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21 September 2009
I took my blow dried hair and un'done' eyes to Fay Weldon's Booklaunch only to discover that I'd missed the spectacle of two well-known literary figures turning up at the Art's Club, as Private Eye would say (and no doubt shall say) so very tired and emotional that they were refused entry. This is what happens when you have to rely on cosmetics to hide your need for private surgery (and also clears up the mystery of why my hairdresser insists I should have a fringe...) - you miss all the fun. However the room was abuzz with gossip.'Lots of attractive men here tonight,' said a friend after she had filled me in on the story. I looked around the room. Being a bit taller than me, even in my three inch heels, this friend may be at a different altitude from me but unless she can see through walls I'm not sure we're at the same party. Apart from a senior colleague who commented on my Messalina dress (there's nothing like being compared to a classical promiscuous adultress to make a woman feel attractive) I don't think I spoke to one man who wasn't holding a wine bottle all evening. 'Oh but you must meet lots of chaps at work, what with all those authors and parties - someone is bound to come along and sweep you up,' says Worcester in much the same vein, touchingly imagining that Publishing is a non-stop parade of eligible men. (Well actually I'm gilding the lily a bit here as he doesn't sound so much worried at the prospect as wistfully hopeful.) But even if it were true, my office is full of young, beautiful women who look like the back up singers on Robert Palmer's addicted to love and by the time any stray man gets to my desk, his eyes have burnt out. All they do is hand me their coats and blindly feel for a seat.
'Who's that Scandinavian blonde?' Asked my carpenter friend who has been in the office doing some work for us recently. 'Which bloody one?' I might have replied if I had deigned to answer at all.
Yes indeed, publishing is a great place to meet men. Especially if you have a fondness for those who wear leather, carry a motorcycle helmet under one arm, or push a trolley. Currently the only one who knows my name and comes in with any regularity is called Billy. And he works for UPS. Oh, I do like a man in uniform.
Posted by Writer in Residence at 12:55 PM
'But even if it were true, my office is full of young, beautiful women who look like the back up singers on Robert Palmer's addicted to love and by the time any stray man gets to my desk, his eyes have burnt out. All they do is hand me their coats and blindly feel for a seat.'
Brilliant, just brilliant. But your company doesn't sound much like my old one, where - ungallant though it sounds- the male vision was perfectly safe from burn-out. I suppose some women there looked like the Robert Palmer girls but not as they looked then, but as the girls doubtless now look - late 40s, bulging like the Kursk salient, ears like mafia dons tuning in for insult to be paid back with interest.
As for publishing blokes - well the female peepers were even more safe! Though at one New Year's Party I saw. . . [remembers confidentiality agreement]