I'm drenched in sweat right now, and it's not just the heat of a beautiful day; my right shoulder and neck are burning up. It's not illness, I don't think, it's something else.

The pain is unpleasant, but the underlying exhaustion is leaving me; I have the start of three books to work on. Don't know where to begin. Publishing party? A private party would be better, cos really I need to work. The final proofs will be arriving soon for correction...after that will be the time to concentrate on the new. There's nothing to go crazy about for one little book, however much I love it. Shelling out the publisher's cash on a black dress bash with cardboard cutouts of the cover is unnecessary. The appropriate applause is more work, more inspiration, more everything. Right now I'd rather carry on working and maybe have a celebratory bop with friends. Assuming I could actually move my head...

The drive to write rises just as I am preparing to go down south. Settling to write in London is not easy for me right now, because all I do is work and drift in and out of sleep between shows. Maybe I need to talk to my boss about taking a month away so I can dedicate four weeks to writing, just as I did before. Something in me tells me that November or January might be good for that. I love work in winter.

My temperature's come down again, for a while. Wish I understood what was up with me, can't sleep, can't think, writing nonsense...but the sun is still pouring in. Looks like it's going to be a lovely day.
smokingboot: (smoking boots)
1)The presenter's buttock-and-thigh-netherlands-originated-fat-jabs took badly and she had to go home within the first half hour.

2)My earpiece broke irreparably on air.

3)Either he's mad at me
Or he's mad at someone
Or someone put a tab in his pint
Or he's just plain mad.

Dear god, you know I balk at no mania. But I don't have a clue what to do with this.


Jun. 25th, 2007 09:06 pm
smokingboot: (skellies)
They changed things at my work.

I used to have three shows clumped together then a gap then another three etc; now I've just finished a five show run, evening evening day breakfast evening. I have warned them that if they give me an evening show (ends at 3 am back to flat for 4 am) together with a morning shift (up at 6.30 for brief at 8.30) I won't actually take the taxi home, I'll just sleep in the studio. They seemed to like that idea until they realised I wouldn't be camping out in a thong, mascara and Hello Kitty handcuffs; visions of me in a Sandra Dee nightdress with curlers in my hair seem to have curbed their enthusiasm. I'm rubbish on the breakfast show anyway, sitting there looking like a cadaver with half a croissant in its mouth.

Sleeping badly, eating badly, currently covered in spots. Appear to be doing well, but want to go home and create. The heat and rain has turned Great Portland Street's environs into a tropical paradise for rats: over the last week, London town's fattest and finest have grown bolder, scurrying drainwards in the heat of the afternoon.

Maybe our management should give them jobs, as exhaustion has stretched the human staff to the point of hysteria. Last night, our producer, in despair at his love life, mooned us while we were on air. A fine sight, in his ensemble of scarlet underpants with white lining, matching his black, white and red sneakers matching his white t-shirt with red revolver and black revolver shadow. Apparently he gets bored at home. Buttocks? reputedly fine though I couldn't be certain. I was too busy staring cross-eyed down the lens to check.

I hope it was the lens.

Oh angels sweet and demons deep
And fairies dire and kind
Come visit me and bring me sleep
Before I lose my mind.
smokingboot: (longnecks)
...And oh how they've missed me! Everyone likes the summerboot, no-one wants to hear me bang on about Florence. They just want to stare, say nice things and complain about the sweltering conditions in the studio. Except one. I forgot just how affectionate everybody is here. One Who Shall Remain Nameless came over, kissed me full on the lips and ran off. By no means a hugely inappropriate tongue wrestle, but certainly a scud. I am a bit surprised, as I think he guessed from the way I backed off and nearly fell into the newly refurbished fishtank. My first casualty and I'm nowhere near the tech. Welcome back, Dextro Damsel.

I love the smell of bust air-con in the morning; It's the smell of desperation.
smokingboot: (croc)
For the first time

in a long time

I am about

to lose my temper.

tick tock tick tock ticktock ticktock ticktockticktockticktocktickticktick...

[amended to add] Oh no wait, this helps...

Read more... )
smokingboot: (romance)
First, thank you to those mystery cupids who sent me valentines. I am pleased, bashful and slightly mystified!

Alas, this year I had no time to be a mystery cupid myself; time I would normally have spent in an internet cafe sending out cryptic and largely pointless teasers to people I like was instead spent in the University hospital on Warren Street. It's a long story.

More trauma came from my first view of the channel's ads I worked on. What is wrong with these people? I caught a glimpse of one just before I was rushed into a pre-show brief. They were all telling me how good it looked. I was the colour of margarine! They said it was the monitor. So I have just seen one of the ads on my home tv. *Holds head in hands*

Now I do not suffer from the seemingly very British inability to take a compliment; if you tell me I am wearing a pretty dress and I think so too, I will merely thank you and agree with you; I wouldn't put it on if I thought it was ugly, so I will not spiral into that graceless shuffle of 'What this old thing? I just threw it on after washing the floor with
it think I'm pretty? Oh, that's just make up, I'm a gargoyle really ... you like my watch? I think it's horrid, I only wear it cos my aunt bought it for me ... ' I never get the point of this bizarre self abnegation. So when I say I don't look good, believe me I am not being modest, nor am I looking for reassurance. I am just stating the brutal truth.

