A Call Girl Responds

Staggering in to the flat after three hours of Patrick Stewart being old and hysterical in Macbeth, I grabbed the remnants of some Diet Coke and collapsed onto the sofa for the first episode of Secret Diary of a Call Girl, or Billie Piper's Agent Provocateur ad as it should probably be known - infinitely less annoying than that mealy-mouthed tabland Kate Moss. Even though it was barely half an hour long it was great fun. While not as bitingly funny or intelligent as the original blog ("because it's on the telly darling," says one cultural friend dismissively), and later book, by Belle De Jour, was exactly what I needed after a week of Culture with a capital twat.

Now, I don't trust writers who only use one name. It's ridiculous and egotistical, and I know enough writers with two names who fit that bill. Actors just about get away with it (viz Portia currently wowing the West End and Fantasia in The Color Purple on Broadway) but writers aren't covered in stardust and just come across as a bit po-faced and ridiculous.

Which, handily for this sweeping stereotype, is exactly how Bidisha, an Independent columnist, came across on Monday's Front Row. She'd been roped in by Mark Lawson to give a "woman's perspective" (this went unsaid, in much the same way that the Wonderbra ads in the 90s went unsaid) of the new TV show. The poor girl has a voice that would send a speed freak to sleep, and spoke with such grating lack of knowledge that by the end I just felt slightly embarrassed.

"She says she wasn't abused," she says earnestly (paraphrase) "but in the book she describes what is very clearly an abusive relationship with her first boyfriend that she talks about in an almost dismissive manner."

That's not abuse, that's S&M you silly girl. Read the book. I can feel another 300 argument approaching.

Read the amusing and acidic email from Belle De Jour to Radio 4. I wonder if they'll be reading that out on Pick of the Week.

Amazon children

The BBC have reported on findings that having an older sibling can stunt your growth.

My 6'7 younger brother would beg to differ.

How not to quit your job

I handed in my notice today. I’ve never had to hand in my “notice” before. Notice of what, exactly? Intentions of an infidelious nature towards another place of employment? For fuck’s sake. I’ve always been freelance, on a short-term contract, or made redundant by a slowly atrophying magazine company so the responsibility of handing in one’s notice is an alien one.

Despite having a job with about as much use as scrubbing corns for a living, I adore the people I work with and given that I’d expressed sod all hint of upping and leaving beforehand, felt utterly mortified at the prospect of jumping this particular ship, however interminably boring.

Resignation went as follows:

Boss summons me to talk about new update to site. I grab sheafs of letters copied from drafts offered up by helpful Journobiz members and miserably ask him to come outside first in manner of hideous vet about to put down dog in Lady and the Tramp. Tell boss. Forget advice about keeping it simple. Actually use the phrase “it’s not you, it’s me”. Boss totally unfazed by my intention to leave. I hug boss for about three minutes apologising. Boss quite cheered at prospect of leaving party. Me nearly in tears. Office continues as normal.

Am now going to see Atonement and drink many, many cocktails of assorted flavours in Covent Garden, resting pathetically on Guy’s unimpressed shoulder until I feel either less hideous, or infinitely more so depending.