The Bombay Sapphire Diaries

And We're Back On...

2006-09-29T08:36:00.000+01:00

Hello all,

I am back with various news. One, I have a new job, which means I won't be working for crazy Lordy P any more very soon, which is good for my mental state, but no good for the blog. I've been thinking about passing it along to the new girl, if she's up for the drama....Anyway, I'm also back with you because His Lordship has taken to the booze. Again. He's also realised with a new girl working in the office, he can take that little more advantage.

So we get here at 8 am, and are rushing to get material together for a conference, and it's 8.25, and I'm like madly trying to get out the door to get to the place for 8.30, and Peter comes in his Kimono and makes the new girl go on a booze run for him!!!!! It is 8.25 in the morning, and the poor girl has to go to Sainsbury's again (she went yesterday, for her first time). I thought he was coming in to nag us to get going to the conference, but noooooooo! I am sitting here waiting for her to get back and am absolutely steaming. Why do I bother going to these stupid conferences???? More on this later....When I'm a little less peeved!
Ugh!!!

Listed MIA!

2006-08-22T14:51:00.000+01:00

Hi All,

Sorry to be so completely off the charts these days...I'm writing an update by popular demand (*ahem* *ahem* Sadowski family...). Lord P has been sober, and therefore fairly boring. My only good news is that I have a new visa and I can start looking for ANOTHER job and release myself from my indentured servitude. Goody! So if any of you all are hiring, I'll be here, serving my Lord and master when you need me...

Lately, His Lordship has been completely broke, as in cashing in those cheques the credit card companies try and push on you for exorbitant amounts of interest. But he still insists on maintaining a ridiculous front which involves first class rides on the Eurostar, intense chocolate cakes on his arrival and a 50 Euro bouquet for his ex-wife. So really, every day has a little nugget of bizarreness, so yes, I have no excuse for my bad blogging behavior. I forgot how much looking for jobs can drain your soul! Boooo....

Ta ta for now, y'all! I will be in touch. I think I'll just start writing down any little crazy shenanigan Lordy P does. That should entertain the troops!

xoxo

Scrooge McYuck!

2006-06-13T10:52:00.000+01:00

Ugh! I am so sorry to have dropped off the map, but His Lordship seems to have swiftly recovered from his long-standing bout of severe alcoholism and decided to make up for the months he’s missed in like 6 days. It’s been mildly manic, to put it lightly.

So, what has gone on…Well for starters, the lack of organisation at our publishing house lead to the misplacing of one our author’s manuscripts (this was all before my co-worker and I got here, of course!), which the author had since lost on his own computer, thus making the lost copy, the ONLY copy. Plus, to make matters worse, said author was on a short trip over from his native Estonia and my co-editorial asst. and I were put in the position of taking this lovely man out to lunch.

Let me give you a little background on this particular editorial commission. Lordy P put this book into the works five years ago, yes five, and failed to update us on the project at all until a few weeks ago. Assuming P had this all in hand, since he seemed to be the only person that knew about it, we didn’t think twice about it for a little while until the author rings to say he is in town and would like to discuss the completion of his long-awaited piece. This is when we realise that His Lordship had know clue as to where the manuscript was, and we would be most definitely sans any trace of the manuscript as we went into this dreaded lunch meeting. Of course I put it to Lord P that perhaps he should meet with the author as he is the only person that knows about this project anyway, but who am I kidding, not only did Lordy P refuse to meet with the author, but also refused to have the author come to the office at all and instead insisted we meet him elsewhere. Talk about not wanting to deal with any confrontation and putting us up for the slaughter as usual! Meanwhile I tried to find out from Lord P where he thought the manuscript might be or if he could even describe anything about it. He responded with the classically Lord P answer “I remember now! It was a regular CD [whatever that means!!!] and it came in a brown envelope.” That about narrows it down to…EVERY DAMN MANUSCRIPT WE GET!!! SO we had no choice but to meet with the author and tell him the truth, and he was distraught, of course, because what we had was the only known copy in the universe. Well, to make a long story short, I finally found the CD scrunched behind a pile of papers, only after practically ripping the whole office apart. Of course His Lordship responded with ‘Well, you really shouldn’t put CDs back there.’ What could I say? I was flabbergasted! UGH!!!!!

To diagnose my boss with Manic Depression is putting it all lightly. He has swiftly gone from his depressive drinking, pooping on the floor stage to his insane manic ‘DO EVERYTHING NOW! NOW! NOW!’ phase. In this phase, he comes up with random moneymaking projects that involve the Middle East everyday. So that every morning when I get in, there’s a new jacket I have to design NOW!!!!! That has little to do with the books we actually have to produce now and everything to do with Lordy P and his follies. It’s exasperating!

