Pink wine

Dear Mr Publican: it's time for us to have a chat about pink wine.

Yes, pink wine. I am not going to call it rosé and the sooner you accept this the happier we'll both be. It's rosé for the French and it's rosé for Bournemouth hen nights wearing their L-plates to the local Wetherspoons; I will have a glass of pink, thank you very much.

Secondly, when I say pink, I am looking neither for fluorescence nor for a barrel of sugar in my glass. It may be a barely-there touch of colour or it may be a richer shade, but if it looks or (heaven forbid) tastes like a children's drink I am going to entertain serious doubts about the quality of your establishment.

Whatever we decide to call it, we are at least in agreement that it should be served cold. Nonetheless, if you give it to me with ice in my glass, my friend, we will be having words. You can also be quite confident that you will one day wake up up in a special hell reserved solely for compulsive icers and people who mix red wine with cola.

Finally - and really I do feel that this should go without saying - if my friends and I order a bottle we do appreciate the fact that you've provided an ice bucket. But for heaven's sake, will you put it somewhere we can reach it? Either that or make sure you've got enough staff on hand to keep the glasses filled. Three girls and a bottle of wine? The last thing you want is for the glasses to run dry.

Am I really being so unreasonable?

Socks and sandals: the boys' summer dress dilemma

The heat of our sweltering fourth floor office has driven the powers that be to implement an emergency dress code. From tomorrow the boys of the office will be breaking out of their suits and smarts into shorts and sandals… and maybe even socks?

No, I have more faith in them than that. Still, the choices for boys in the summer are surprisingly limited and I can't quite picture what the Men of the Agency will do with this new-found freedom. Not for them the easy escape of the sundresses or sleeveless t-shirts that are the saviours of women across the sweltering City; instead they must contend with the sartorial hurdles of shorts and casual Ts. Who really dares expose their knees to peers and bosses alike? And what will replace the leather shoes that have been the staple of the winter months - the scratty trainers that have sat by the door for the last eighteen months, or - heaven forbid - flipflops?

As the clock ticks towards 9am on Friday morning, the women of the agency will turn towards the door as one, asking themselves the killer question: who will get it wrong?

Poor boys, it does seem unfair. I'm sure the only other people who have it this hard in summer are the Goths.

Back to the Bonkbuster!

I'm a bit restless this week; I think I need a project to keep me out of trouble. (Otherwise I’m only going to start Improving People’s Lives again, and we all know where that ends up.) Top of the list, where it’s been for three years, four co-authors and a whole HEAP of inspiration, is The Bonkbuster.

For those who don’t know, I come from an alarmingly literary family. To go through my life without a Great Work would make me something of an anomaly. (For all its wonders I don’t really count TheLadiesLoos as publication.) The problem is that I don’t have the attention span for a Real Book, the brain for a Thesis, the angst for A Great Opus or the inspiration for an Insight Into Society… I do, however, have a lot of very scandalous friends.

Well, you’ve to work within your means, right?

I think this could keep me busy and quiet for a couple of months at least. And as they say, everyone has at least one book in them (even if it’s shite). Would it really surprise anyone if this turned out to be mine?

Welcome to the Jungle

Idly reflecting on a long Friday night train ride I found myself thinking about the many exotic characters I’ve met over the last few years in the wild world of the PR industry. And it crossed my mind that perhaps the time has come to chronicle a few of those encounters for the benefit of generations yet to come.

Just one small disclaimer before you start flaming my personal email: none of these are based on anyone in particular - unless, of course, you think it’s you and take it as a compliment. In that case, you’re right.

For my (rather more prolific) non-PR readers: humour me this morning and tomorrow I'll tell you the story of the amazing transvestite I met at Angel station :)

Welcome to a strange, dark world…

The Sophisticat
Urbanis communicat
Impeccably groomed and perfectly presented at all times, the sophisticat seems somehow too elegant for the daily grind of work. Always at the top of their game, they are most often to be found running either their own agency or a large chunk of someone else’s. Always has a game plan.

Makes PR look good.

The Creative
Musa inspirata
At the heart of every phenomenally successful but equally risky PR stunt is the Creative. Own cousin to the Visionary, the Creative has a remarkable ability to pluck news stories from thin air, be it anything from “my Bran Flakes saved my life” to “I caught my cheating lover using sat nav”.

Media guru who secretly wants to pitch “I found Jesus in my pancake” story to new clients.

Will never, ever wear a suit.

The Tech Guru
Telecommicus notoriosus
Knows their sector inside out; likely to understand the client's business better than the client themselves. Chic or smart exterior inevitably hides party monster: approach on the dance floor at your own risk.

The Visionary
Propheticus communicatus
Has seen the future of PR and is dragging their clients towards it whether they like it or not. Often at their best when surrounded by boring non-Visionary types with clipboards and action lists.

May have been a TV evangelist in a previous life, but far more likely to be onto something this time around.

