I used to love the opening scene of “Sex and the City”, where Carrie would make some observations about men and women and then end with a question so you knew what the episode was going to be about, “Are relationships the religions of the nineties?” ” Are we simply romantically challenged, or are we sluts?” “Are men just women with balls?”. So helpful that. You’re not going to get that here. Hell, I don’t even know what this is going to be about.
So it’s a lovely London Autumn Monday morning. Is it? I’m sitting at my desk, trying to think of something to write, pumping out some stirring strings from the soundtrack playlist I’ve made on my i-pod and looking out the window to see… grey clouds, rain and miserable cold. Well, you can’t see the cold of course, but from the way my toes are curling down into the underside of my foot, I don’t need to see it to know it’s there, just like the wind or depression. Socks! Knew I forgot something. The kitten, who thinks I’m her personal step ladder to the mysteries of the world, is doing her new impression of the Tasmanian Devil and making it very hard to concentrate. Actually, at the moment my whole body is covered in so many scratches I look like I’ve thrown myself in a blackberry bush for some kind of masochist’s version of a body scrub.
Ohhhh look “St Elmo’s Fire” has come on. At one time, way back in the 20th century, I used to have more soundtracks in my vinyl collection than regular albums. And I’m talking mostly scores, you know, the instrumental bits they play over the action so you know what you’re supposed to be feeling. Then came cd’s and I had to buy them all over again. Same thing with movies. When I was fifteen and suddenly had a disposable income thanks to the bank of Ronald McDonald, I started buying second hand movies on VHS from video stores. Then I got a job in a video store a few years later and my collection exceeded four hundred. Then came dvd’s. Faarrrk! Three hundred dvd’s later we get Blue Ray. Thank friggin Christ for streaming is all I can say.
Anyhoo, if you’re wondering what the photos above are all about, I had my first job last week. Last week? No wait, it was the week before. This unemployed bum thing makes the days a bit hard to keep track of. Of course the biggest thing plaguing me for weeks before was not “can I do this, will I do a good job?”, but “what the hell do I wear? Because it’s all about the clothes for me isn’t it? I was terrified they would find me out, take one look at me and refuse to let me go through with it because obviously I didn’t look anything like a photographer. Ok, maybe terrified is a little bit dramatic. It crossed my mind. There.
So many of my life’s anxieties revolve around clothing. I remember when I was a teenager the worst day of the year for me was casual day, when we got to hang up the individuality suppressing uniform and express ourselves through fabric. My expression must have been the one you make when you smell the cheese that’s gone off in the fridge. High school uniforms were the one time in my life I actually liked being suppressed. I was trying to find some photos to prove my point here, but I must have left all the evidence at my mum’s place back in Australia. That was probably due to some kind of latent fear that my bags would be searched and UK customs wouldn’t let me in the country if they saw my teen fashion sense.
So I only have this:
Ohhh, what a cute little boy I was. Not tooooo bad. But let’s look closer. I’m basically wearing a tent and a yellow Swatch. Uh oh, someone has isssssssues. I mean, who the hell wears a yellow watch? And that guy behind me could probably grab a spot in my Street Bums section of this blog, but let’s not go there, that’s just mean.
Oh enough about teen me, let’s talk more about now me. In the end I needn’t have worried about what to wear to the job. Apparently if you have a ginormous camera round your neck and you spend the day shoving it in people’s faces you will be called “camera lady”.I heard this straight after I was hit in the crotch by a wayward, soaking wet dodge ball and someone shouted out “ok, no aiming at the camera lady!”. Luckily, despite my sartorial confusion as a teenager, I’m not a boy. And luckily my ginormous, outrageously expensive, still uninsured camera was nowhere near my crotch.
Here’s some shots from the day. It was a corporate team event and no, they’re not from the head office of a circus, they were in costume just for shits and giggles. Now that I have some photos I just need to get a logo, business cards, a website, more photos and… err… customers. Nothing to it. I’ll be un-unemployed in no time. Right?
So if you like the shots, tell your boss, tell your friends, hire me. I’m totally free. I mean I’m available. And until I know better, I’m cheap!