Not only is he in this ‘Do! Do! Do! Now! Now! Now!’ phase, but he’s doing so dressed in an all white man’s nightgown. A MAN GOWN!!!! Yes, picture Scrooge from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and you got it! He is running around our office, the very doppelganger of Scrooge. All he needs is one of those floppy nightcaps, a candle in his hand, and a kind of scrunched up quizzical looks on his face and he’s there. I’m trying to understand why Manic = Man Gown and Depressive = Ratty Kimono. I’m thinking he might be doing his white = purity thing again.

Watch this space!!!

Yuck Factor!

2006-06-02T16:23:00.000+01:00

Hi all! Sorry to be momentarily MIA, but I was off vacationing -- something that is very important when you work where I work!

I got back late last night and text my co-worker to query about the state of affairs on the office front, and she text back that they were as normal. I of course had to text back, 'Normal sober or normal drinking?' Why I expected anything but the latter, I don't know!

In any case, I wasn't going to discuss what I'm about to discuss her on the blog, because I felt it was in poor taste, but after writing to my friend about it, and nearly peeing myself laughing to myself, I thought I'd share.

So, as I mentioned, I was away for a nice leisurely amount of time and to top off a nice vacation, I come home to the mother of all crazy boss stories. It turns out it was actually a really good thing I was out of the office this week (and bad thing for my co-worker) because His Lordship apparently took the liberty to POOP on the hall floor. Yes he POOOOPED! SHAT!!! Took a dump all over the carpeting in the hallway. EW EW EW EW! He then proceeded to leave a note for the cleaning lady telling her to clean it all up! I mean, even if you could relate to the situation at all, which I soooo cannot, wouldn't you at least clean up your own mess IMMEDIATELY out of shame???? Apparently, Lordy is above cleaning up his own fecal matter! YUCK! I am SOOO glad I missed that!! I cannot tell you!

Ha ha! Thought I'd leave you with that traumatizing tid-bit on this lovely Friday! Mu ha ha ha!!!

Madeira Madness

2006-05-19T13:47:00.000+01:00

So my boss still thinks he’s getting on a plane at 7 am tomorrow morning and flying to Madeira. I might also point out that my boss didn’t even leave his bed all day yesterday, and has just stuck his puffy-eyed head into the office once today to sign my co-worker’s and my pay cheques (which I’d open up a large can of whoop-ass if that didn’t happen!). He’s still got his bony little fingers wrapped so tightly around his bottle of Gordon’s gin, that I don’t think even an army of British Airways flight attendants could pry it away from him. His ex, who was somehow roped into going with him, has been desperately on the phone trying to plead all kinds of reasons why there is no way he can fly, and why he should be getting his money back – epileptic seizure, near-comatose state etc etc. (the alcohol was not mentioned). Unfortunately, BA is very understanding, but can only grant a £20 refund per £200 ticket. Not much help. But what I can’t understand is, if it’s His Lordship’s delusion, and his delusional money, then why not let him delusionally lose all of it?

Anyway, I would love to be the flight attendant who attempts to board him. This is assuming he gets in a taxi to make the flight to begin with. His ex has also told us stories about my boss nearly getting arrested many-a-time upon disembarking various airplanes due to his intoxicated state. Apparently it’s illegal to be drunk on an airplane. I suppose a bit unfair if they tempt you with all those free drinks and duty-free. It’s like an alcoholic’s idea of heaven. It’s also like an alcoholic booby trap. Free gin, free whiskey, discounted bottles of booze…oh and you get arrested at the end of it all, by the way. But I would arrest His Lordship, if I were them. He totally deserves it.

Anyway, the cleaning lady (who turns 73 today and looks about 20 years younger than 60-year-old Lordy P) told me how she had to boot my boss out of his bed this morning, just so she could change the sheets. Which apparently desperately needed changing, for reasons we really don’t need to go into…When she finally got him out of bed (the image of it is too funny, since she’s about 5 foot if she’s anything and he’s 6 feet at least!) he stood up just long enough for her to put the fitted sheet half on and then he slouched immediately back into bed before she put anything else on. May I remind you that this is in the middle of a normal workday?

A day where he should be doing things like, for instance, publishing books. Like this one major book we’re working on – or rather my co-worker and I have worked on and slaved over for months -- commissioned authors, formatted it, presented it to the board of the company that’s sponsoring it, marketed it, etc. etc. – my boss is supposed to be editing, and he even has made sure that his name is emblazoned on the front cover in large letters. Now, he has not done one thing for the book except ask the sponsor company for exorbitant amounts of money for every step of the way (which of course, goes straight to his Lordship’s pocket) and now here I am BEGGING him to write the editor’s introduction, which would be the only editorial thing he would have managed to do for the project, and I get no response -- Just him passing out over his semi-dirty sheets.

So back to Madeira. If he goes, I will be so surprised. Anyone want to wager bets????

Oh so its Gordon's now...

