I have decided to go in as a freelancer for three days next week, to put out the last three magazines, one each day. I wrote a short, but heartfelt email to my boss's boss explaining my decision in the circumstances, sending it first to my boss for a quick check.
She cried, and sent it on.
My boss's boss replied that she had a lump in her throat.
My boss proceeded to email it to several other folks around the company, including the Finance Director for the Group and a couple of the Magazine Managers. The Manager of my last magazine cried over it. I may yet print it out and stick it up in the kitchen before I go.
My Thursday magazine actually went reasonably smoothly... Quite a few fillers in at the end, but we avoided any messing around with the flatplan and, barring about 6 pages with minor problems I had to fix on Friday morning, it all went to press perfectly by about 7pm.
The Christmas do was predictably awful. In so many ways, the journey to the venue was vastly more entertaining than the party. My boss had two passengers other than me: one to drop off home, the other to bring with us to the do. The latter ended up using her Duke of Edinburgh's Gold Award skills to direct us to the venue with the use of little more than a poorly-scaled map with barely any detail. In so many ways, it's a shame we found the place.
The venue was incredible (in a good way) with beautiful views over London, from Alexandra Palace to London City Airport and a little way beyond into the city centre, taking in Blackheath along the way. The food was diabolical - pathetically, insultingly small portions in tiny bowls, brought round on trays at irregular intervals. The PixPod photo booth was well used throughout the evening, with at least one of the property team disrobing... even though she knew the photos would be available to download from the PixPod website this evening. The bar service was surly but, considering the member of staff who represented us when the venue was booked, I'm not surprised they took a dim view of the rest of us when we turned up. Not only were the drinks tokens of limited use (soft drinks, beers, or 'house spirits' only) but the bar closed entirely at 4.45 (a full 15 minutes before we had been told to expect).
Highlights? Well, I was paid plenty of compliments by those I've worked closely with, both Production and Sales (not so much from Editorial, but they were mostly idiots) for my choice of clothing (I fuckin' rock a waistcoat) and, while six people didn't get a Secret Santa gift, my boss and I were singled out for special presentations (a bottle of Morgan's Spiced Rum, in my case) before a particularly trite and vaguely insulting speech from our Publishing Director. I also managed to con one of the bar staff into making me a Calfornia Root Beer (Galliano, Kahlua, Coke - try it) on the company tab by offering to pay for it. Lows include the aforementioned speech, the whole PixPod thing, and the Karaoke - apart from my boss putting everyone else to shame with a groundshaking a capella rendition of Amazing Grace, which had Group Editor raving that she should go on Britain's Got Talent.
These are such small people, with such small lives.
The Property Sales Manager hinted darkly that we'd share some time together in the PixPod, but that didn't happen... Perhaps it was my warning that, if she intended to kiss me again (as she had during the week), that she should not go anywhere near my neck unless she meant it.
I was also criticised as being judgemental - in a good way (with caveats) by one of my designers who told me I could be a Critic, but he couldn't decide what kind, and in a bad way by one of the girls in Sales, still smarting that I called her 'Miss Woodhouse' in an email, despite my assurances that I was referring to her as Jane Austin's matchmaker, not as a posh, self-absorbed halfwit.
It has been said before that I have an "observe, record, assess" approach to people, and it's not something I make any effort to deny... I'll even add that it gets worse for attractive girls, for whom the attitude is closer to "Yes, I can see you're good looking... what do you do for an encore?"
In any event, I left around 5.30, while everyone else was filtering off downstairs to the larger main bar. Sloping off back to the car park via the DLR, driving off to the Southbank Centre to pick up two tickets for Tron Legacy at IMAX, which will be going to my parents at the earliest opportunity. From thence, back home. When I read the leaving card signed by many of the folks in attendance, I found a rather sad little note written by the Publishing Director: "Adios, Beardy. It's been fun. See you... Out the door". Now, I'd imagine she'd been planning that all week, and just couldn't think of an alternative on the day... because I was clean-shaven for the party.
And, really, 'Beardy' was the best she could come up with? She couldn't simply have used my name, and avoided sounding like a complete twat?
There had been some snow yesterday, but nothing serious... but late in the morning today, it started coming down again... so we went from this:
To this: 
within the space of a few hours.And, while the snow appears to have stopped for now, with precious little gritting (again!) it has prevented me from getting to Uxbridge to see Tron Legacy and, rather more seriously, given my boss a near-death experience with a jack-knifing articulated truck on the motorway... She's back home now, but understandably shaken.
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