Maybe I LIKE the misery of making tea...

Well, hello world! I’m back in you it would seem. What with my new job(s) and courses and shit. No longer am I sitting on my ass feeling left out of everything. Here’s a sneaky update...

So, I have a job on the catering team at a dinky hospital in London. A friend’s dad basically got me the job and it’s only till the end of April (which I’m quite glad about as it’s KILLING me!). The catering team apparently have a lot of holidays that need covering and I’m the one that’s covering them. I’m serving in the hospital cafeteria (simple!), doing the ward round for the fourth floor (complicated!) and this week, oh joy of joys, I shall be training on the 2nd floor big wards and ICU. Just when I thought ‘I can handle this, I can get the 4th floor ward round DOWN’ they are bloody training me on the most complicated thing! Everyone warned me about 2nd floor when I started, wincing sceptically as they saw me manhandling the massive food trolleys ‘Just make sure they don’t train you on second floor’ they hissed, sucking air in through their teeth ‘Oooh, you don’t want to do second floor’. WAAAAAGH! Basically, if I wasn’t there they’d be getting an agency member of staff in so I am there to get basic training, keep them under budget and hopefully not kill any patients. PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL ANY PATIENTS!!!!

I actually enjoy the work when I’m there, even though it’s quite hard going and I’m having to wake up at 5.30am which as you know, to a snoozy lazybones like me is torture! I’m very slow on my ward rounds as I’ve not got my pace up yet but also because I stop to have a gossip with the patients. And of course I have my favourites. There are two who are exactly like Catherine Tate as Nana; one who was discharged last week whose daughter used to bring her in pie and mash (Kelly Ryan, I’ve seen your future) and another who told me ‘I’ll bring the tray out to the trolley luv, otherwise you’ll be in and out like a fart in a colander. Oooh, I’m a saucy cow, me!” She’s my absolute favourite, I always smuggle her more cake! She’s in for a heart valve op tomorrow and another favourite patient, who’s from Garryowen in Limerick, just like my dad, is in for an op to remove tumours on his lungs. I don’t know how the doctors and nurses, let alone the patients do it. Sometimes I feel like crying into the chicken and leek mornay and I have such minimal involvement with them. But what good does that do? Nothing. There’s no point being an oversensitive wuss and getting upset as though I have any right to when I barely know anyone there. The best thing I can do is be smiley, cheery and smuggle extra cake and biscuits to those who need it (although I would probably get the sack for that so maybe I should keep quiet!)

I do just have to add that I love doing the thrice-daily tea rounds and have been much complemented on my tea-making skills. As my mum says, ‘Ooooh Mel, you make a lovely cup!’ and as we British know, nothing soothes in times of crisis like tea!

So, IN OTHER NEWS: I have a second job! One that will hopefully continue after my first job finishes in April. As of March 6th, I will be training to be a tour guide at my old home, the Globe! As you may know, I have been a little dithery about going back to the Globe, just because it is like going back home and as I don’t expect to live with my mother for another 10 years I don’t think sheltering in the cosiness of the Globe till I’m about 40 would be a good plan, especially for a gal who’s one thing in life is going to new places and doing new things. BUT guiding is flexible (you put in the dates you want to do each month) so it can fit around my current job, plus any interning/volunteering /courses I may need to do for my MA. Yes, the MA plan is back in the loop and if I’ve got to be in the country for the next couple of years to apply for it, why not spend those years in the comforting bosom of la Globule? The only thing is I have to memorise all the stuff for a tour and train and gaaaaaagh! I’m a little terrified!

On top of the jobs, I’m doing two evening classes; Intro to freelance journalism, which I’m halfway through and Social Psychology which starts tomorrow. Ah, how I love to keep my brain going! And I’ve booked my trip to Hong Kong- yay! So that takes me up to mid-May, after that, who knows? I am attempting to do a year plan, as a blog I’m following suggests
http://chrisguillebeau.com/3x5/how-to-conduct-your-own-annual-review/ but I hate spreadsheets and anyway, who has the time?!