2006-05-16T12:21:00.000+01:00

Lord P has left a note for the cleaning lady to buy him a bottle of gin -- this time it apparently said Gordon's Gin, which might be grounds for changing my blog name. I guess he's changing things up this year. The worst part of all is that he has no cash at all right now, so he's asked the cleaning lady to float him a loan to buy his gin. We have stooped to these levels, people!

Ewan McWTF???

2006-05-16T09:49:00.000+01:00

So I got into work this morning, and thought I’d do a little office spring cleaning, it being mid-May and all. So I’m going through the documents on my computer desktop and trying to get myself organised, opening files and putting them where they belong etc. etc. So I open one file, which I don’t really recognize, entitled mcgrewan.doc. I don’t really think twice since I seem to accumulate a lot of weird stuff here at the office, but I open it anyway, only to find 22 Word document pages-full of pictures (one a page) of EWAN MCGREGOR. WTF??? Why, oh, WHY do I have a Word document chock full of Ewan McGregor images mysteriously on my desktop? It can really only be Lord P or his thirteen-year-old daughter, and I really hope it’s the latter. That would just put me one step over the top if His Lordship was surfing Ewan McGregor fan sites and gathering them into a Scottish Ewan-filled montage. And of all the celebrities? There’s an image from Star Wars with his little Jedi rat tail and a picture from his stint on the West End as Guys & Dolls’ Nathan Detroit (Which I won’t deny that I’ve seen) plus lots more of him looking sultry! It’s madness!

The fact that this could be a result of His Lordship does seem improbable, seeing that he stumbled in only once yesterday morning, all bleary-eyed and wasted, only to stumble back into bed for the rest of the day. I sincerely doubt he would have the stamina to even put himself in front of the computer, let along turn it on, google Ewan McGregor and find his way over to www.ewanmcgregor.net or whatever.

But I will tell you one funny thing, Lordy P has it in his mind that he is going to Madeira this weekend. Oh yes – as in the islands off of Portugal. And this is the time in his drunkeness that I think he’s on at least 1 ½ bottles of ginny gin, seeing that the cleaner found an entire garbage bin filled to the top with bottles from the weekend -- in his bedroom. We will see. Perhaps he’ll switch his liquid diet to a short stint of Sangria. More on his attempted trip to Madeira soon….

The Mysterious Nail Clippings

2006-05-11T11:41:00.000+01:00

So. Sorry to be out of touch, but it’s been a lot of Lord P stumbling in with his kimono falling off, and me just averting my eyes, as usual. He’s been quietly secluded in the comfort of his bedroom, which lies behind the indulgently ornate red velvet curtain he’s installed to divide us plebeians form his Lordship’s domestic domain – not that I’d want to go anywhere near it.

But speaking of working off someone’s apartment, there are a lot of things that go on in such a setting that would not go on in your typical office building. Take this morning for example. My co-worker was happily typing along on her computer and had just sat down with her morning latte and upon looking down at her desk she found a scattering of nail clippings all over her paperwork for the day. Yes, nail clippings. After having a moment of mutual revulsion when she brought this to my attention, she quietly sprinkled them into the garbage and tried not to think twice about it. Where they came from, who they came from, remains a mystery, as the person had to have sat themselves down at her desk and clipped away! Anyway, we both tried to put it to the back of our minds and go on with our work. That was all fine until my co-worker goes to reach for her latte again, glancing down at her mouse at the same time, only to lay her eyes upon a large toe nail clipper nestled alongside her mouse on her mouse pad. Utterly gag-inducing! After we thought about it, as we left to leave last night, we did hear a clip, clip, clipping coming from the hallway, and were kind of grossed out by the apparent sound of nail clipping, but how does this explain how it got on her desk? How many nails does one person have to clip? And why move from the hallway to the office on a clipping frenzy?

On another note, did we mention our accountant has a really disgusting habit of belching extremely loudly repeatedly? I was reminded of this just now when he let out a particularly stentorian burp. He does this all day at intervals. The sad part is that now I barely notice, it’s simply blended into the usual background sounds of the office. When once my co-worker and I used to exchange disgusted glances, we now continue typing as if the accountant didn’t just eructate with passion.

As far as Lord P’s state, he is more or less in the early stages of drinking a bottle of gin a day, which usually consists of napping all day, coming out for brief meetings – only to call the people by the completely wrong name altogether, over and over again even after he’s been corrected. I will be keeping you all up to date!

At least tomorrow’s Friday!

In the Jingle Jangle Morning...

2006-05-08T13:48:00.000+01:00

So yes. You heard it here first. Lord P is back making friends with his bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

His ex-wife e-mails up this morning, to warn us of his present state. Apparently, His Lordship teetered off the train from Wales this Saturday (where he had been all week--all by himself to get up to no good) more or less with a gin bottle in hand and probably a rather large grin on his face. He then proceeded to go straight out for another few bottles of gin, and has been wallowing in it ever since.

