As Friday’s go, the one just gone was pretty bizzare.
Obviously it started out in a really fucking mundane way (insert bland mummy blogger paragraph about early wake ups and feeding ungreatful children here), but by 11am, I was in a world full of PR phone calls and people offering me opportunities to do things.
“Now, what can we do to work with a fashionable, Mum about town like you” Said the first caller. To me. ME.
Fashionable, mum about town. That was my first clue that they hadn’t done their research on me. Fasionable? No. Just no. I wear whatever is at the top of the clean washing pile that day and my Dad still occasionally buys me T-shirts when he goes shopping at Tesco. 36 years old and my Father buys my clothes as he gets embarrassed of me walking around looking like a tramp.‘Mum about town’ made me chortle too. Yes, I am a mum about town if you count the Forester, Tesco and the local shop. Sometimes, I might venture off Northfield Ave and make it all the way to West Ealing if I am desperate for a Greggs, but somehow, I don’t think that’s what they meant.
“We would love you to come to our autumn/winter collection showcase at fashion week” the poor, deluded woman continued “for you and for your little one. Bring her along too!”.
Fashion week? With the toddler in tow? Firstly, this is me:
Secondly, this is the toddler, on a good day:
It’s really not our kind of event, plus I don’t think there is enough fabric in their entire collection to cover half of one of my legs. So I made up some bullshit about going to some other launch that day, to make myself sound all glamorous and less like the fat, functioning alcoholic I really am (they bought it, even though my plans for that date include mainly sitting in my maternity leggings – I am not pregnant – drinking Stella and watching The League of Gentlemen).
The next call was from an agency wanting to poach me.
“We could give you more exposure!” They said excitedly, “Give you more work and far more oppoutunities. Have you thought about television presenting?”
Yes. Yes I have. I have thought “not on your fucking nelly, mate”.
“It pays well. We could get you in for a screen test in the next few weeks, we think you have got charisma” the woman who clearly has mental health issuses continued.
“You got that from reading articles I have written?” said I, bemused but slightly flattered.
“We love the way you write. Plus, some of our staff have seen you at a few events and you seem very confident and funny”.
So, they have seen me pissed out of my tree and mental, talking too much and too loud and treating everyone like they are my best friend. Brilliant.
Basically, they have seen is this:
And from that they have made the assumption that I would be good presenting material. For what? My Big, Fat, Drunk Copy Writer?
What they haven’t seen is me sober and working. I’ve met less miserable funeral directors.
The last call was from a brand who want me to be their ambassador. They make neon signs. That I can do. They are going to make me a huge, pink neon sign which reads “TWAT” to stand in front of and take photos on Instagram for, like a twat. I like them.
So, the upshot of Friday is that I am not going to any fashion week shows as they would all think I was the tea lady, but I am doing a screen test for something that actually sounded quite funny and good.
Now just to lose three stone and get cool by next week.