Finally, I had thought recently how I might like to get me one of those boyfriend things but instead I’ve developed an obsession with Mitchell off Being Human. Fantasy boyfriends do have the disadvantage of, y’know, not being real, but then they don’t talk back, don’t lie and cheat and they fit very convineintly round a busy schedule.

Maybe after May? Line me up some cute guys...

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up...?

Greetings all,

So I've been away with the fairies for a little while and not posted, mainly because there was nothing to say. It's all been dull, dull, unemployment, dull, dull, occasional rescue by a kind friend who's taken me boozing, dull, dull, etc etc. As I mentioned to one friend, I’ve been as much fun as a yeast infection of late. And no one wants to read a blog by a yeast infection, do they?

BUT things are finally on the move. I'm so impatient, I always want everything to happen RIGHT NOW, but this is not how the Universe works, is it? Bide your time, learn your lessons. Thankfully, my time has now been bided (?!!), and I have a job (temporary and not very exciting but it's work), I am doing courses (freelance journalism on Monday nights, social psychology will start on Tuesdays in a couple of weeks time). There are mega cheap rates for the unemployed so I'm making lemonade out of those lemons!

Anyway, I will elaborate on all the above at some point, (how lucky for you!?!) but that's not the reason for me posting. The reason I'm posting is that my mum found some of my old schoolwork, including an infamous piece I remember writing in my last year at primary school. It was entitled 'When I Grow Up' and illustrated with possible pictures of me, as a grown-up, in the future. You will see I already thought of myself as a fabulous multi-tasker; oh for the confidence we all had at 10! Here's the text, complete with spelling mistakes below:

"When I grow up I would like to be a clothes designer and an author. If I chose a sporting career I will proberbly be a dancer, an ice-skater or a show-jumper. If I choose a more glamorus career I will be a model or a Actress, Also if I become a sports person I wouldn't mind being a Tennis player."

Isn't it funny how, when we were little, none of us ever said "I want to work in middle-management in a large corporation" or, indeed "I want to be a mid-weight front-end developer". I suppose some of us grow out of childish dreams, some of us give up on them and some of us make compromises as other things become more important. But I think our 10 year old selves, and the hopes we had, have a kind of truth to them. We knew what we wanted and were confident it would happen. That is before we got scared we couldn't do it, or wouldn't earn enough money doing it, or that everyone would laugh at us because we were too crap.

This little glimpse of my past is especially important to me now that I've finally decided to try and make writing my career. Writing is really all I've ever wanted to do but I’ve always been far too scared to go for it or to define myself as ‘a writer’ in case someone spits in my face and says “No you’re fucking not you LOSER!”. Then I would have to run away crying and live out the rest of my life hiding in London’s sewerage system.

Obviously it’s not right for all of us to follow the dreams we scribbled down as snotty school kids. Then the world would have far too many astronauts or cowgirls or dinosaurs. But I think little 10 year old Mel was right. I knew what I wanted back then and even if it takes me till I’m 60 to get there I'm going to try and stick with it.

The writing that is. I don’t think I’m likely to become a model anytime soon.

Calling International Rescue...

All week. ALL WEEK I have been trying to write this blog but have had nothing to write. I’ve gone into a bit of a St. Mary (or ‘hibernation’ as my old flatmate Clare used to call it) and it’s been all I could do to pick up the phone and send a text. Oh, quel dommage, woe is me! Etc etc. Of course, now I absolutely have to do my Underbelly blog or risk disembowelment I suddenly find inspiration to write this one instead. This is not positive

Truth is I’m suffering from the most serious and dreaded of my mental ailments; lack of fabulousness. I can cope with most things, but feeling non-fabulous stuffs me every time. Ugh. I have been home all week in order to save my money (am off to Cornwall on the 14th to see Ra, Mark and little Tek so need to save money for this which will, mercifully, be fabulous) and being home all week, in Welling, is recognised as the foremost cause of the fabulousness draining out of you. Welling is like the dementor for fabulousness. In addition, the fact it’s snowing has kept me confined to base, or at least out of central London. In Hong Kong, when there’s a typhoon 8, you can still get across the water on the MTR (though you do have to wait at least 15 minutes) but in the London ‘burbs you can’t get a few miles up the road as the buses are jammed in traffic and the trains point blank refuse to run when there’s ‘the wrong kind of snow on the line’. Terrorists take note; bombs do not slow our transport system, believe me; I remember getting home with hardly any hassle on 7/7. You’d do better off to hide our gritter vans.