He is in his I'm-not-drinking!-Look-how-hard-I'm-working! mode where he overcompensates for it all by coming up with these brilliant ideas for his company which he had left by the wayside every other day. New marketing techniques, new books to commission--he's just the busy worker bee that he never has been before! It all seems so fine and dandy and we're all frolicking in a field of publishing euphoria--except that you notice a tiny little slur in his words and whenever he's in the kitchen, you hear the all-too-familiar jingle jangle of the ice cubes in the glass.

The housekeeper confirmed it all when she found a few bottles in the garbage (Remember...its a bottle a day habit!) and her pay slapped down on the table with no note. So we're all prepared for it...

I think his morning has been a little too full of publishing euphoria even for the overcompensating Lord because he's off now for his afternoon nap...and thimblefull of gin...or two...or three...

Aaaaand We're back on....

2006-05-08T09:34:00.000+01:00

ALERT! ALERT!!

Lordy is back on the booze!!!

Bad for us, good for the humour!

Watch this space!!!!

Time In!!

2006-05-04T10:53:00.000+01:00

On an entirely different note (while His Lordship is on holiday in Wales this week)...Look! My letter was published in Time Out, London this week (TO 1863 May 3-10)! Does this count as being a contributor to Time Out? I think it does!

Since I work off Tottenham Court Road in London, I had to follow up when, in their last issue, they had a call for anyone who might know the best route up T-Court Road while avoiding all the charities and various clipboard-artists who harass you. I, of course, had to answer with my best route, because I have spent so many a lunch hour perfecting it! I was excited that they kept my whole e-mail!

You may have to click on the picture to read it properly.

Yay!

Luck of the Iris

2006-04-25T11:24:00.000+01:00

On another note, I thought I'd just share with you the kind of thing I have to type out for him (since he doesn't know how to e-mail or use computers). This is an e-mail to his housekeeper in his house in Wales:

'Dear .....

You'll be getting some Iris in the post. Will you put them in the garden? Where you can see them from the back of the house? I hope they will naturalise.

Thanks,

Lord P.'

Shopping List Shananagans...

2006-04-25T11:03:00.000+01:00

I would like to introduce you to a little thing called His Lordship’s handwriting. See item exhibition ‘A’ above. This is a shopping list that was bestowed upon me by Lord P. upon one of my recent trips out for lunch. His writing is in red. I’ll give you a minute to figure out what exactly any of that says…any idea? No? Welcome to my life!

He thrust the list into my hand with an ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any questions.’ I nodded and took the list, continuing with what I was doing (i.e. important publishing stuff). When I glanced down at what he’d handed me, I nearly keeled over. This was the most illegible list from His Lordship that I had ever seen, and I couldn’t make one thing out. P., with a frustrated grumble at my apparent lack of a sufficient sixth sense to possibly know what it was that he needed so badly right that minute, proceeded to run down the list:

Me: What the…OK, start from the beginning…
P: That would be One Prawn Curry,
Me: Check. [Though not without a slight grumble back on my part on realisation that this was to be a shopping list.]
P: One Stuffed Paratha or rice,
Me: Stuffed what??
P: You don’t know what Paratha is? It’s like an Indian Flatbread. And get it stuffed with lamb or some other spiced meat and if there isn’t a stuffed paratha, then just get some rice.
Me: OK.
P: Then one Raita.
Me: What’s that?
P: Cucumber yogurt!! Then one Tarka Dal…
Me: I know what Dal is, but what’s Tarka Dal?
P: Oh it’s the black variety. Or any Dal if they don’t have any of Tarka.
Me: OK.
P: Oh and nice pens, and a black notebook. [the ink cartridge at the bottom is of my own accord]

Now, I know my Indian/Pakistani friends are probably smirking at my apparent ignorance, but I usually pride myself in having a pretty good knowledge of Indian food, and Paratha, Raita, and Tarka were probably the three things I just didn’t happen to know. P still managed to look at me with mild horror at what I’m sure he deemed vast idiocy.

Now where, you might ask, did he send me in search of such delicacies as Tarka Dal? Oh, only a little known market hall called…Marks and Spencer! (For those of you who are not familiar with the UK, that last sentence was marked with a considerable amount of sarcasm) My immediate response was, ‘But…’ since I knew that M&S had barely gotten past onion bhajis and garlic naan meals-for-two in the exotic Indian department. But I stopped myself mid ‘but’ as I really really didn’t want him sending me across town to the likes of Selfridge’s, as I know he is well capable of. So off I went to Marks, and tried my best with the list…

What I ended up with was a prawn curry, rice and the Greek version of Raita, Tzaiziki, since there was no dal or Paratha at all. To the prawn curry I applied a decision-making process thought up by my colleague and myself on past begrudged shopping trips: instead of picking what looked the best, we pick what looks just a little bit not as good. Now, when you’re deciding between two prawn curries at M&S, its not going to be that satisfying of a game, but it’s the small battles, my friends.

