screenings and journalists and stalkers ... oh my!
I think I've sufficiently recovered now to report on an evening's festivities we had on Thursday. Think being the operative word. It was a loooong day.
I may have previously mentioned that DM was slated to direct one of our episodes. I may not have and I really can't be arsed to go back through my entries and check. Suffice to say that he was and he did and we screened it on Thursday. A nice little preview thing for all (well, almost all) to see.
Unfortunately the screening was booked to take place in London. Which meant hiring a bus to ship us all down there and back. Fortunately I was in London on Thursday anyway for a stupid training course on a webform that doesn't appear to work correctly yet but is vital to being able to hire freelancers such as camera men and sound recordists. Go figure.
For those of you who don't know me I regularly spend my time in jeans, trainers and sloppy t-shirts. I'm also very reserved, don't like crowds (or London particularly despite living there for three years before moving to Cardiff), don't like the taste of booze and am perpetually broke. So the thought of having to go to London, by myself, to find a room in a place I didn't know for a training course I really didn't want to go on before having to spend the evening with a bunch of fat, sweaty journalists wasn't putting me in a good place.
I was up at six as my internal body clock seems to've recently decided that's a good time to get up. And at the train station for half nine where I sat and waited as patiently as I could. Whilst practicing patience I met a clown (I shit you not) and we had a lovely chat involving the odd joke (one of which really tickled me) and his entire life history.
London was just as I'd left it, a little hotter and the tube system a little crappier. But I found the room for my course and settled in to a monotonous two hours strongly reminiscent of my A-Levels, y'know; powerpoint presentations and a monotone tutor? I failed my A-Levels so this was a little worrying. The migraine that developed around an hour and a half in didn't help either. Nor did the fact that I've somehow managed to collect a Bob (see icon) who insists on making inappropriate comments at random intervals (I also seem to've inherited the narrative style, my apologies).
I stumbled out and into Starbucks, phoned my friend, Olga, who's house I was gatecrashing to use as a personal changing room and downed some neurofen. As I stumbled off into the sticky heat at White City I got a call from Kirsty, my Production Manager, to ask if I was planning on logging on to a computer at any point today. Feeling nauseous enough as it was I timorously said no and then guiltily tottered off to see my friend. The transmission paperwork for Saturday would just have to wait til Friday ... afternoon.
Thankfully as soon as we got back to hers Olga made me tea and let me crash on her bed before the transformation began. Because tonight, Matthew, I was going to be a girl. Black pencil skirt, backless black t-shirt and the most fantabulous red shoes you've ever seen to match my favourite red handbag was the outfit of choice. If I could manage the make-up and hair I might just pull it off.
I'd like to say I did but I have a sneaking suspicion I may have been nearing transvestite more than sex goddess. Everyone's reactions were positive but I'm thinking that's more the fact that I had my pins on display. Not to mention the fantabulous shoes. But, hey, keep an eye out in the mags over the next couple of weeks and see if anyone mentions me ;)
Journalists were not fat or particularly sweaty but were, almost to a man, gay. Screening went well, peeps seemed to enjoy it. Big boss's opening speech didn't go quite so well and we all sat and cringed as he was alternately incoherent, rude and stupid. We're thick skinned, and we're all friends but to make comments along the lines that he made to a room full of journalists was probably not a good move. However, I think they liked us so maybe we'll be okay? No? No. Didn't think so.
And then the party really started. Journalists here, journalists there and most of my team huddled around a table drinking amongst ourselves. Booze was limited to beer and wine and as I drank neither I decided to buy myself the vodka. And got charged £7.50 because apparently they don't do single shots. In that one drink I used up almost all of my money and certainly didn't have enough to buy any more. It was going to be a long evening.
Fortunately, it wasn't. It was actually a lot of fun, my team and I had a laugh. I bounced around. I even got a couple more vodkas courtesy of Mark and James. Everyone loved my shoes. And I even managed to get a journalist stalker.
See, creating the invites to these things has become my job. And despite having transmissiony stuff to do last friday, not to mention being in the middle of clearance hell, I was also busy trying to sort out the invite and get it sent off to everyone on the list. Then the inevitable started happening. People not on the list started emailing me asking if they could come. People such as a journalist (Nick) from a small magazine to do with cable television. I, of course, said yes and thought nothing more of it.