So I am whinging, I know. Whinging is no fun and I am the first to kick ass when people whinge. I bellow that the opportunities are there and you’ve just got to get OUT THERE etc. Oh, but Welling dents your belief. I’m having dreams about the Hong Kong skyline, any skyline actually. The tall buildings stretching into the horizon seem to be my brain’s go-to symbol when representing all that is fabulous. And I miss it. I miss those tall buildings, those lights and all the people scurrying in between them. All that action and activity and opportunity. Though reasonably large and impressive, the new Tescos in Welling just doesn’t make the heart soar in the same way.

A small mention for my Pa here. Although my mother and I are the spitting image of each other, we are completely different in personality. She wants me settle down and knock out sprogs soon with, Oh God, anyone. I literally think she’s on the verge of selling me to the first man who walks up to the door. After my dad and I did the shopping this week we popped into The Furze Wren for a bevvie and actually had a conversation. My father is a taciturn man, not given to chatting but I think we had the longest, most in depth conversation we ever had. I always knew he was more adventurous than my mum but I never realised how alike we are. And he’s on my side! And he’s confident everything will work out fine for me, not that I will ruin my life by foolishly refusing to settle down and breed. What with the wanderlust and moodiness I’m very proud to say I’m my father’s daughter alright. It’s nice to have one parent onside.

And now onto friends; I apologise as I’m not particularly useful right now. I keep leaving my phone around the house, or letting it run out of juice or not waking up till 5pm so I sleepily read texts sent in the morning before forgetting all about them when I awake later. And I’m not texting generally with my usual ferocity as I can’t afford to come out and hate to say that I can’t and anyway, if I could I doubt I’d be any fun. I need to get my shit together but the days seem to be sliding by so quickly and easily and well, I can do it tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow, no rush, it’s not like there’s anything exciting waiting...

Gaaagh, but there is! I remember there is. I used to have a LIFE. With a JOB and BURLESQUE and TRAVEL and FUN! But getting back to normal levels of cheeriness seems insurmountable right now; it’s just so much easier to watch endless ‘Come Dine With Me’ in my dressing gown. ALL DAY.

So I need help. And everyone has already been helping LOADS but, greedily, I need even more. HELP. HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP! Milly needs her fabulousness back. In the wise words of the Bee Gees “‘what you doing on your back? You should be dancing”

I should be dancing. HELP ME!!!!

What I like today: That I finally did my Underbelly blog, Wearing Sharron’s multi-coloured swirly skirt and heels to try to aid fabulousness, drinking the remnants of last week’s ‘Emerald Aisle’ cocktail, deliberately spelling ‘Emerald Aisle’ incorrectly, that I'm meeting Annie at the airport in 8 hours.

What I don’t like today: The dementors that stole my life and fabulousness and the energy to get my fabulousness back.

If I Write It, The Career Will Come...

I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRTIER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITET I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO THERE!!!!! :op

MWOO HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately there’s nothing new or interesting to report, I haven’t suddenly been given my dream job by The Guardian or Wanderlust magazine (or indeed Lust magazine). Instead I am just practising saying “I am a writer” as how the hell is anyone supposed to think of me as one if I just say “Oooh, yeah, well, um, I write a bit and y’know, not much and... oooh, look WINE!”. Ridiculous. I’ve got to believe I am a writer if I want other people to believe it too. Although I am taking some convincing.

