It was very late, I was in bed reading but not sleepy, my husband walked into the bedroom, fell on the bed and appeared to be instantly unconscious. I put the book down, turned off the light and tried to sleep but my head was too busy. I kept still as still could be.
I impulse-bought a chair from a second-hand shop at the weekend, the shop man made his son carry it home for me. This provided a much-needed comedy bonus - the boy's trousers were fashionably slung below his bottom and both his arms were fully occupied with the chair, no matter how wide the boy made his bow-legged waddle, the trousers sank repeatedly to the floor.
Then we had lots more exposure last week when all the British newspapers suddenly started publishing photographs that were taken during filming trips in Africa:
Just two newspapers had a reporter check facts about the images which were provided by a photo library with our contact details for further information. one of those reporters bothered to take notes.
The Daily Mail made some interesting stuff up which resulted in some surprisingly abusive comments on the online article.
The new offices have separated the Cake Eaters from the Camera Boys. The former occupy the large beautiful-ceiling-room and mostly spend time looking at hot men on each others computer screens. The Camera Boys bob in and out of their rooms like meercats investigating new burrows, they carry bits of wire or a metal box as they go but basically they’re just visiting each other to look at pictures of hot girls on each others computer screens.
Last month we all went out together. It was a straight-from-work-fancy-dinner event, an industry-award-ceremony affair where we sat at big round tables set with white linen, long-stemmed wine glasses and packets of sweeties stamped with the logo of a television company. We brought our geary clothes to work and hung them on behind-the-door-hooks until tea-time, then one by one people disappeared and reappeared to stand around feeling vaguely uncomfortable in suits and gowns until a critical mass of gloriousness was reached and just one cardigan-clad person remained tapping furiously at her keyboard.