Dragostea Tin Dei (and other shite)

Sorry for the slight interruption in ramblings. I’ve been chided by a few people by email for the interruption. Sorry, I was in Gran Canaria for a week, doing very little (or at least very little worth hearing about).

I came down to London for what was basically a job interview yesterday and am catching up with friends. The interview was more of a fireside chat with somebody I’ve known for ages, although not well. An advantage of being an old git is that people in “the industry” already know who I am so it’s really just a case of whoring myself around for the best offer. Here was a typical part of the conversation with my female interviewer/ past colleague:

Interviewer: “If you’d come here six months ago, we were so busy, I would have bitten your hand off right there and then. And your head.”

Me: “Well, as long as you’d left the bits I really care about alone.”

Interviewer: (Laughs) “No point going there. I know that I’m not exactly your sort.”

Me: “Not unless you’re hiding a big secret. The bigger the better, if you get me.”

(General “fat slags” giggling and pleasing thoughts that we’re both being paid to talk shite).

The evening brought a very pleasing dinner with a friend who is very good fun and who I am apt to forget is very important. In a couple of hours, she basically put several months’ worth of work my way. I am lucky indeed to not only be able to get work quite easily, but also to get to work with people I like and respect. If I’m currently whoring myself around for money (as I am), I have the advantage of being a whore who’s fond of his clients. Can’t moan at that.

I between meetings, I went to Holmes Place in Putney. It’s much smaller and more crowded than I remember from my years of living in Putney; nothing like as good as Homos’ Place at the Printworks in Manchester. I’ve developed an unfortunate habit whilst jogging of unconsciously singing along to whatever’s on my ipod. As playlist “Gym A”, includes high energy camp trash that even I’m quite embarrassed to like, this can be particularly unfortunate. I realised that I was muttering away to “Numa Numa” yesterday; to the slightly amused bewilderment of the guy in the Coldplay T-shirt next to me. Muttering is about accurate, as this particular piece of auditory shite is in Romanian so I understand only a very few of the words. Sod it, he’ll never know who I am. In Manchester, people are far enough spaced apart that they don’t hear. In the more high density set up of London, I’ll have to learn to breathe through a gag whilst still jogging.