With that in mind, I have joined Twitter (Ugh! I know! But Suzie at Underbelly advised me to in order to promote my theatre blog so please ‘follow’ me if you’re on there http://twitter.com/#!/noisymilly It is with some horror that I paste that link in). When my next theatre blog is up (should be in the next couple of days) I will then promote it on Twitter. HORROR. But how does one get lots of followers? Advice please. How much further do I have to debase myself to promote me as a writer?!!

In other exciting news, I still have no job. But I have jobseekers’ allowance, The Apprentice, champagne and two Colin Farrell DVDs on order from Play.com so really, how bad can life be? I have been stressing A LOT recently though. The only time I get really stressed is when I question myself and the decisions I make. I find myself asking, ‘Should I settle down to some sort of career?’, ‘Should I be with someone?’, ‘Should I listen to all the people who sneer “Back to reality” at me, as though I’ve spent the last two and a half years in a pool full of cock and thousand dollar notes’? Because some people seem to live their lives as though they are a burden, they believe life isn’t ‘real’ unless it’s dull, repetitive and involves all kinds of heavy responsibility that they may or may not enjoy. When I am uncertain of myself and my own choices I start to think they’re right. That they are ‘grown up’ and ‘responsible’ and that I have somehow failed in some way and that I must ‘get real’ and allow my future to involve the discontent that they exhibit on the faces when I meet them in a bar, or at my bank, or when I’m job hunting.

But nah, bollocks to it. Currently the only ambition I have is to run screaming with laughter through the Irish countryside, pursued by a hot Irish man I will later shag and oh, to have adventures, many many adventures. And to write. And to get Stephen Fry to follow me on Twitter. There have to be some advantages, after all. I just can’t settle (whatever that means) now. Don’t get me wrong, if I met a guy right now who wanted to be my partner in crime and head off on adventures with me I’d snap him right up but I am in no way ready for a place of my own in a fixed destination, marriage and (ugh!) kids.

With that in mind, I must thank my dear friend Lola for supporting me a lot this weekend and making me feel better. She basically talked me down out of my scary panic attack. I am lucky as, though I don’t have any bros or sisters, Lola is one of the family I got to choose. And the best of it is, we are completely different and yet totally supportive of each other. She is very much a settle down gal, she met her lovely Derrick and now they have a lovely home and are getting married next year (YAY!). I on the other hand am a horrible cynic and the thought of anything commitment-y (marriage, mortgage, staying in the same job/place for more than 3 years) panics the shit out of me. But Lola and I support each other. She’s not me and I’m not her but that doesn’t stop me from being so happy that she’s getting married that I’m going to cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE CEREMONY and doesn’t stop her supporting all my wayward and often foolish decisions. So BLESS HER for telling me that I know what’s right for me and to just keep going and not to panic. I shall remember this next time I see sodding Baz at the recruitment consultancy.

So then, the phase I’m going through now is like a chrysalis. Yes, there is little happening, but I can feel things starting to pick up again. I feel ready to get back out there, chat, schmooze, do stuff, get involved. I DESPARATELY need a job, it’s true but I just have to keep trying on that one. Normal Mel service will be resumed soon. In the meantime, I am going to continue drinking champagne, get my haircut tomorrow and hope that the Postie brings my Colin Farrell DVDS soon!

What I like today: Blogging, Twitter (I know!), champagne, The Apprentice (in particular, Stella!), Lola, the increase in Lola's wedding plans.

What I don't like today; That I have no job or indeed career, that I'm starting to like Twitter.

Writing, not writing, job-hunting, Irishmen...

I am supposed to be writing a blog. But not this blog. The blog I should be writing is for my new gig and that's my number one new piece of news to tell you.

Firstly, I should state that I still don't have a proper job. Sorry, didn't mean to get you all excited there. Instead, I am the official theatre blogger for London Underbelly (you may, should you fancy, check out my first blog here ( http://www.londonunderbelly.com/ ) It's unpaid but, y'know, it's experience. And a good chance to make contacts etcetera. Except making contacts, networking and all that jazz is my least favourite thing to do. I just want to get pissed with cool people who don’t judge instead of worrying if they are useful/important/impressed by me.