Until, as I'm sitting with Jamie, two guys come over to our sofa and introduce themselves. They're both journalists who'd emailed me asking to come and - as I wasn't mingling like a good little PC - they'd asked after me and come over to say thanks. Aaawwww. And to ask if I was the press officer for our show. No, I replied, not really knowing what they were after and feeling slightly nervous. Should we go away, they asked, are we scaring you? Um ... no? I squeaked. Then pulled myself together and told them who to contact, but (wanting to be helpful) said they could always contact me if they needed to and I'd forward them to the right person. Great, said Nick, I'll stalk you forever now. Can I have a lock of your hair?
*blink*
I wasn't drunk enough to come up with a witty answer. I wasn't even sure what kind of an answer you could give to that so I fell back on stupid and girly. Hell, I was wearing the outfit for it. Stalk away, I said, I don't mind. And thankfully they left me alone. How do I get myself into these situations?
Thankfully Mark then distracted me and I spent a fun half an hour at the bar with him as he trotted out dad joke after dad joke. I responded with the joke the clown had told me which tickled him too and drank my vodka like a good girl.
Unfortunately the evening came rapidly to a close after that. As one of the few sober people in the room I knew it would be up to me to get everyone back on the bus. Nathan and Jamie turned into 4 year olds and whined that they wanted to stay and carry on partying in Soho. Fortunately, I'm endowed with a very good mum voice and got everyone moving, roaming back and forth between the groups straggling along the street towards the bus, herding them like a sheepdog. Probably the most fun I had all evening, It's not often I get to be really bossy and my mum voice is perfect for that. Hell, I've had a 50 year old editor walking out the door before his head caught up with his legs with just one word.
It took a flash of my boxers whilst changing to take their minds off leaving London and I left them, after a precarious trip to the coach toilet, desperately needing sleep. I woke up just as we hit Wales around 2.30am, struggling to stay awake so I could call taxis when we arrived back at work to get home. It was 4am by the time I staggered home and fell into bed which gave me 5 hours before getting back up and heading in to work. Back to more transmission paperwork, clearance hell and the remnants of the headache from the day before. Who says I don't know how to have fun? ;)
I may have previously mentioned that DM was slated to direct one of our episodes. I may not have and I really can't be arsed to go back through my entries and check. Suffice to say that he was and he did and we screened it on Thursday. A nice little preview thing for all (well, almost all) to see.
Unfortunately the screening was booked to take place in London. Which meant hiring a bus to ship us all down there and back. Fortunately I was in London on Thursday anyway for a stupid training course on a webform that doesn't appear to work correctly yet but is vital to being able to hire freelancers such as camera men and sound recordists. Go figure.
For those of you who don't know me I regularly spend my time in jeans, trainers and sloppy t-shirts. I'm also very reserved, don't like crowds (or London particularly despite living there for three years before moving to Cardiff), don't like the taste of booze and am perpetually broke. So the thought of having to go to London, by myself, to find a room in a place I didn't know for a training course I really didn't want to go on before having to spend the evening with a bunch of fat, sweaty journalists wasn't putting me in a good place.
I was up at six as my internal body clock seems to've recently decided that's a good time to get up. And at the train station for half nine where I sat and waited as patiently as I could. Whilst practicing patience I met a clown (I shit you not) and we had a lovely chat involving the odd joke (one of which really tickled me) and his entire life history.
London was just as I'd left it, a little hotter and the tube system a little crappier. But I found the room for my course and settled in to a monotonous two hours strongly reminiscent of my A-Levels, y'know; powerpoint presentations and a monotone tutor? I failed my A-Levels so this was a little worrying. The migraine that developed around an hour and a half in didn't help either. Nor did the fact that I've somehow managed to collect a Bob (see icon) who insists on making inappropriate comments at random intervals (I also seem to've inherited the narrative style, my apologies).
I stumbled out and into Starbucks, phoned my friend, Olga, who's house I was gatecrashing to use as a personal changing room and downed some neurofen. As I stumbled off into the sticky heat at White City I got a call from Kirsty, my Production Manager, to ask if I was planning on logging on to a computer at any point today. Feeling nauseous enough as it was I timorously said no and then guiltily tottered off to see my friend. The transmission paperwork for Saturday would just have to wait til Friday ... afternoon.