So that’s the handwriting hell I go through. I think I might even start a ‘decipher Lord P’s handwriting’ game on this here blog. Watch this space…

Little nuggets of awfulness!

2006-04-20T13:27:00.000+01:00

Hi All!

I've realized there have been some stories that have happened in the past, before the existence of this here blog, that I wanted to share. Here are a few of them:

**********
My boss has me going on all kinds of ridiculous errands, at least once
a week we usually have to go to his bank to withdraw exorbitant amounts of
money (i.e. anywhere between Â£600 and Â£5000) since he doesn't like to use cash
machines and figures that we are suitable targets for muggings in lieu
of him. I've tried to tell him it makes me uncomfortable, but he
ignores me.

**********
Once I had to go to Cartier with 2,500 cash in an envelope to
buy a pair of ruby and emerald earrings for his ex-wife and had to sit
there while Cartier counted out all 2,500 of it. They were also like, OH! He's a Lord! That's funny, we have him down as being Mr. Blahblah Blahblah. I was quick to set them straight. 'He's not really a Lord. Lord's his first name. Like Prince of Queen Latifah.' I got much satisfaction out of this at Cartier. I told him to keep Lord on their file, as it makes him fell better. They gave a really satisfying little Cartier nod of understanding. Oh joy!

**********
ALSO he sometimes has been known to hire the 'sexy' construction
worker from across the way and pays him a third more than we get
paid (for publishing all his books from start to finish--design,
formatting, editorial, etc etc), just so that he can watch the blond
construction worker alphabetize his CD collection. Vomit!

**********
Did I also mention that when he's drinking, he makes us go to
Sainsbury's everyday to buy an entire bottle of gin. This may seem
straightforward enough, but when it's the same security guard that has
to unlock the case, it makes for a much more cringe-worthy experience
altogether. I'm always like, 'It's for my boss' parties', but somehow
this makes it so much worse when the security guard looks at me like,
'riiiiight' and I can feel the pitying stare from the queue behind me.
I feel like screaming 'I'm not the alcoholic!' Sometimes I even buy
some party snacks to make it look at least a little more festive and
less sad.

Bills, Bills, Bills

2006-04-20T12:19:00.000+01:00

Our lovely Pakistani accountant has been off sick for the past 5 weeks due to an operation. He’s come out just fine, thank God, but is currently home recuperating and taking some much-needed time away from His Lordship. This is all fine and dandy, but when the His Lordship won’t stoop so low as to write out his own cheques and pay his own bills and the accountant and bookkeeper is not there to pay them, then they don’t get paid. And when bills don’t get paid, phones, heating, etc. get cut off. His Lordship has only just realised the problems that occur from taking no responsibility for ones own bills (or others in this case) when his ex-wife e-mails up to complain that she is unable to call out because her bill has not been paid. Anyway, he has madly put my co-editorial assistant to work writing out all his own cheques, because is again above writing all together. I say own, because I want you all to remember, that he lives here. So if the heating gets cut off, Lord P. suffers all day and all night, and we remember how dependent he is on a thermostat cranked to the highest level, it would, in short, be quite disastrous. I try to fight off the overwhelming pangs of sympathy when he parades in all, ‘You know, I just realised that if the accountant isn’t here to pay my bills, we’re getting cut off from everything!’ Yup, that’s right.

Caw caw caw (Is that the sound seagulls make?)

2006-04-18T17:04:00.000+01:00

My co-worker's sister found this quote, which certainly applies to His Lordship:

"Is your boss a seagull manager? Do they fly in, make a lot of noise, poop all over everything, and then leave?"

There's a lot of pooping, particularly in the form of commissioning books when drunk. We're still suffering the consequences.

Nanny Diaries II

2006-04-18T17:03:00.000+01:00

Lord P's ‘nanny’ has showed us the menus he leaves her every night for her cooking pleasure (or displeasure). He leaves her complicated menus consisting of clam chowder, stuffed grape-leaves and, oh yeah…last, but not least, he writes at the bottom of his cooking list ‘And make some bread’. No thank you or anything. She then has to cook all these courses and call him to the table when everything is ready. Mind you, she’s a trained nurse that his ex-wife was using as a nanny for their daughter. His ‘nanny’ also added that he taps his fingers on the table when he wants to have his courses cleared, and she then has to scurry in to take away his dishes, as I mentioned before. He also is one of those ‘cut my crusts off!’ people, of course. He's really taking this Lord thing way too seriously.

