Tuesday, August 31, 2010

The Road to Style

As another week whizzes past my window I see another fashion festival launch in the rear vision mirror. Spring Fashion Week brings with it a glimmer of hope for style and glamour but unfortunately it's more likely a week of children wrapped in a swatch of tiny shiny fabric and a synthetic bird bit stapled to her head. What ever happened to style? A few tips from Lorna...

1) If you are a man, try not to wear the same style of clothes that you wore when you were eight years old.
2) If you are a woman, try not to wear something made of the same fabric that is used to wipe down the kitchen bench - even if it is great that it doesn't need ironing.
3) If at the launch party you need an extra pair of hands to hold the prawn on the stick AND hoist either the top of the dress up or the bottom of the dress down - stay at home before you do yourself a mischief with the cocktail stick and;
4) Style doesn't come easy and will never come with studs - ever!

So be brave this week, put on your party frock and say frock the rest of you, I have style!!!

Party on.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Alone and immobilized

How many Roadside Assistance vehicles does it take to change a battery? It takes 3, now I know. Approximately 100 metres from my place of work in a suburb we shall call Armageddon my car has a major coronary and dies. Fortunately it has enough gasp to weave into a nearby driveway before the queue of major haul vehicles behind me turned me into bitumen naan bread. After a 40 minute wait my first "roadside assist" man arrives and if I use that term any more loosely it will fall off the screen, opens the bonnet and scratches his head and says "battery hot". Well at least that's all I could understand of him other than "car no good" and "bye". Another 50 minutes later and the sun is sinking into the earth like my despair and the second man arrives. He parks behind me and rings me, "where are you?" he says. I say "I'm in front of you", waiting for the pantomime audience to join in and say "nooooo he's not, yes he is". He places his traffic cones strategically and sets up his flashing light while dedicating another 5 minutes entering information into his hand held. By this time the cones have been sent flying by a procession of lawless ten tonners. Fresh out of the call centre he struggles to open the bonnet. More head scratching and eventually decides a new battery might be worth a try. He can't get the old one out and then can't get the new one in. Eventually he connects it up with much pushing and poking, and .... nothing. So he takes it out and turns it up the other way and puts it back in....still nothing. He says I need another man in a van to fix the immobilizer and takes off at a rapid speed. Almost 3 hours have passed and the suburb of hell is in darkness and I sit and wait. I pass the time delivering a tirade of abuse over the phone to a Frenchman, and so is the make of my car so therefore he must be to blame, you can't make good cheese, great wine, and cars what the hell were they thinking, Concorde anyone? Third van arrives. No language barriers this time, and man number 3 clearly knows his way around this car...and he's never worked in a call centre. He puts the key in the ignition and it starts. The car had decided to mobilize itself. So a little roadside assistance banter and then I'm home nearly four hours later. So the next time my fantastic car insurer offers me the opportunity to pay extra for all the buckets of service they offer like car hire, free taxi or pony ride whatever is cheaper etc., I will suggest I would be happy to pay extra if they just provided an experienced, trained mechanic in the language of my choice. If I went into hospital I wouldn't expect to be examined by a truck driver, then a baker and finally if I wait on a trolley long enough a medical professional, so wake up insurer either provide sufficient training for your staff or get the mechanics off the phones. Weekend whinge now complete, immobilizer mobilized.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

*&%$# it's cold

Why is it so bloody cold? In Melbourne right now it's 8 degrees. And if you answer that question by saying "well it is winter ACTUALLY" I will come through this computer and slap you about. I had work colleagues down from Sydney yesterday and we had to cross the road to go to the ever greasy truck stop cafe for lunch. I found myself apologising for the freezing climate and non stop rain. I shouldn't feel responsible for weather but it really has been a wet one and to make matters worse a night by the fire or more likely standing under the Fujitsu screaming "heat you useless piece of plastic, heat!", leaves us left with the god awful television choices of the moment being whatserface and whatsisname in red - select a) hair or b) speedos. I WANT MY TELEVISION BACK you painful boring trollops that think everyone buys into this electioneering crap that is so highly processed and manufactured it might as well come in a subway sandwich. Why don't we talk about the drought anymore...

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Humourless Empire

And a warm welcome back to the Victorian era where punishment reigns supreme and any touching of bra straps shall be at the judgement of the masses. For those who have been fortunate enough to embrace a life free from media intervention it appears that the retailer David Jones is to punished for the actions of the former CEO who allegedly did something stupid involving failed attempts to attract and bed an employee and the touching of a bra strap. But that aside, let's also punish all those who dare to make a joke of such alleged naughty event. Fashion designer Alannah Hill made a joke about it and was forced to publicly apologize. Why? And when did we ban humour? And for the high pitched hysteria and public statements of "I won't shop at David Jones in the foreseable future" by Laurel Papworth social network strategist (which is what exactly?) in today's Sunday Age firstly I don't think punishing the employees of this organisation through reduced sales resulting in job loss is a well thought out strategy and secondly does "foreseable future" mean up until the Boxing Day Sale? Had the former CEO kicked a football for a living it seems the story would have been and gone without appearing as constant wrapping of every newspaper. Where was this temperance movement in punishing Rugby League and AFL after reports of gang rape...(insert sounds of crickets chirping). The figure of $26 million is about maximum publicity and who knows what motivations sit behind this but to be sucked in to a culture of humourless hysteria sends us back to a darker era. When they gave women the right to vote it was meant to be for government and not about department stores. I'm going to shop at David Jones, in fact I will be going straight to the lingerie department and asking for the CEO special. Shock, horror. Off with her head!

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Just saw me in half before the coffee

I just got back from a 2 day industry seminar in Sydney whereby each day is fun filled with my own games of sleep wake and bullshit bingo. When your facilitator leaves before the end of the seminar you know it's a lost cause. And just when I thought I was done with the butchers paper and commitment to do nothing 'calls to action', I'm faced with the industry dinner. I'm in it for the free food yes, but when the lamb holds up better than the sole of your shoe the night turns to time watching over sticky date pudding (or was that the leftover lamb in a butterscotch sauce?). Mostly women, I listen to tales of how smart the children are and I have no reason to doubt that very fact given because I've listened to not one but three witty tales of exactly how smart the children are. There needs to be an unwritten rule on this one. You get one witty tale tell time or two if you spread it over dinner. Three without an interval or subject change is just plane rude when your audience have either lodged the prawn skewer through their hand to escape or are pretending to take a call from an important person when we all know it's message bank. Towards the end I began to lose a grip of politeness and like a car accident happening in slow motion I could see myself rising from the chair, handbag in hand making a beeline for the door as soon as I heard the words "I know my mother never wanted me as a child..." wooooosh and I was gone. In hindsight I know that would have appeared rude and I feel very bad about that but after a day of useless acronyms and fake management speak I had worn out the polite buffer zone. If only I could just disappear without anyone noticing. Poof. Gone. Hotel room, pyjamas, tv, bed. Why can't we have technology for that.