Thankfully as soon as we got back to hers Olga made me tea and let me crash on her bed before the transformation began. Because tonight, Matthew, I was going to be a girl. Black pencil skirt, backless black t-shirt and the most fantabulous red shoes you've ever seen to match my favourite red handbag was the outfit of choice. If I could manage the make-up and hair I might just pull it off.
I'd like to say I did but I have a sneaking suspicion I may have been nearing transvestite more than sex goddess. Everyone's reactions were positive but I'm thinking that's more the fact that I had my pins on display. Not to mention the fantabulous shoes. But, hey, keep an eye out in the mags over the next couple of weeks and see if anyone mentions me ;)
Journalists were not fat or particularly sweaty but were, almost to a man, gay. Screening went well, peeps seemed to enjoy it. Big boss's opening speech didn't go quite so well and we all sat and cringed as he was alternately incoherent, rude and stupid. We're thick skinned, and we're all friends but to make comments along the lines that he made to a room full of journalists was probably not a good move. However, I think they liked us so maybe we'll be okay? No? No. Didn't think so.
And then the party really started. Journalists here, journalists there and most of my team huddled around a table drinking amongst ourselves. Booze was limited to beer and wine and as I drank neither I decided to buy myself the vodka. And got charged £7.50 because apparently they don't do single shots. In that one drink I used up almost all of my money and certainly didn't have enough to buy any more. It was going to be a long evening.
Fortunately, it wasn't. It was actually a lot of fun, my team and I had a laugh. I bounced around. I even got a couple more vodkas courtesy of Mark and James. Everyone loved my shoes. And I even managed to get a journalist stalker.
See, creating the invites to these things has become my job. And despite having transmissiony stuff to do last friday, not to mention being in the middle of clearance hell, I was also busy trying to sort out the invite and get it sent off to everyone on the list. Then the inevitable started happening. People not on the list started emailing me asking if they could come. People such as a journalist (Nick) from a small magazine to do with cable television. I, of course, said yes and thought nothing more of it.
Until, as I'm sitting with Jamie, two guys come over to our sofa and introduce themselves. They're both journalists who'd emailed me asking to come and - as I wasn't mingling like a good little PC - they'd asked after me and come over to say thanks. Aaawwww. And to ask if I was the press officer for our show. No, I replied, not really knowing what they were after and feeling slightly nervous. Should we go away, they asked, are we scaring you? Um ... no? I squeaked. Then pulled myself together and told them who to contact, but (wanting to be helpful) said they could always contact me if they needed to and I'd forward them to the right person. Great, said Nick, I'll stalk you forever now. Can I have a lock of your hair?
*blink*
I wasn't drunk enough to come up with a witty answer. I wasn't even sure what kind of an answer you could give to that so I fell back on stupid and girly. Hell, I was wearing the outfit for it. Stalk away, I said, I don't mind. And thankfully they left me alone. How do I get myself into these situations?
Thankfully Mark then distracted me and I spent a fun half an hour at the bar with him as he trotted out dad joke after dad joke. I responded with the joke the clown had told me which tickled him too and drank my vodka like a good girl.
Unfortunately the evening came rapidly to a close after that. As one of the few sober people in the room I knew it would be up to me to get everyone back on the bus. Nathan and Jamie turned into 4 year olds and whined that they wanted to stay and carry on partying in Soho. Fortunately, I'm endowed with a very good mum voice and got everyone moving, roaming back and forth between the groups straggling along the street towards the bus, herding them like a sheepdog. Probably the most fun I had all evening, It's not often I get to be really bossy and my mum voice is perfect for that. Hell, I've had a 50 year old editor walking out the door before his head caught up with his legs with just one word.
It took a flash of my boxers whilst changing to take their minds off leaving London and I left them, after a precarious trip to the coach toilet, desperately needing sleep. I woke up just as we hit Wales around 2.30am, struggling to stay awake so I could call taxis when we arrived back at work to get home. It was 4am by the time I staggered home and fell into bed which gave me 5 hours before getting back up and heading in to work. Back to more transmission paperwork, clearance hell and the remnants of the headache from the day before. Who says I don't know how to have fun? ;)