One way ticket

It's nearly been a week at Le Bureau and I'm still alive. I'm not actually going to write about work, as that's been known in the blogging world to end in tears. So, all that's left is how I get ready in the morning, my commute, lunch, my commute and drinks/dinner in the evening. Today you're getting the commute. Exciting stuff.

I walk out the door, kiss T goodbye (he goes in the other direction) stand on the pavement and wait. Eventually, the little green mini bus with the 10b cardboard sign in the window comes over the hill. I stick my arm out and fling myself in. Carefully avoiding knocking myself out on the door frame. I tap my Octopus card on the reader (5HKD - 70c USD), hunch over, walk to the nearest seat and sit in complete silence along with the other 10 people on their way to a hard day of pen pushing.

Complete silence isn't quite accurate as the drivers have a penchant for very loud, soppy Chinese music. So the Chinese equivalents of Alejandro Sanz, Whitney Houston and Lionel Richie echo round the tiny box of a bus as it stops and starts to let people in and out at completely random street corners. 15 minutes later, I squeak that it's my "stop" and topple out in front of Le Bureau. Again avoiding decapitation.

Of course, the bus doesn't actually go back home. It's a one way bus. Or it will be until I can find its return route. Or does it change its cardboard sign when it comes back? Crafty.

Shoes in haystacks

I'm in the Twilight Zone, Dead Man Walking, woman waiting for a job. I feel like a leprechaun, hanging out at the end of the rainbow, waiting for the pot of gold to turn up. I'm pulling petals here.

As T's at work - what with having a real job and all. I've had to lean on my next reliable shoulder; Gossip Girl. I've watched most of season 3 in two days, and I'm finding it all rather addictive. Although when you look at it all at once you realise that everyone is lying to everyone else and apologising for it all the time. Most tiresome. Love the outfits though...and I find myself saying "spotted" a lot in my mind.

Anyway, in between bouts of Gossip Girl, I'm razzling up virtuous hot chocolate (1 tbs unsweetened cocoa, 1 sachet Splenda, 1/2 cup skimmed milk, 1/2 cup boiling water) and trying to give myself facials (not a good idea). I also ran out in the rain this morning to buy shoes, as I don't want to have a Monday morning fashion crisis if Monday turns out to be one of those Mondays where-one-might-have-to-look-presentable.

Small detail on the shoe front. I'm a size 41. Picture the average Chinese woman.. size 41 doesn't exactly leap to mind, does it? So, as of this morning, I'm now qualified in the art of shoe shopping in Hong Kong. Upon entering a shop, I look straight at the lady at the counter and ask what their biggest shoe size is. Before looking at anything. This avoids any chance of disappointment or heartbreak.

This is generally taken as a trick question, but 99.9% of the time, the answer is, "39". Bugger.

Seeing my face fall, this is then followed with pulling hand movements and enthusiast expressions like "but stretch! Stretch!"

Ha! Stretch from a 39 to a 41?! Fat chance that's ever going to happen.

Thank goodness for Zara...

Effortlessly stylish enough?

Tai-Tai

My knee in the sun

According to everyone with a job, sitting around doing nothing is a rare treat to be cherished. Like all good things, they pass. Not bloody fast enough! I've spent 2 days hard at work on my tan and have managed to decorate my back with various white lines and that's that. Done. What next? Yes, I already had a pedicure. (I really shouldn't be complaining though as these were the only 2 sunny days Hong Kong has had in decades).

I'm starting to relate to those desperately annoying, and ridiculously wealthy, women who say "oh I do charity work". As they sip their Veuve Clicquot and blind you with their diamonds. I normally feel a wave of nausea when I come across one of these specimens, and wouldn't like to become one of them. Although, no worries there, as I'm yet to fall under the "ridiculously wealthy" category, unless one of us wins the lottery.

So, tomorrow you'll find me doing some form of uncharitable work or other. Although we have been kindly invited to the opening of the Hong Kong Art Fair, which should bring some of my brain cells out from hiding, albeit briefly.

Proper names

The South China Morning Post always juices up a story with little morsels on the societal roles of the people involved. These roles, however, change depending on what that person was actually doing either before, or after, the newsworthy event occurred.

So, if you're a doctor, you might be reduced to 'dog owner', if the story involves you and your dog. But if you're on your way to work, you'll probably get your job title e.g. from paper yesterday:

Deadly smash. Three people were thrown from the vehicle by the force of the crash. One was a butcher on his way to work.

This got me thinking. What would they describe me as if I got involved in some newsworthy story? If something happened on the way to a non job interview, what would they write? Eager job candidate trips on future employer's stairs? And coming back from the flower market? Gardener drops buganvilla on toe? And on my way to the personal trainer? Wannabe athlete skids down stairs on her way to luxury trainer?

And the rest of the time.. what if I'm not going anywhere really?

Today I'm 'managing' furniture assembly. Read opening the door and serving tea. Foreman?

Caught between two stools

The thought of maybe-one-day-having-a-job has put me into a state of paralysis.

Up until today, my mind has been full with other things; Boom Boom, wardrobes, food, meeting new people, making sure T's shirts are ironed. I've been quite enjoying it actually.

But now the thought of work has put a spoke in the works. What about the roofgarden I want to build? And the re-covering of the couch? And how will I manage the IKEA delivery men? And who will look after this blog? And didn't I want to start personal training?

So, today you'll find me next to the pool. Hoping this all goes away.

A non interview

Photo from: HRInmotion

What does one wear to a non job interview? I'm meeting a friend of a friend tonight who is generously humoring me with a drink to discuss whether I could potentially be employed by anyone ever again. No pressure.

Now, I don't have any problem with formal interview attire: skirt, shirt, flat shoes (to not intimidate any shorter male interviewers), ponytail and deodorant. These are my key interview staples. My problem lies with this in-between-oh-we're-just-meeting-for-a-drink-and-then-we'll-see-what-happens attire.

I asked T this morning, before he left the house dressed in a designer suit, with shoes to match. His outfits are always impeccable, which is most annoying, as I always have to change at least three times before leaving the house before any occasion that involves more people than just the two of us. Sometimes I think, sod it, and go out in whatever I was already wearing. This is usually a mistake.

Anyway, so I asked T what I should wear and he said, "Wear what you want her to see."

"And what's that?" I ask. He looked at me blankly. Probably wondering how he landed up with a non French girl.

What do I want her to see? People who know me would say that I have at least one working brain cell and that my disastrous dress sense is one of my endearing qualities. The crux lies in what people who don't know me see.

Take the Mona Lisa. The fact that she decided to wear her hair parted in the middle and loose, instead of tied up in a bun, made a big difference. Or that she is wearing a veil. That morning, before she met Leonardo, she must have changed at least a dozen times. Thinking, little,useless veil? or no little, useless veil? My heart goes out to Lisa, or Mona.

Chore of the day: Pull out all summer clothes and look for something that shows you're "effortlessly" (biggest understatement ever) smart, stylish and someone you want to sit next to at the office Christmas party.