But as my wise friend Simon pointed out last night (At least I think he did, I was a little drunk and the music in the bar was noisy) if I want to get into this sort of work then a-schmoozing I will have to get. Writing is, after all, all about contacts. People have to like you to publish you and have to know you to like you. But supposing they don't like you? Why wouldn't they? BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, minor nervous breakdown. Well Suzie, the very cool head of London Underbelly was complimentary about my first blog so that boosted my confidence for approx 5 mins before it once again plummeted, dropped out my ass onto the floor and slithered down the nearest drain. So I've spent the last 7 hours procrastinating about my second blog (even though it's only about 500 words). I thought if I wrote this one instead it might at least kick my writer's block (more like writer's paralysis) into gear.

Onto the next update: The job-hunt continues. I signed on for the first time last week. I'd expected a dismal queue in a cold grey room with bump-and-grinding men as depicted in the Full Monty and was somewhat sad to be allocated a comfy seat in an overheated room opposite a guy who looked a bit like your pervy uncle. I badgered him into sorting me an appointment at a recruitment consultancy and to be fair, I was in there for a good hour while Unc went above and beyond to sort it all out for me. And the next day off I went. My recruitment consultant's name was Baz. He had a Hoxton fin. To be fair to Baz, he has since sent me some useful links and an action plan but I did have the feeling that our meeting was more about how great he was at his job rather than finding one for me. At one point, he told me he was a very creative person and had, on his wall, an Andy Warhol quote on how “being good in business was the best kind of art”. A little bit of me died there and then. And when looking at charity/arts-based jobs for me he exclaimed 'I don't know how you work for these people. They don't pay very much, do they?' GRRRRRRRRRR. I fear we will never see eye to eye, but then maybe that's what I need to kick my ass.

Piece of news number three is that the drought is over! Whilst out dressed as a broken doll for Halloween I hooked me a guy. We were at a pub in Peckham Rye and he came over, slightly pissed and said ‘Can I just say, you have the best boobs on the Rye?’ Well, it was much more charming than the usual ‘UGGGGGHHH NICE TITS!’ I must confess, I didn’t get an instant fanny gallop when he approached but he did look like a good manly man... and then I realised- he was Irish! From Donegal! And you know how that works on me. So we had a nice chat, yeah yeah yeah, you can fill in the blanks there but all I’m saying is it was similar to that whole Rugby Sevens/Afro French man/Spicy Fingers incident...

So I arranged to meet yer man on Monday. We went out for cocktails and had an excellent drunken time. As the old joke goes- Irish first date? Get drunk and have sex. Ladylike decorum prevents me from telling you whether we did or not though (Oh, take a guess!)

The next day, as I staggered through M&S at London Bridge with debilitating hangover, I didn’t glimpse déjà vu so much as was whacked repeatedly over the head with it. After all, this was exactly how I spent my mid-twenties. Too much drinking? Celtic men? Bruises in sensitive places? Shouldn’t I be over this by now?! The worrying continued; will I still be doing this when I’m nearing 40? And then I thought- is that such a bad thing?!!

Yesterday was spent recovering, drinking again and then watching a great play at The Rose and that is what I am now supposed to be writing about. I still can’t take myself seriously as ‘A WRITER’ though. I just feel so embarrassed talking to people about WRITING and WRITING this blog like they’re going to look me up and down with disdain, hissing softly while I admit, actually, that I cannot write; that in fact, I’m a grand eejit with no talents and should spend the rest of my life in my room, under my duvet, slowly festering until I die because that is all I am good at.

Harsh. But writing matters to me so I paralyse myself with fear that I can’t do it. I think, along with my terror of networking, I may have to get over that.

What I like today: not having a hangover, green tea, The Apprentice, the word ‘eejit’.

What I don’t like today: not having a job, writer’s terror (which I do not get because I am not a writer

This is hell and I am in it

Hello all.

I've just been drinking with my gay husband John in the local we have been frequenting since we were 17. They ID-ed me in there which I was very proud of (I've been being ID-ed fairy regularly since I've been back, it's my Asian haircut- SCORE!) Still, it's hard for me to raise a positive mood. I'm just out for dinner with my friend Claire in approx 10 mins so may have more alcohol to improve my mood, I never released just how drunk one had to be to cope with Welling. No wonder I didn't have to drink so much in HK.

