Victoria

I'm back in Victoria. for the second week, and the third time I've worked here in total. Victoria is weird though. Busy and bustling, yet ultimately hard to attribute any kind of personality to.

Victoria represents a kind of architectural pile-up. If you suffered from acute tunnel vision, and were dropped, blindfolded, in the middle of this no-man's-land and told to orient yourself in time and space, depending on where your gaze alighted, you could probably infer yourself to have arrived in any decade out of the last twenty or so, which I guess is true of much of London, just much more acute here, where each and every building seems to be participating in an 'every-edifice-for-itself' slug-fest with its neighbours.

Victoria is dominated by the huge train station in the centre of course, and the more out-flung coach station round the corner, and these two seem to dictate much of the 'personality' of Victoria such as it is, with the exterior of the train staion having much of the flavour on the inside, with the same phalanx of anodyne coffee shops and sandwich bars clone-tooled up and down the length of its bustling pavements. And in truth, it does sometimes feel that there is very little to do in Victoria, other than go and buy a sandwich. Victoria is full of people, but in keeping with its nature as a mass-transit hub, most seem intent on heading somewhere else.

"Why did the chicken go to Victoria" one might ask. "to get to the other side" would be the only possible answer, surely.

That's possibly not the entire story. If musicals are your thing there's Billy Elliot – the musical, and Wicked, but they do almost seem incidental to the area. Bizarrely, the one club I can think of in the area is the London venue of glam Ibiza club Pacha, plonked incongruously in the grey environs of the the bus station. Other than that, you're left with an array of regular-less boozers, where the clientele imbibe liquids between modes of transport in a sticky-tabled purgatory, and the odd Pizza Express, frequented by tourists.

Step off, into the hinterland of side streets and there are some moderately interesting buildings, but even here there seems precious little incentive to linger, rather than press on. Victoria is so impersonal it feels almost incidental to itself, and you'd probably have to head to a motorway flyover, to find a place less conducive to the pleasant passage of time. Ultimately, so long as I'm working, I feel justified in being here, but not a moment longer.

No matter though. Lunchtime approacheth, and with it the big decision of the day, in effect: what sandwich to eat.

'Free' Lance

I'm a bit weary of work at the minute ("aren't we all? I imagine you're thinking") and getting quite cynical about it all. Three years in the freelance game, and at the minute, I'm often increasingly frustrated – a situation I've got to reverse if I'm going to carry on labouring in this industry.

One of the things I've become accustomed to, yet increasingly irritated by, it must be said, are employers who quibble about paying overtime to freelancers.

Yesterday I was working at a medium sized ad agency, helping on pitch work to retain an existing client. I worked over my eight standard hours, and so by the standard terms set out by the recruitment consultants who arranged the booking, was entitled to pay at the rate of time and a half.

It was only half an hour anyway, but when the time came for me to get my timesheet signed, the studio manager announced that "we don't pay time and a half".

This pissed me off. Firstly because the recruitment consultants who set the gig up should have made these terms clear to me, but primarily because I think it is incredibly remiss of a medium sized ad agency to refuse to pay freelancers their dues once thy've worked over a standard day, because that's the way it works, y'know?.

In general freelancers often have to spend a great deal of time running round tying up loose ends and having to do the dirty work the full-timers don't want to touch. Often, you're stuck on the grouchy G4 in the corner none of the designers will use. Often you're just treated like a human status bar, to be fed a stack of work to drill though gradually, like a rat through concrete.

So whatever. No-one ever said it was going to be easy. But the payoff for all this is (or should definitely be) that you're paid your dues at the end of the day, and your efforts are rewarded with commeasurate amounts of the folding stuff. Because often, you don't know where the next gig is coming from. It's a given that full time employers in the design industry on a salary work long hours overtime, unpaid, and those are the breaks; thats's how the industry functions. But it's different for freelancers and if – as in this case – you're a decent sized advertising agency with an enviable client list, you should honour this difference out of simple professionalism, as much as anything.

And funnily enough actually, it is quite often the large-ish ad agencies who refuse to play the game on this one. And while of course it would be naive to assume the advertising industry is exactly afroth with the milk of human kindness, it rankles that a communications agency with plush West End offices, who are obviously doing very well for themselves thank you very much, gripe when it comes to paying up.

Of course there's always the argument that this is an effort to stop agencies haemmoraging unnecessary funds on contracters, but in this case the onus is on the agency, and its planners, to ensure they are more organised in this respect.

Anyway. If I've got any kind of grit I might endevavour to not work there in future. But who knows, I may have to.

