31 July 2007

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time there was a girl who indulged in a little regression and was bestowed with a fairytale treat. All Princess attributes were accounted for in this great gift magically conjured by her Fairy Godmother: Beauty, Grace, Wisdom, Grandeur and all-out oppulence of the most decadent degree. Scrubbed and shining after immersion in rivulets of steaming water in a vast sparkling bathroom, and clothed in spanking new gown of lacy detail, she was swept into the fading evening light for a night of enchantment.

Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.

Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.

The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.

24 July 2007

What a way to make a living...

Things I have been mostly saying this week:

'I'm so sorry to bother you...'

'I assure you, we are not trying to sell you anything...'

'Perhaps there would be a more convenient time to call...?'

'Yes, yes, I am aware of what time it is...'

'Yes, I do realise that people have better things to do with their time...'

'You wouldn't be interested in participating? Okey-doke then, Cheerio!'

And all said in a cheery sing-song voice that morphs into violent swearing and spluttering as soon as the phone is in its cradle. There is nothing to inspire such celebration of the human race as being a minion of market researchers and calling le grand public of an evening.

I often muse as I call about whether I could tip a person over the edge. For instance, some of the surveys we carry out have certain criteria that must be met in order to take part, such as being in a particular age boundary or having so many children. So, if somebody is coming to terms with getting older and is really rather depressed about it, being turned away from a survey they have agreed to partake in (a rare occurrance though this is) due to their mature years could throw them into turmoil or intense mental instability. Likewise with an infertile person, or somebody suffering great trauma in trying to conceive, being ineligible for a questionnaire as they are childless. I could be causing deep personal agony and may be the final straw before suicide is contemplated or attempted...
Or they may try track me down and come after me and strangle me with the telephone wire for causing them such heartache. I am putting my own life at risk by undertaking this job. There are some nutcases out there after all.

Thus, this is the great responsibility I commit to when walking into work each evening. And for only five pounds an hour.

17 July 2007

Home SWEET home? Home TANGY, CRUNCHY home!

There are, of course, many things about home that I miss when away from home, and it is only on returning after a bit of a jetset break that I realise how much I take these things for granted.

Yes, there is obviously the whole family thing. Those who are most beloved, have nurtured me, and provided me with a lasting formative experience that will serve me well throughout my life. Then there is the fact that the fridge and pantry are stocked by those little fairies that work so hard out of sight, and who also do the washing, ironing and cooking. They are indispensible creatures. And of course there are the many cafetieres at my disposal.

But what I am really referring to, the thing that is best about home, the thing I most take for granted and will sorely miss on leaving, is being able to eat a big bowl of pickled gerkins whilst in pyjama bottoms, crunching noisily and slopping pickle juice down me in front of Loose Women, and not even having to worry about the smell or the state of my breath.

That is what home is. Home is where the gerkin is.

11 July 2007


Yikes, the cyberspace documentation of the amazing adventures of Anna has been neglected for too long I fear. One of the pitfalls of raving in Magaluf for a week. Another is glowstick related injuries, such as fluorescent goo to the eye and over-enthusiastic wielding of said rave prop.

So, I think a summary is in order.

Someone pulled a Pedro

I got sunstroke and almost vommed on ravers

A Spanish keyboard player with a perm named Tony helped A practice her Spanish

Gammon Daddies were both ridiculed and embraced

C and I discovered how liberating pole dancing is

We ate mac in a can

I rode in the lift about a billion, trillion times

Eye liner 'taches and monobrows were applied for a night out in bars

I obtained a perfect white strap across my red raw back

A 'Cribs' style video was recorded in our appartment, complete with theme music

We got addicted to Smack (a breakfast cereal)

I mourned the loss of a big bug that was murdered by C

Sand got absolutely everywhere

We blocked the shower plughole with hair, ewww

Cheap vodka is the way to wildness, especially when in Long Island Iced Tea - yum

My tankini top blew off the balcony, but was later retrieved from a bush

We met a chap from Corbridge, randomly

Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and many other classics were danced to in a cheesy club

We sat on the bed drinking tea and eating choccy wocky (as it is now known)

C took over the mic from the Spanish indie band and stomped her way through a rendition of the White Stripes

We lay on the beach at five o'clock in the morning looking at the stars

'She's Electric' became the anthem of the week

I raved continuously to DJ Sammy for hours and hours, and actually LOVED it - who knew?

This is only the tip of the iceberg too. A great deal can happen in a week. And the result of it all boils down to me sitting at the dinner table on my return, having a perfectly civilised conversation with the parentals, peeling great sheets of skin from my back and placing them on a tissue. Both surreal and gross.