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This week, I have been working at a property investment company. We cold call people. In contravention of the Data Protection Act. Happily most people are not sufficiently on the ball to recognise this. They are, however, sufficiently on the ball to tell me to go away when I ring them.
I absolutely hate cold calling. It was one thing I said I would not do when I signed up with Brook Street, and they committed me to this placement without telling me it involved cold calling, so I'm kind of mad at them right now.
Anyway, this afternoon we had a fire alarm. A real one. The firemen came and everything. They didn't get their hoses out to play, though. Most of them hid in the tenders. It was certainly the highlight of my day. One of the ground floor units in our building which was unaccountably not evacuated had a freezer with strawberry Cornettos in it. And it was quite hot. So there was ice cream and banter and abuse from a couple of drunks in army fatigues.
The company is clearly a huge con. It's full of wideboys called Tony who spell Tony Toni, to which I have no objection as long as you have boobs. Let me assure you that Toni does have boobs, but not quite in the sense I was thinking of. He also looks like Pat Sharp. I can't wait to get out of there. Away from the boobs. And Toni. Whenever I get near him I have an urge to pipe up with a few bars of Unbreak My Heart.
Basically, what we do is organise seminars with titles like 'YOU TOO CAN BE A PROPERTY MILLIONAIRE', generally in various airport Hiltons, in which we entice people to buy properties in Spain and Florida, selling them as off-plan, which means you take a look at the architect's drawings and buy the property before it's built. Smart move.
I have nightmare visions of ending up working there permanently, and in a few years being pursued across a muddy building site by Nicky Campbell and a BBC camera crew; "Is it true the condos in Boca Raton all had Legionnaires Disease? What happened to the 2 million pounds we thought you had, and how come you own ten thousand pairs of shoes?"
Talking of nightmare visions, last night I had a political nightmare, in which I was trying to unify a split cabinet. Then I dreamed I was being bullied by Gordon Brown because I was going out with Michael Howard. Then I kissed Michael Howard. On the lips.
Even my dreams pollute me.
I am not sleeping, either. I had a miserable time on Sunday night. Monday night was not much better, and last night as I was drifting off, my brain suddenly went "I wonder what it feels like to be conscious of falling asleep. Let's stay awake and find out." The upshot of this was that I was very tired and nearly drifting off, but every time I started to float away, my brain kicked in and went, "Wow, this is so cool" and woke me up again. This is how come I ended up sitting up in bed at 2:30 this morning with Classic FM on, reading a chapter of Jeremy Paxman's excellent 'The English,' which is what I do when I can't sleep. This had the effect of wearing my brain out a bit more so that then it got too fuxored to concentrate on what falling asleep felt like, and actually let me fall asleep. My brain truly has a mind of its own.
I absolutely hate cold calling. It was one thing I said I would not do when I signed up with Brook Street, and they committed me to this placement without telling me it involved cold calling, so I'm kind of mad at them right now.
Anyway, this afternoon we had a fire alarm. A real one. The firemen came and everything. They didn't get their hoses out to play, though. Most of them hid in the tenders. It was certainly the highlight of my day. One of the ground floor units in our building which was unaccountably not evacuated had a freezer with strawberry Cornettos in it. And it was quite hot. So there was ice cream and banter and abuse from a couple of drunks in army fatigues.
The company is clearly a huge con. It's full of wideboys called Tony who spell Tony Toni, to which I have no objection as long as you have boobs. Let me assure you that Toni does have boobs, but not quite in the sense I was thinking of. He also looks like Pat Sharp. I can't wait to get out of there. Away from the boobs. And Toni. Whenever I get near him I have an urge to pipe up with a few bars of Unbreak My Heart.
Basically, what we do is organise seminars with titles like 'YOU TOO CAN BE A PROPERTY MILLIONAIRE', generally in various airport Hiltons, in which we entice people to buy properties in Spain and Florida, selling them as off-plan, which means you take a look at the architect's drawings and buy the property before it's built. Smart move.
I have nightmare visions of ending up working there permanently, and in a few years being pursued across a muddy building site by Nicky Campbell and a BBC camera crew; "Is it true the condos in Boca Raton all had Legionnaires Disease? What happened to the 2 million pounds we thought you had, and how come you own ten thousand pairs of shoes?"
Talking of nightmare visions, last night I had a political nightmare, in which I was trying to unify a split cabinet. Then I dreamed I was being bullied by Gordon Brown because I was going out with Michael Howard. Then I kissed Michael Howard. On the lips.
Even my dreams pollute me.
I am not sleeping, either. I had a miserable time on Sunday night. Monday night was not much better, and last night as I was drifting off, my brain suddenly went "I wonder what it feels like to be conscious of falling asleep. Let's stay awake and find out." The upshot of this was that I was very tired and nearly drifting off, but every time I started to float away, my brain kicked in and went, "Wow, this is so cool" and woke me up again. This is how come I ended up sitting up in bed at 2:30 this morning with Classic FM on, reading a chapter of Jeremy Paxman's excellent 'The English,' which is what I do when I can't sleep. This had the effect of wearing my brain out a bit more so that then it got too fuxored to concentrate on what falling asleep felt like, and actually let me fall asleep. My brain truly has a mind of its own.
