A is for: Awards ceremonies (and Alcohol). Every year, my company held an in-house awards ceremony at a swanky venue in town. On the Big Day, the excitement and tension were palpable and, as soon as was decently possible, we all left our desks to crowd into the loos, which had morphed into highly-scented changing rooms where our party outfits were duly admired (or not). A fleet of coaches whisked us all off to the venue and drinks and canapes were served as soon as we arrived, followed by a sit-down three-course dinner and raffle, a celebrity compere announcing the awards and a disco to round off the evening (my favourite part. I didn’t get out much). Awards ranged from best art director, best feature writer, best use of design, best campaign and many more, culminating in the Lifetime Achievement award, which the recipients used to joke meant the kiss of death for what remained of their careers.
A colleague who liked a drink or three had ignored earlier warnings to tone it down by those who had seen it all before and ended the evening on the floor under the table, shouting to any passing young waiter: “You just want to have me.” It took several men and women to wrestle her into a taxi, then some kind soul thought it best to make sure she got home safely and tossed a coin as to who should go with her. In the end, after much huffing and shoving (she was a well-built lady), they had to leave her in the stairwell of her block of flats. There was no lift and no way they would have been able to get her up to her flat, which was on the top floor. She turned up late for work the following day, apologetic and contrite, but no one was very amused.
While waiting for my taxi home from the venue one year, I spotted two men having a scrap outside. They were from opposing music magazines and one had the right hump because the other had received an award he felt he was more entitled to. “It should have been me!” I heard him wail.
The same evening, I overheard the editor of a notorious lads’ mag giving a taxi driver his address. I had imagined he must live somewhere really edgy and “hard” (in those days) – the Elephant and Castle, Hackney or Peckham, say. Not a bit of it. “Primrose Hill,” he chirruped, as he climbed into the cab.
I’ve just written a very short biog piece and tightened and updated my notes on how to get stories published (there’s always room for more editing). All in readiness for my first-ever stint at a literary festival in June, where I will be part of a panel of experts on writing (ahem) and will also be critiquing and talking through a selection of stories previously sent to me for my opinion. Talk about out of my comfort zone (or CZ)! Well out.
In fact, ever since I reluctantly took redundancy last year, I have been pushed out of my comfortable and cushioned CZ in ways I would never have expected. I was definitely cocooned while nestled in the Fiction Dept of Woman’s Weekly for 29 years. I had found my niche, or my “happy place” as they say these days and I never stopped feeling grateful. But pressures of work and the stresses of commuting, horribly early starts (I had two alarm clocks at one point), not to mention lugging bagsful of books and manuscripts back and forth between the office and my home, meant that I didn’t always make the most of any invitations that came my way and, if I regret anything, it is that I could have enjoyed that side of my job a lot more, with the added benefit of expanding my contacts. (My other regret is that I didn’t start my pension much, much sooner – only about halfway through my working life, when I had a promotion. There is no doubt that I am going to be poor!)
Well, I’m certainly making up for all that now. I have no excuses for no time any more. I’ve written blogs for a writers’ website, given a talk on how to write stories for magazines to a writers’ group I now belong to and been to a book launch lunch – any more out there?! I’ve critiqued stories for writer friends for free and have started to do a bit of my own writing – still very much a work in progress. I take my hat off to writers everywhere. I don’t know how you all do it but, as I used to say when I was working, I’m very glad you do, or I’d be out of a job! There were many hair-raising times when we realised we didn’t have any stories for an upcoming issue but somehow we always managed to find something, often at the eleventh hour.
And now – eek – the festival and the most important thing of all: Is it possible to lose three stone between now and June?!