The Social Media Evangelist
Digitalis digitalis
Often if not invariably under 25. Networks on Twitter and in pubs. Can be identified by distinctive song: "you don't still use FaceBook, do you?"

Requires regular caffeine inputs to function at full capacity. Likely to evolve into the Visionary.

The Throwback
Egotistus erraticus
Never got over losing the infamous '80s PR lifestyle. Hates the word strategy and looks with suspicion on bizarre modern concepts like "deliverables” and “measurement”.

Easily identified by black Armani polo necks, long lunches and tendency to sniff uncontrollably after bathroom trips.

Highly endangered species.

The Motivator
Enthuiastica infectica
Comes in many guises but with one common theme – these are the people who really, really love what they do. In PR for the joy of the job, they will fight tooth and nail for what they believe and will infect those around them with their enthusiasm .

If you’re working with one, hold onto them for dear life; these people are worth their weight in gold.

I do, however, feel they deserve a better moniker.

-------------------------

But now the bell is chiming 9am, which means it's time to end our tour. Enjoy your stay, O Best Beloved, and please feel free to send me your own widlife spots to add to the menagerie...

Service interruption

Dearests, I am not dead, merely laid out with the second lurgy of the fortnight. Am I not a sickly child?

Not according to this meme, I'm not:

almostalady --

[noun]: A person of questionable sanity who starts their own cult

'How" will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Now there's a career path I never considered...

The Tyranny of Shoes!

Altruistic "anti-shoe company" MBT wants to warn us of a terrible dictatorship under which many of us suffer without even knowing it. I speak of course of the Tyranny of Shoes - those abominable creations "which conspire with hard, flat surfaces to ruin your back".

Oh noes, a shoe conspiracy!

But never fear! MBT has an alternative, a shining beacon of hope that can "protect your spine, knees and hips... (and) tone your muscles and improve posture". Thanks be to heaven, there is salvation after all!

And to an extent, they do have a bit of a point. High heels, pointy toes and wedges of all kinds can be hard to walk in. We've all seen (and been) the girl wobbling uncomfortably down the street in footwear that looked beautiful on the shelf but somehow became just a bit ridiculous once it's on your feet. It throws your posture off and damnit, it hurts.

So why on earth do we do it? Because shoes are beautiful. Shoes are colourful. Shoes are fun. Shoes can turn an outfit from at-home-casual into cocktail-bar-smart. Shoes can make jeans red-carpet proof. And maybe most importantly of all, shoes will never treacherously fail to do up because you had pizza for dinner eight nights in a row.

By failing to take this into account MBT has missed a crucial point in the fight to free us from our self-inflicted burden. For those who missed it, the point is this: no one needs ugly shoes. I'll even go so far as to say it's morally irresponsible to suggest otherwise.

Anyway, if someone really wants to make a statement with their practical-but-ugly footwear (and by statement I mean "I got dressed in the dark") they can just reach for their Uggs.

Sorry, MBT. Close, but no cigar.

The Ladies' Loos

In the last couple of weeks I've been reconnecting with some of the online communities I've let slide over the last year or so. Perhaps the most notable of those is the Ladies' Loos over on LiveJournal, and if you haven't been there, I heartily recommend it. Sorry boys... female members only :)

The Loos is a few years old now (Three? Four? Anyone care to correct me?). Since its first incarnation on Mono it's become an amazing and supportive place to talk about any and all issues that affects the lives of the women who make up its membership. Originally started, IIRC, for a small group of female friends to talk about the things they'd rather not put on their personal journals, it quickly blossomed via word of mouth and became a haven for women from any country and any kind of background to come together and share their lives, stories and advice.

Some 18 months ago (surely no more) the Loos even published its own advice book, based on all the questions, answers, advice and angst people had poured out over its life so far. I've still got a couple of copies somewhere; I'm inordinately proud of its existence and the fact that my name appears alongside some of the brightest and best women I could ever hope to encounter.

Yes, it's a protective and caring community; but it's never afraid of a fight. If you want to know what people really think of something you can go ahead and ask; but remember that in a room of almost a thousand women from around the world you're going to get some pretty impassioned views and some of them will inevitably be the polar opposite to your own. Despite this it's exceptionally rare to get trolls; every member is vouched for by other people within the community before they're given access to the posts, each one of which is locked by default (although you can set your own posts to public viewing if you want).

Last but not least, for those who want to ask a question or share something they don't want to be openly associated with, there is the ladiesloos_anon account which any member can log in to and use to post without revealing their RL ident.

It's a great place and I'm happy to be part of it. Every time I check back in I find I learn something about the world I didn't know before. The mystery and magic of women, by women, for women. It's pretty awesome stuff.

The Other F Word

Via one of my favourite lunchtime blogs, Manolo's Shoe Blog, I have of late found myself foraging into a Strange New World. It's a world of women who are happy with the way they look despite not being The Perfect Ten - women who call themselves "fat" and like it.

