working girl

For some bizarre reason, one of my favorite films to watch as a kid was Working Girl. I liked watching Tess McGill change from this big haired Jersey girl to a still big haired Suit. Being a Suit looked important and exciting. Fast forward 20 odd years later and I've developed this aversion to all things Suit related. Maybe thats why I chose to slog it out in the meeedya industry for so long where converse and ripped jeans (albeit designer) were acceptable forms of workwear.

The knocks I've taken when I was still struggling up the industry ladder have left me with a lot of self doubt. Even now, in a nice stable role in the third sector I have wobbly days where I worry that I'm not doing enough or I've done too much or no one's taking me seriously. Having had nothing but glittering references from employers, the one that tops my list of humiliations (and there's been many!) was the time when I worked freelance for a start up digital company. My boss sat me down on the table next him (because you know...changing tables makes it all the more private) for a "chat". Silly little me came running over with my arms full of research notes and updates, sit down, pen poised, about to go through my findings when he hits me with "we're not going to ask you to come back next week, you just don't fit the dynamic of the office" Ouch. But that was the reason I was hired in the first place, to give them ideas outside of their box. Did I mention, I was also the only girl therefore all tea duties were assigned to me? As well as all the phone calls. I went from having a perfect employment record to being shown the door. Meanwhile, the snivelling, stuck up little brown noser who was hired alongside me stayed put. The same little rodent who declared he would never touch The Sun newspaper because it was chavvy. Granted, but it is the biggest selling newspaper in the country. Moron.

So on the spot I had to hand over my office keys, fight back tears of humiliation while feeling my face get hotter and hotter and do the walk of shame through the door. Even the time I was pushed onto the pavement by an irate shopkeeper (so he could interrupt the cameras and shout at June Sarpong) and I was made to apologise to him...this still doesn't come close to the walk of shame I had to do.

Months later, whilst walking through Soho one morning I had the displeasure of bumping into one of the slimy creeps who gave me a bright smile and chirped Good Morning! I couldnt believe that after the embarrassment I suffered from these guys, the panic of suddenly not having a job, the stress of trying to scramble for another job to make rent money, here he was all happy jazz hands trying to be nice!Giving him an almighty stare down, I gave him no ackowledgement and walked straight past him leaving him hanging on D'Arblay Street. Now that, as Mastercard would say, is priceless.