The One With All The Work

I have been neglecting you. 

I'm very sorry. I truly am.

I love my blog very much but at the end of the day I'm just too bushed to write anymore stuff.

You see my writing business seems to be really flourishing.

I'm busy.

Proper busy!

Last night in bed, just before we went to sleep hubby asked me what I had on work wise tomorrow,

"I'm pitching to new client at 10, then I'm writing up a proposal for another client, before I go to meet my web designer at 12.30 about copy for two other mutual clients of ours.'

Hubby feel silent for a few moments.

"Christ!" he exclaimed "That's like proper grown up shit."

Whether the shit is bull or otherwise I'm not sure, but after I'd said it I have to admit I did think, oh blimey that does sound rather good. I'll be applying for The Apprentice next and declaring myself Project Manager at every available opportunity. Then I realised it made me sound a bit of a knob so I shut up. 

All this seems a million miles away from years of trying to make my colleagues laugh, by buggering about doing pretend weather forecasts at the big map of the world on the wall behind the printer, and randomly surprising them with e-mails with pictures of bits of raw meat attached to them. 

Can you tell my heart wasn't really in it?

Of course now if I don't work I don't get paid and you'd be amazed what a motivational tool that is. In my old job, my motivational tool was a picture of a giant cock and balls I'd drawn on a post it note, which I used to pass to Ken when she was on the phone to a customer to put her off. 

Tool. Get it? 

Christ I was desperate wasn't I!

But don't think for one moment I have turned into a ball breaking, career bitch, with sky high heels, shoulder pads and a "can do" attitude, girlfriend. (I really can't pull that girlfriend thing off can I).

No, I still stumble about, running 10 minutes late for everything, slobbing about in jeans that are too big round the bum and need hoiking up every 10 seconds and worst and most unprofessional of all, needing to wee the moment I arrive anywhere!

Working from home can be a lonely existence so going out to meet clients, either at their offices, or for a very civilised beverage in a coffee shop, is great. 

But try as I might, even if I go before I leave, or don't drink anything an hour before the meeting, it doesn't make any difference, the first thing I say to any new prospective client is,

"Pleased to meet you. Do you mind if I use your loo?"

Hardly gives the impression of a together business women does it, walking in with my legs crossed and a pained expression on my face.

Then of course some of these offices are quite small. The loo is just off where the meeting is going to be. Not only have I just dashed in and demanded to use their facilities before I've even taken my coat off, but now I have to suffer the indignity of them being able to hear me peeing like a racehorse. 

It could be nerves. It could be habit. It could, and more likely, be that, since having the boy my bladder has taken on the capacity of a small child and the liquid retaining qualities of a sieve.

It's hard to know what it is, but I'm pretty sure Karen Brady doesn't rush into the boardroom of a morning and the first thing she says is,

"I'm just going for a slash Lord Sugar. Don't fire anyone until I get back.'

I may have abandoned my old jokey office ways but even with the new professional business woman me, there still always a whiff of taking the piss wherever I go!