The journey started with an innocent link to Manolo for the Big Girl, who in turn led me to the Fat Experience Project. Sitting there with my sandwich and my crisps I read some of the articles, frowned a bit, and read them again. Something was putting me on edge - not with anger, but with discomfort - and I couldn't work out what it was.

It took me a while to realise that the reason was simply because of the prolific use of the word Fat. But why on earth would that be? I don’t blink at the use of the word f*ck* (I use it a lot) and along with Eve Ensler of the Vagina Monologues I reclaimed the word c*nt a long time ago. But Fat really bothered me.

In a world where casual swearing is everywhere, is Fat the last taboo?

I have an affectionately insulting relationship with a number of my friends and it will always amuse me to yell "oi, slapper" across the street and watch them turn around to see who's calling. But we would never, under any circumstances, tease each other about the F word - it's just too damning. "Fat" has become synonymous with failure on a deeply personal and unforgiving level. It conjures up the image of someone who is lazy, who doesn’t control their eating and who doesn't care about their health - and to call someone fat suggests such a level of scorn that the relationship might never recover.

So when I first read the FEP comments it threw me a bit. Sweet baby J, I said to myself, these people are just admitting to Fat like it's a completely ok thing to be - not in a lack-of-self-esteem-I'm-miserable-help-me-please way – but simply saying that this is who I am, I'm "fat" and you know what? I like it. I don't eat badly, I exercise and keep fit, and this is the shape and the person that my biology makes me.

The more I read on, the more I liked what I saw. It made me wonder if Fat can be saved. Does it really have to be such a damnable insult? Can we ever turn it around to mean something more than it does today, namely failure in the eyes of an exacting and thin-obsessed society? Can't we bring it back to life for the sake of all those people who keep themselves fit, aren't eating themselves into an early grave and yet will never be the perfect 10, 12 or 14? (And don't give me any of your Rubenesque nonsense, either. We want Fat back and we ain't taking no cheap substitutes.)

Hell, we did it for c*nt, surely the F word is a piece of... um... cake?

*Asterixed for the sake of those who haven't yet liberated themselves from the male domination of our language - and those whose boss is reading over their shoulder ;)

Shiny like the sun

You'll have to excuse the two days of silence, O Best Beloved; for 48 hours I've been migrained beyond belief and the computer screen has not been my friend. Oh for a day when the sun didn't shine so brightly!

Even now it's not doing me any favours, so to send us off into the weekend in a properly cheerful mood, here's a picture of the latest addition to the Almostalady shoe hall of fame:



Aren't they lovely? Doesn't everything seem just a little bit better?

Who are you?

Personal identity is a funny thing.

Start with a few of the people you know. How many of them pop up in your head as "James the lawyer", "Pete and Lauren", or "Maya, she's always up for a few drinks"?

Each one of those labels categorises the person (or people) involved by a single aspect, reflecting only one part of the moods, characteristics, behaviours and attitudes that make them a whole. You know Maya's a laugh on a night out and she's always the person you call if you want a great evening, so that's how you tend to think of her. Now you think about it, the last time you introduced her to a friend you even said "this is Maya, you know, I've told you the stories!"

Of course you also know that Maya is also a fan of Shakespeare and long walks, works in a vet and wants to be a political campaigner; the new person, however, does not. Thus, Maya-the-party-girl becomes her persona to that new person. And my first question to you is this: if enough people think of her that way, will she eventually start to believe it too?

Now think about yourself. How do people introduce you? Are you the journalist, the accountant, the husband/wife/partner of Jim-who-you-met-earlier? And how do you introduce yourself? What's your answer to the inevitable "so who are you?"

Most of my friends would identify themselves by their jobs. "I'm Kate, I'm a lobbyist." A few of the newly-weds identify themselves by their spouse - "Oh, I'm Chris, that's my wife over there" - and it's always interesting to see what the first thing that comes to someone's mind will be.

But when you're asked that question, do you always answer the same way? Is there one aspect of you that's more important than the rest, or are you a mix of different characters depending on your mood and the circumstance? And is that response something you defined for yourself, or something that was defined by those around you? Do other people's expectations govern your behaviour? Does their reaction make you, on some level, live up to what they expect?

So many questions, so little time. Who is this person you've chosen to present? Is it a persona you put on to meet the world, or is it something the world has put on you? And if you take it away... what's left behind?

Most people I've put this to say that it shouldn't be a difficult question, that personal identity is more complex than that and "who I am" hangs on more than one or two delicate threads. But for a lot of people I think that primary or dominant persona can become such an important piece of the puzzle, governing how people react to them, what they do, who they meet and how they spend their time, that if you take it away it does leave behind a vacuum – a space that needs to be filled by something else lest self doubt roll in to fill up the gaps.

So is it dangerous to identify yourself too strongly with a single piece of your personal jigsaw? I suppose it depends on the person concerned. (We’ve all seen Spiderman, right?)

It’s not too much of struggle for me though. Who am I? ... I’m Almost a Lady :)