This post is an homage to my beloved London, which I will visit for the last time as my company's on-staff whipping girl next week.
..
My bizarre foray into the world of on-air spokesrepresentation at QVC has come to a close, which means the next time I wander through the gentle, perfect greenness of The Regents Park I will be a mere civilian.
..
Sadly this does not mean I am finished for good. I continue to drift along aimlessly at this job, which is by now my own personal version of the embarassing co-dependent relationship I've had countless friends try and explain to me. It's a sandpit I can't seem to extricate myself from--one that has made me bitter and ungrateful for even such a splendid thing as weeks at a time spent in the glory of London's company. Well, if I can't yet figure out how I'm going to make the transition that validates this blog's existence, I'll at least take London back from the oily grip of obligation and make it mine again.
..
See, my job has been sold off, along with anything and everything having to do with QVC, to another company. I've trained my replacement (a Midwestern-er Nora Dunn), and I'll actually be doing an official "hand off" to her on air, as if we were Couric and Viera. Naturally, I didn't plan for it to go at all this way. I'd planned a clean break, giving plenty of notice when I started school. But immediately after I began classes the company got a huge sales opportunity and, as the ink was not yet dry on the contract for the buyout, there was nobody else to do it but the ol' workhorse, the ol' lipstick queen, slinger of shellac, wheeler-dealer, buyout-broad...me. Translation, they kinda made me do it. I hemmed and hawed, I even went home and cried. It was one of the worst weeks of my life. Made worse by the fact that I utterly hated myself for agreeing to do it, for having so little backbone, for not liquidating that pathetic little 401k and walking the fuck out the door. But somehow I said yes. It's a complex web involving the fact that the people I work for are extremely maniupulative, I'm easily swayed when I feel obligated to something and, well, dammit I spent nearly three years building a molehill into a blessed mountain and wanted to see it through to the bitter end. Bitter, indeed.
..
Even writing out the minutiae of this situation makes me feel slick with that oily residue. I mean, who gives a shit about sales opportunities? The bottom line is I don't want to spend the rest of my life making other people money. Period. So, I'm doing this trip and then...I don't know what. There is nothing left of my job except me answering phones here. Oh, and making coffee. I forgot the making coffee part.
..
I haven't seen a street in London in the last three years. Not really. And lemme tell ya, I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere. But I have missed out on the delicate details: the shimmering green blades of grass in Hyde Park, the perfect edges of a box of Bond No. 9, the musty elegance of the Courtald collection, lacy spines of Parliament, coriander and chutney, Times at rush hour, clotted cream and brown sauce, all of it so rich with tradition and so hard to hold on to tightly because I was there on someone else's time.
..
I've decided to make a trip this summer that is just for me. When I arrive I will not immediately unpack my straightening iron and line up all of my high heeled boots. I will not make a taxi reservation to take me to the studio. I will not sit on the edge of my bed and practice my "sell" to my reflection in the darkened tv screen. I will not call the office, check email, or look at any numbers. I will instead pack a bag with nothing in it. I will buy a scotch egg from Paul Rothe and Sons on Marlyebone Lane and eat it as I walk to The Barrow Boy and Banker pub at the end of the London Bridge, where I will spend an entire day drinking Chiswick Brown and watching everything thing I've missed.