His Lordship is away on holiday today and tomorrow, so my co-worker and I get to breathe a little breath of fresh air (You think, I’m kidding…when your boss smokes two packs a day in the office, it literally is a breath of fresh air!) He of course has made his ‘nanny’ come in, even while he’s gone, to cook his meals in advance. Oh yes, and bake him bread.

UN-Necessary

2006-04-12T17:03:00.000+01:00

A man calls from the United Nations to talk to the Lord and leaves a message with his New York number. Lord P. proceeds to tell me that you can tell he’s from the UN because he’s ‘making such a long-distance call over such a small matter’. Now His Lordship had e-mailed the man over a late manuscript that has yet to be delivered, and the man returned his e-mail by calling him back. I think this would totally justify a phone call overseas in my opinion. I even said to Lord P. that these days, it almost costs less to call overseas than it does to make local calls (it does on my mobile anyway). In any case, he was all, ‘Well, UN people don’t think that way. I would know, I have had a lot of experience with UN people.’ I think that is my favourite quote of the day.

Nanny Diaries

2006-04-12T16:41:00.000+01:00

His Lordship just told me how lucky we were to have a photocopy repairman like the one we just had in to fix our older-than-me photocopier (a rather scruffy white British man). He the proceeded to say, well, you know what most photocopier repairmen are….then he whispers, black. What decade are we living in? Is it possible that people actually make such blatantly racist comments in London publishing houses? I glared at him. I’ve told him how much this has bothered me before, these comments and the like, but he keeps at it. You keep on with your racist self, Lord P (which won’t be very long if he keeps it up on the streets of London!)

On that note, have I mentioned his ‘nanny’? Or rather, the nanny he stole from his 13-year-old daughter? Yes, his daughter has had the same nanny since day one, and one day, last year, Lord P decided to fire her for no good reason at all. Then a few months later, he invited her back, but not to be his daughter’s nanny, but rather to be HIS nanny. She now comes in the minute we leave the office at 5:30 and proceeds to cook him 3-course meals (in actual courses) and once they are served, she told me the other day, she is required to leave the room while he dines. The fact that she’s from Africa makes it all the more cringe-worthingly reminiscent of the old Empire…I think that’s what Lord P. has in mind. She says she lays the table and then scuttles out of the room really quickly and he’ll call her back in to grate parmesan or what have you. And later she must anoint him before bed. For those of you who are taking a massive double take at this very moment, I did indeed say anoint. She has to rub his body down with cream until he is as smooth as a baby’s rear-end. She divulged this entire process to my disbelieving ear the other day, how she managed to tell me all this with a straight face, I don’t know. Meanwhile, she doesn’t get back to her home in South London until way after midnight, poor thing, because she has to stay there until his bedtime. Meanwhile, his daughter is devoid of nanny and everyone is worse off, everyone, that is, except the Lordship himself.

Icky Boss Bed Head!

2006-04-12T11:17:00.000+01:00

So our office cleaner comes in and asks if we know if His Lordship is in bed or not because he hasn’t been around all morning. Now, this is a regular occurrence. Every morning becomes a guessing game as to whether or not he is in bed or out and about the town. (The possibility of his being out, I might point out, is a rather recent phenomenon—as he stayed inside for the entire autumn) The routine usually consists or the cleaner sticking her head inside his bedroom door, down the hall from the office, and having a peak, then coming back to report that he was still sound asleep at 11 in the morning. He’ll then usually come in around mid-day in his bathrobe with a kind of hairstyle that would put the Something About Mary ‘do to shame. I mean, its up on its end and has taken on a vague pillow shape. Again, why its always me and my one other colleague that people insist on asking whether he’s sleeping or not—I don’t know. Do they think we check??? ICK! Also, the bathrobe provides us with all kinds of problems. Like less options for where we can look when he’s talking to us (i.e. not at his man-boobs and not anywhere near the robe’s openings). Oh dear God, hear my plea! Why can’t I just have a boss that gets dressed in the morning like everyone else’s? Is that really so much to ask???

Just a little insane....

2006-04-12T11:16:00.000+01:00

11 April 2006

My favourite thing is when His Lordship tells us he’s going out of the room to ‘do figure’ and to take messages so that he isn’t disturbed. Somehow this would be a lot more believable if he wasn’t in his ratty bathrobe.

I’m sorry I have been away for so long, but you see, His Lordship has been rather sober, and fortunately for us his dramatics get toned down. Unfortunately for you, the stories get toned down too.

One story I forgot to mention from a while back was when my boss comes in and is like “you always have the door closed to the office and I can’t understand why.” We explained that it was because of all the cigarette smoke. My boss smokes like a chimney in the office, by the way, which gets really embarrassing when our American distributors come into town and he smokes in their faces in important meetings.

Anyway, so he proceeds to laugh in our face and tells us that there is nothing wrong with smoking and that the fact that smoking kills is really a lie told to us by the government. Oh Lordy, da Nile ain’t just a river in Sudan (appropriate since we’re trying to promote a book on Sudan).