Having said that though, on the way to the New Cross Turnpike to meet John I passed the Embassy Court building site and there was a workman there of such fitness my entire lower body contracted then released. What was that phrase Lola uses? Fanny gallop. PHWOAAAAAAR! Was he fit! Not that I'd know what to do anymore. Having been in HK for so long I think I can only communicate with gay men, women or children. Hot men who may or may not fancy me are beyond my experience.

PAH! I will write more coherantly when I sober up, I promise but for now, please try to imagine my life, sexual and general frustration. I NEED A JOB! I NEED SOME FUN! I'M RUNNING OUT OF MONEY AND ALL THE PUBS SMELL OF STALE BEER AND OLD MEN!

I am taking the green tea my mum profers then fucking off to Pizza Express with Claire. More ranting anon.

Horribly Ever After

I’ve just finished watching an episode of ‘Don’t Tell the Bride’ on BBC3. I clicked it on merely for some background noise while I was pissing about on the net, then I got sucked in by the potential for a bride vs. groom bust-up; he picked a plain dress and it turned out she wanted something more chavvy. However, by the end of it I had a little tear in my eye. Not because I had any particular affection for the over-tanned bottle blonde bride or her slightly effeminate-looking dented David Beckham-esque groom, no it’s merely because I’d been thinking about weddings a little recently, what with friends who are soon to marry, friends who’ve been married while I’ve been away and one friend who just celebrated her 9th wedding anniversary!

And though I can look at these friends and seen obviously, plainly that their marriages work, and that they work so well together, for me, it’s like watching life occurring on another planet. I KNOW they are happy and I KNOW they are all made for each other but despite this glaring evidence in favour of the institution of marriage my subconscious refuses to believe it works. It’s like when I try to explain to my mother that no one can see her through the toilet window unless A) they are on a ladder one floor up and peering in deliberately or B) what Mr. Stelling taught me in physics was completely wrong and light can in fact bend round corners.

But it makes no difference, she still pees with the light off and I still, when seeing people in happy relationships fail to register that this is reality. Over and over I can witness these relationships working but the message that speeds from my eyes seems to make no impact on the section of my brain marked ‘Love, Relationships and Happiness Therein’. That section is occupied by lots of skinny, black-clad chain smokers, who have desultory hate-sex with each other while ‘Closer’ plays on a continuous loop in the background. If a fluffy bunny hops in with good news from the outside world they bludgeon it.

And on those wedding programmes, they’re always crying at the appropriate moments, sappy music tinkling away in the background. And so comes the pressure to make real life the same, as though everyone lives in some frigging rom-com. Well movie moments don’t work for me. As I’ve learnt this year, the moments you should cry, you won’t cry. The moments you should feel, you won’t feel. And why feel anything if it’s just going to set you up for a fall? Because the second you start believing in that sort of shit is the second it starts creeping up behind you to bite you on the ass.

I know, I’m a cynic. A black-hearted, mean, dead-on-the-inside cynic. But you know what really, really pisses cynics off? When some arsehole, some total, unoriginal, dickweed bumwipe simpers “Oh, when you meet that right man, you’ll fall in love and then you’ll feel different”

NO! No, I will not Pollyanna! This is all my own mental fuck-up, thank you very much. I am the one who needs to sort myself out, via dating, or therapy or by smacking my head repeatedly in a car door. It’s not about meeting some Prince Charming who can suddenly blast away my cynicism and melt my cruel, cold heart. He’d need a nuclear fucking bomb, not a diamond ring.

I’m a free woman on a great adventure and therefore in control of my own destiny. So I’m the one who has to sort things out, and risk getting hurt and yadda yadda yadda. A usually unwise suitor of mine once said that, with relationships, it’s better to risk getting hurt than to never know. He may have had a point on that one. But damn, doesn’t that sound like it sucks?