I don't look good in these ads.

I look like a reject from the Human League.

Why do they all bang on about my hair? Are we on different planets or something? It is clearly far too dark under the light. I look as though I borrowed it off Marilyn Manson.
My freckles, fringe, and double chin do not help. Anything.

But the star of the show is undoubtedly the mole beneath my right eye; combined with the eyeliner the effect is very peculiar. The guy who shot the footage told me I was a natural. A natural what? Seventeenth century goth with no wardrobe?

I know, I know, looks aren't everything, and to worry about a few seconds of dodgy footage is shallow. Still.



Shallow bottoms.
smokingboot: (flower D)
So they offered me another shift and I ran down to London early; and the work went very well, except for my return to the grand klutzdom of early weeks in throwing a cup of water all over myself and the front desk, nearly drowning two teccies and my microphone. I have at least learned that the secret of dealing with such things is not to cover it up but to tell the audience about your disaster cos they love it when you goof. One texted the show especially to tell me that my 'expression was priceless'. Once again the prize for Most Elegant Presenter eludes me.

The trouble with this work is that it eats your head. I have not been able to catch up with chums at all, and in fact only made it to one party - a work related one, in a grotty little pub so frequently and fervently used by our lot, the company was seriously considering its purchase as the cheaper option. The party moved on to a Turkish restaurant with music and dancing, and I moved on to work the evening shift. So much for my wild lifestyle.

I came back to find my love and my kitties waiting, and unexpected developments in the garden.
Of interest to none save gardeners, and precious few of those... )
smokingboot: (Default)
turns off towards Granada, where, after months of invisibility, my mother is discovered to be living happily and well; it joins virtual highways where I read and write and my stuff gets eaten by lj gremlins; and it goes 'meep-meep!' avec rocket launchers and buzz saws in the dead of the night.

But at this time, the road is mainly straight there and back again, from here to London to here. The work is intense and silly, tiring but fun; it is not in me to take it seriously but still I want to be better at it. Friday night saw us doing the late night/early morning show. This was superb; we were so ridiculous it looked deliberately, actively funny. I wish we could do more like that. They stuck my face up on the big plasma screen: Ever had that moment when you suddenly saw a face like Hepburn's or Monroe's or Loren's and you thought wistfully; she's so beautiful, I wish I looked like that... well, just for a moment I caught a glimpse of what lying lighting, a kind director and flattering 3/4 shots could do for me; heylookadapriddeegurl! It made me smile, and that made it easier for me to play the fool, secure that our audience figures were happy and high.

But all that magic and self confidence is just down to luck and lighting, as I was reminded on Sunday where no amount of clever camera work could rescue me from ghastly reality, or subdue the shining round sweatiness of my face. I looked like Swelter of Gormenghast and the show itself was poor. Oh well.

And so I return, ricocheting back up the road, to my love and my kitties. Travel again soon, returning to the wonderful hospitality of [profile] mamapusscat and [profile] half_orc. It was good to see chums, and now it is good to sit here and do nothing, seriously nothing, for the next 24 hours.

My special thanks for the cd of music to wuther by, compiled by the lovely [profile] ellefurtle, delivered by dear [profile] colonel_maxim. The whole thing is marvellous, especially the last track, revealing to me at long last, the ID of my power animal. Is it a raven? An owl? A cat? An orca? At last I know. Clearly, I'm a road-runner.
smokingboot: (distaff goddess)
So, my last couple of shifts were intense: One of the most successful shows they'd ever produced they said, followed by a show that felt like a stinker to me; they won't have it though. The producer sat me through a debrief telling me how well I presented to the camera; I am wondering if there is a secret stash of cocaine in the studio no-one has told me about. They seem determinedly cheerful and nothing ever goes wrong. I have this feeling they are pimping me up so that I become all the pretty things they call me. It's a weird headspace, weirder after our first sunny weekend. Freckles! Thaasands of 'em! My upper lip has entirely disappeared under a moustache of said offenders. I 'm going to need a lot of warpaint to hide these from the cameras. All the presenters have gorgeous Essex girl San Tropez tans, even and glowing. Right now I look like Tommy Steele in some 50s film about leprauchauns and magic boots.