Anyway, I will keep these short and sweet, since really, there is mini drama everyday, but because its not as humungous as it can be, I forget that to the rest of the world it’s still just plain insane.

Watch this space.

No More Prossies in Your Life

2006-04-12T11:15:00.000+01:00

18 January 2006

So the newest thing is that the Prossies (a.k.a. Lord P’s prostitutes) have been left with no money. It all began when they all decided to put their fee up and up and get my boss to sign their cheques regardless of the amount. So they started out charging something in the £200 range and after about a month or two of shenanigans, they put their price up to the £2000 range. Post rehab Lord P (he was there for a few weeks and has temporarily dried up somewhat) of course claimed they all added zeros to their cheque when confronted by his ex-wife/editorial consultant since they were draining the company’s funds fast. But how this was possible when a check was made out for £2665, I don’t know. In any case, perhaps it’s a loyalty thing, but she decided to believe him and cancel all the little Prossie checks. Now the Prossies are maaaaaaad! They be calling all demanding to speak to my boss and freaking out when I tell them he’s absconded off to Wales, where he has his little chateau, which is the truth (coincidence, I think not!). However, Tito and friends do not take this lightly, and scream in Julia and my ears about how they did a service, and how my boss is required to fulfil their payment otherwise they were little more than servants and how they are a legitimate escort service and have a lawyer and can call the police etc. etc. Oh Tito. Tito, Tito, Tito. I’m still convinced it’s he’s of the Jackson variety. He sort of sounds like a Jackson. But anyway, so I’m here in the office fielding angry Prossie calls, and kind of feeling a little bad for them, as there’s nothing I can do but hear them whine. I just hope there isn’t any scary man with a baseball bat knocking on our door. But if they’re legitimate escort prostitutes, it probably won’t be a problem. All I have to say, to quote the somewhat tawdry Group X, “Prostitute, I hate you. Put down the Oreo Crackers and quit doing the sex.” But I don’t really hate Tito...Who could with a name like Tito?

P.S.

2006-04-12T11:14:00.000+01:00

12 December 2005

Did I mention that his ex-wife/Editorial Director said he was running down the hallway naked earlier. This was WHILE we were in the office. She told him to put some clothes on.

I feel like there are laws against this. Actually--aren't there serious laws against this?

Oh Dear God--the Bombay Sapphire Diaries continues...

2006-04-12T11:13:00.000+01:00

12 December 2005

So. Not only has my boss blown all his money this weekend on hookers and gin (whether or not we get paid this weekend entirely depends on a particular book payment from Bahrain), but, according to Julia, who brought him the phone with a call from the bank, he is listening to Mousse-T’s “Horny” at full blast. If there is a God, why, then, does this go on?

I will add that Lord P. does go through random bouts of religious fervour. One time he was wearing all white, the reason for which I found out later was so he could emulate purity. I, of course, couldn’t help myself and told him he looked like he was about to go fencing. He made no comment.

Oy vey!

Killer Canapes and the Discarded Robe

2006-04-12T11:12:00.000+01:00

8 December 2005

Ugh. I was at a launch for Ralph Lauren’s accessories line at their flagship store on New Bond Street with a couple of my friends, including Julia my co-worker. And all was yummy—champagne, canapés, etc. etc.—until they came around with what might be the most revolting canapé I’ve ever had. A tomato éclair. It looks like a mini éclair with red cherry-looking icing and a little daub of cream oozing out, and you bite into it’s pastry should-be goodness, and it’s tomato flavored! Ewah. When one of the champagne waiters asked us why we’re leaving so early, I told him that after that tomato éclair it was really only the best thing to do. He said he’d tell the chef. Come on Ralph—that’s just gross!

P.S. My boss seems to be in the bathroom but his bathrobe has been cast onto the floor outside the bathroom door. I really really hope he’s not about to emerge naked. Oh lord…

Bombay Sapphire Diaries--2nd in a Day!!!

2006-04-12T11:11:00.000+01:00

12 December 2005
So here I am just done with blogging my first crazy boss entry—and I’m back with more. Not only has he turned the heat up in this office to way above normal level (the thermostat is as high as it can be—which doesn’t really surprise me as he prances around in his little bathrobe which he hasn’t changed out of in months), but he has also gone around this morning saying things in Welsh, because he “Simply cannot come up with the English word.” Boy, oh boy.

Yesterday when I mentioned the extreme heat—he told us to turn on the office individual air conditioner. Meanwhile, we had the radiator in the room pumping heat in, basically having to battle it out with the AC. Makes no sense!!

