Proving that every cloud has a silver lining – even when that cloud involves pig detritus, humiliation, East Anglia and a clown suit – I have emerged from Molly’s birthday party with an offer of work. Maria, the features editor on JOY! magazine, for whom Jody writes a column, has discovered my shameful past as a subeditor and offered me a few shifts (“We’re, like, literally, so unbelievably desperate,” were her final, flattering words to me as she climbed into her taxi back to 'Sosho', wherever that is.).
So it is that I find myself in the life-sapping pleasure vacuum that is the Northern Line, heading for London Bridge, revelling in the piquant embrace of a damp commuter. JOY! indeed.
Once security ascertain that I'm not a terrorist - or worse, a spy from Zest - I make my way up to the office, where I loiter by the secretary’s desk. JOY! staff swan around me, sipping liquidized root vegetables and talking merrily to each other about their weekend exploits, which mainly seem to consist of Dorset, blokes who live in Balham, and small bottles of cava. Every few seconds, another gal comes through the swing doors, sizes me up, sits down and enters into similar banter with someone else.
A quartet of indie manboys arrive in quick succession. All are listening to iPods. None remove their earphones as they log on. Designers are the same everywhere.
After a few minutes, the doors almost fly off their hinges and Maria enters. At last, a friendly face.
Naturally, she completely blanks me and disappears into her office. Another five minutes pass before she reappears, marches up to me and whips off her sunglasses, which are almost as big as her head. She is dressed as a gypsy peasant and is flouting the building’s strict no smoking policy.
“There you are! Thought you literally were not gonna show up,” she says. “Let’s find you a...um...desk and get you started. Unbelievably short-staffed.”
Maria practically runs over to a vacant desk, forcing me to speed walk to keep up.
“Right. Here we are, next to Natasha, the chief sub, soz, deputy chief sub. Isn't it?”
Natasha nods. I say ‘nods,’ but it may just have been the building settling a millimetre or so.
“Nat, be a love and phone Amir and get this fellow set up,” instructs Maria before sprinting back to her gypsy lair.
“Amir? Natasha here? Got a new sub starting? Needs a Win password? And a QPS one? And an internet one? And one for the electronic library? Cheers?”
Natasha puts the phone down and swivels her chair to face me. She has a long, very tanned face, big eyes and a short bob. She sits forward slightly and puts her palms on her sturdy, trouser-suited thighs.
“I’m Nat? You familiar with all the stuff?”
“Yeah,” I reply casually.
“InDesign?”
“Yeah.”
“Quark?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Copydesk?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Word?”
“Yes.”
“Legal? How’s your legal?”
“Fine.”
“Got much experience subbing?”
I give her a brief CV which is only slightly embellished. She frowns and tucks her hair behind her ear for the 19th time.
“Once you’re all set up we’ll see how good you are?”
I’m sitting next to the only unfriendly Aussie in the Northern Hemisphere.
In the two hours I wait to get set up a series of classic 'first day' embarrassments occur: I am locked briefly out of the editorial floor because I went to the water machine in the corridor and I don’t have the correct pass to get back in; I am busted by Alice, the secretary, for using the disabled toilet (there didn’t appear to be any gent’s lavs); I am noticeably excluded from the tea run because the tea buyer is unsure of who I am and is too polite or uninterested to ask. Standard stuff.
After I tire of examining the panoply of samples of expensive perfume and cosmetics that clutter my desktop, I text V for moral support, and to show my new colleagues that I have friends in the outside world. She sends me practical advice: mst imprtnt thng on day 1 is 2 make T 4 every1. I now have to wait a decent amount of time since the last tea run to put my plan into action.
Eventually, I go for it.
"Um, anyone for tea?" I ask, peeking above my monitor.
Everyone bar Natasha has gone. They've melted away from their desks and gone out for what will no doubt be a long, matey lunch with lots of laughter. The bastards.
"Natasha, tea?"
Natasha shakes her head, puts on her coat and stands up, like a new-born gazelle.
“Everything going alright?” she asks.
“Yup, cheers.”
“Do you want to -”
She’s obviously thawed. Yes, I’d love to come out for lunch and get to know everyone.
“- go into the queue and pick up 38 and 39 for starters?”
“Yeah, no problem,” I say, trying hard not to sulk.
Natasha canters out through the swing doors and I sit alone in the office. There’s nothing else for it but to do some work. I go into the editorial basket and open up page 39. It's the sex problem page. The lead item is about the pros and cons of ovulation calendars. Great. My heart sinks further when I open up page 38 and spot the headline at the top of the page: Arcadian Rhapsody.
Jody’s column. In which, it transpires, a thinly disguised version of V and Me make a guest appearance.
The piece is five lines short. Now, I could ring her and get her to send more copy. However, she's always going on about how hectic her new downsized rural life is, so it's probably best not to disturb her.
I risk getting locked out of the building and nip out to get a sandwich and a double espresso. An afternoon of reading about the sexual angst of JOY! readers and heavily rewriting Jody's column demands a full stomach and a clear head.
Oi! not all Oz journos are like that, if you please :-)
Posted by: Ellen | Jul 13, 2006 at 15:33
heh heh...Joy! sounds supiciously like a magazine I used to work on...located not a million miles from the South Bank? Great stuff!
Posted by: lizd | Jul 13, 2006 at 11:43