It is nice to be called pretty; the feeling of shimmery coyness couldn't see me past the exhaustion that dogged me this weekend, which wasn't about a pretty woman but a beautiful one. Excellent chum Em sans lj got married. She has always had a kind of nordic bright fair strong look to her, the kind of woman who can bake a cake and invade Poland in the same week. Well, Saturday came and the bride looked beautiful in a totally unexpected chocolate dress shot through with shades of aubergine, clear and caramel crystals sparkling in her tiara. Around her swam a world of golden balloons, white roses and deferent ushers in chocolate brown suits and cream waistcoats. She was beautiful, not just because she was radiantly happy (the failsafe creator of beauty in all seasons) but because she really is seriously beautiful Strange how one forgets these things about close friends.

And now time to forget everything and sleep.
smokingboot: (daisy)
To those who commented on my previous post re Tux;

You are very kind. Of him there is little to say except to thank you, you warmed my heart.

Of London and Friends )
Of work and other mishaps )

Of needles and the adventures of Super-Sensitive Lass )

And now I am here, coffee cup in hand, back with my dear [profile] larians and the kitties. My only regret is that I did not get to see a whole bunch of London chums including some ljers; I very much hope to see you soon.

Good morning LJ :-)
smokingboot: (responsibility)
After five days of trying not to talk, my throat has finally lost that barbed wire sensation and my voice, though husky, can probably survive my next two shifts. Tonight I travel down for two weeks; this looks as though it may become real, and with it comes that sense of consequences and what-ifs.
thinking about it )


Apr. 5th, 2006 08:43 am
smokingboot: (elizabethermine)
So first there was Scotland and chums, and a really rich LARP system called Cuckoo's Nest (for a definition of LARP, see The system was great, the people were great (thanks so much [profile] jennifermc, [profile] daisyann, [profile] squintywitch, [personal profile] bad_moon_rising and many others who either don't have lj monickers or wisely keep them hidden from the boot) the fun had was great but the scenery was the star. It is hard to fantasize about other worlds in a place where everything around you proves how beautiful this one is.

Now, some might argue that for a lady intending to do a screen test in London on Tuesday, where her hands will be on prominent display under cameras, spending the weekend before on a rampage in the wilds might be considered a foolish thing to do. OK, so I had got a lot of green and yellow makeup under the nails. OK, so I had hit my knuckles against something (probably my head) and they were red and scraped. But I guessed I could hide it in some way. It was only when I tried painting them (varnish just ran straight off the acrylic) and putting transfers on (which fell off) that I found myself staring at the horrible truth: Less than a fortnight after paying some chavissima £27 to give me bright clean nails and a gem daisy that fell off, I was staring at hands Rocky Marciano would have flinched from.

Getting into London the night before the test, I ran around Archway looking for a nail salon, and found a Chinese lady who stared at the mess in awe; 'You paid English people to do this to you?' she said. She applied everything short of a flame-thrower to them. £14 and an hour later, they looked great. Yesterday they looked great too; the day was mostly spent watching the show. I was told I would be introduced and spend a couple of minutes talking to a presenter, her manic smile reflecting the rabbit-in-headlights terror of my own bared lips and bulging eyes; in fact, as the show is interactive, we started getting texts and dealing with the public almost instantly. My terror was great, but everyone applauded as I came off set, and they made me feel good. Let's see where it goes from here.

In other news to myself, very important news, it is weird how, despite everything being so much more constructive, I haven't been myself recently; things have bugged me that I should be able to drop, I have been emotional and tired and weepy. It isn't me. But I have pinpointed the situation around which it is happening, and in an unprecedented attack of commonsense, am going to have to be a grown up about it. This is a temporary situation; but even a temporary foray into emotional maturity will help right now. Normal idiocy will be resumed as soon as possible. See my new icon? I am going to use it for times when I need to convince myself that responsibility is regal and fascinating and not a chore at all.

Yeah, right. Whatever.

New Job

Mar. 24th, 2006 08:47 am
smokingboot: (dreams)
So the daisy died, and my mother and I missed each other (she was convinced we were meeting at Oxford Circus, I was waiting at Piccadilly) and now I have a beautiful present for her that is too delicate to post.

But I got the job. Thanks to [profile] mamapusscat for great advice/hospitality/generally being wonderful! Things can still go wrong - it's in media, and has to do with studios and tech, so plenty of room for disaster there - and it means working in London, which is wonderful but has obvious difficulties as I currently live near Manchester - but I can work some days a week, and come home and write for the rest, cos the money, despite being very poor for tv, is much better than I am on now.

I ambled down down from Great Portland Street to Piccadilly. It felt really good to be back. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret me and [profile] larians buying our bears' den up here, with the bats and the frogs, and the park behind us; By the time I left London last time, impoverished and emotionally exhausted, I was ready for a change, and this place has healed my sore little heart. Maybe the Tao Te Ching is right when it says that when a time or situation fulfills itself, it then flows into its opposite, and the key is to understand that and move with the changes. We've been, or rather we have felt poor and ill and work-drained. Here smiles a change, seemingly laden with opportunity. Let's see what it becomes; bends in the road can lead to dead ends, but for now, we walk and enjoy.


smokingboot: (Default)

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