But this morning was full of events. As Abba and Erasure pumped through Lord P’s 8-speaker sound system at full blast (Oh L’Amour had its share of speaker time—on loop!!), the electricians turned up to install the new door-entry phone and Lord P wanted me to butter them up—this is when he started talking in Welsh words for ‘butter up’—so that they would be more inclined to install a second door-entry phone in the office. So I got the tea and two sugars. While sugaring the tea, I overheard them say “Music and Tea—what better could you get?!” Oh if they only knew!

Lord P then proceeded to have his female beautician come over to do his pedicure, which was a very amusing site as he had his beautician doing his toenails and his cleaning lady ironing away next to him. Oh the life!

Anyway, he’s basically waiting for a large payment for books coming in from Bahrain, so he proceeds to flirt with the secretary from the Bahraini Economic Development Board over the phone saying that she sounded pretty and that the last Sheikh in charge of Bahrain was actually named Jesus. He said this after saying that he ‘shouldn’t be flirting with her since she’s Muslim and he’s Christian.’ The Sheikh’s name123 was actually Isa, and P claims this is the Arabic for Jesus. I can tell she was staring at him blankly down the phone because he kept repeating it. And to top it all off, he finishes the convo with saying how when he comes to Bahrain he wants to come and see her. Meanwhile he was drunk and slurring. When I got on the phone with her to discuss the invoicing details I was so embarrassed. Ohmigod. I wanted to crawl under my desk.

Anyway—he’s been in his room all afternoon, I think there was a little too much excitement (and Bombay Sapphire) for one morning!

The Bombay Sapphire Diaries--the Beginning

2006-04-12T11:03:00.000+01:00

So let me give you a little background on my boss. He’s an on and off alcoholic. I mean, when he’s off, which is rarely, he’s gallivanting coming up with new names for himself, and changing his first name to Lord. He decided he wanted to be a Welsh Lord, and since you can’t change your title (Mr., Dr., Capt. Etc.), he had to settle for changing his name to Lord. A little embarrassing when sales people call asking for him, and act all deferential. He also decided while he was at it to add my company’s name as his middle name. Anyway, we’ll call him Lord P, since I know a lot of you guys probably know his name—but we’ll do this The-Devil-Wears-Prada anonymously.

Anyway, back to when he’s an on alcoholic. When he’s on, which is most of the time, we’re talking a bottle a day at least of Bombay Sapphire (nothing less, I might add) as he wallows in his room—our little publishing company is off his flat, you see—and feels sorry for himself. Or is busy with other things…You see, he’s a very confused boss. He thinks he’s from an era of dilettantishness where one romps around with a wife and a kid, really divorced but pretending to be married, only to cover up your homosexual escapades with local barbers, male prostitutes and the likes. I really really wish he’d come out of the closet, as I think that would solve the gin problem, self-hate, and perhaps the over all ass-holishness. Meanwhile he continuously romps around our office in little skimpy tattered bathrobes, forgetting all together that we’re here to publish books.

OK. Now that you have the background, I’m going to start on my diary.

So, yesterday—this explains why I mentioned local barbers a couple of lines up—Lord P had me go to the local competitor with Mr. Topper’s (the London £6 barber shop/hair salon), a dodgy little barber shop on a corner by the YMCA, probably a front for many things I’m sure. Anyway, he had me go in and ask for Arrabia, the one man he wanted to come back to the office/flat and give him a shave. Now, he has like NO facial hair, so it’s really kinda funny. That aside, I went down to the corner and asked for Arrabia, and they all looked at me so blankly. Yes, Arrabia worked there, but he stalled when I asked him to come back to the flat. I assumed this was because, who really asks for someone to come out of the shop and shave someone at home or in the office? But this doesn’t surprise me with the Lord, as he manages never to leave the house (And I mean NEVER) and have everyone come to him. Anyway, after an excruciating long time of everyone in the entire barber shop staring at me, what I think must have been Arrabia (a rico suave character with a slick pony tail) was all, “Oh, I know your boss…he has a beard”, I was all, “Well HAD, not anymore”—besides the fact you could barely notice his facial hair since it was about the same colour as his skin, “walks with a walking stick,” “He does? I’ve really never seen him walk outside”, “And he’s [as he makes a weird, probably obscene, hand gesture]… the gay one.” And then it horrifies me as I realise all of a sudden that I am acting as a pimp/liaison for my crazy boss! And this is the boss that won’t even pay me for Christmas! I think I stalled myself then. Meanwhile, Arrabia refuses to go, and sends his more dowdy, less suave, friend. Who runs back half way to the office to grab a towel. Oh boy.

Well, to make a long story short, the little Italian barber from Firenze—something I found out as I made small talk to him from the shop to the office – started shaving Lord P’s face in the parlour, and then they swiftly moved back to the back room, which is Lord P’s bedroom, and came out about an hour and a half later, where after the barber was paid two £50 notes. Now that was one expensive shave! Julia and I were all, “Just look at computer screen. Must keep eyes on computer screen…” Ewah!