In principle though, my sentiment remains: "pay the hell up, bitch!"

Wednesday

And today we have naming of parts..

Work is toe-curlingly dull at the minute, and I'm having to keep reminding myself it winds up at the end of this week, or I'd probably throw myself out of a window.

I'm working on some internal corporate literature just now.. specifically Christmas recruitment guidelines. I've a fairly strong suspicion nobody reads this kind of crap anyway, and it'll just hang around a staff room somewhere until someone doodles a cock on it mid January and it gets swept into the bin.

I'm not dealing with the lack of daytime internet access any better either. I'm seriously considering taking along an itemised phone bill, to 'liven things up' at lunchtime.

Yesterday there were a phalanx of photographers camped outside Arcadia (Top Shop's headquarters) on Berner Street. I hung around for about five minutes, waiting to see if they were lying in wait to pap' everyone's favourite 'sphinx-like' super model Kate Moss emerging. No dice, and all I witnessed was a particularly tyre-necked paparazzo berating a motorcycle courier for getting in the way.

Today I walked past the Lazarides Gallery on Greek street, and there was a qeueue going round the block in the direction of Foyles. I later found out off the website it was for a run of Anthony Micalleff prints. Pictures On Walls also just sold out out of one print edition of 1000 of his, which were going for £300 a pop. £300,000? Not bad going really, though their website reassures us he was 'doing it for the kids.'

Anyway. The end of this week can't come quickly enough, which is a shame really, as I don't want to wish life away like this. I'd also quite like it if Summer finally vacated the premises and Autumn showed up. Contrary to what some might think, I actually believe we are experiencing an 'Indian Summer'.. it just so happens it's much the same as the rest of this year was.. grey and sweaty.

Wet Wednesday..

I'm not working this week.. which was an actual decision on my part. Firstly because I've got some boring stuff to sort out, secondly because I've got some interesting things to do, and thirdly, because last week at work was so boring it was in itself a strong argument for entire new sub-categories of tedious. Most of the week ground agonisingly by making minute cosmetic changes to a bit of direct mail that was, ultimately, always going to be a bit of direct mail. I must have reworked the same 'roundel' device regarding the amazing value of an offer at least three times. But mostly I didn't have very much to do at all, which meant I just sat in the corner of the compact agency I was ensconced in, alternately browsing the internet and fidgeting. Easy money in some ways, but excruciatingly dull in most others.

On the subject of boring stuff I've sorted out some outstanding NIC and PAYE contributions that I thought had been paid ages ago. Obviously the black hole of the British postal service had simply swallowed the cheque as I kept recieving ominous letters from the Inland Revenue. What always gets right on my tits about this is that the office in question is perpetually un-contactable, the phone eternally engaged. In idle moments I imagine it off the hook in a chained and locked, airtight filing cabinet somewhere beneath the Bristol Channel, but the truth is probably far more prosaic (a single phone in an office, everyone is trying to ring).

I've also just managed to pay a bunch of cheques in, having waited quite a while for the full hand to appear..

Other things I need to resolve are my tax self-assessment, though before I can do that, the next major hurdle on the horizon is sorting out who does my accounting, as the current bunch have totally failed to impress me. I requested a breakdown of what I paid them last year, and when it arrived (via email, a week or too later) I practically had to steady myself. To say: "they're not cheap" would be a gross understatement. Theyre singularly inneficient as well.. I rang up yesterday for some advice on a relatively simple matter, was put on hold for ten minutes, cut off, rang up again, asked what my number was ("er, this one you just rang me on") then promised someone would ring me back later in the day (they didn't). Crap. So I think I'll take my money elsewhere.

In other news, having a quick rifle through my wardrobe the other day I discovered that moths have been dining out on my Katherine Hamnett suit. It's riddled with tiny holes, and looks like someone has been exchanging blowbacks with hash reefers over my left shoulder. In truth, I only wore to job interviews for jobs I never wanted anyway, which is good as it's probably only good for sacraficial moth food now. However, in a quest to limit the spread of this rot, I hastened to the 99p store on Butterfly Walk.

I just finished reading a book called 'The Animal Factory' by Edward Bunker (who played Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs), which is set in San Quentin prison, California, and circumnavigating the aforementioned store is much like what I imagine it to be like crossing the yard in that – both physically and psychologically hazardous. Nonetheless, I got got out alive and in posession of moth balls, which I proceeded to secrete around my wardrobe.

I've since removed them all, for the simple reason that they fucking stank. I've little doubt that they might have some success at repelling moths, but at the almost certain cost of repelling or poisoning me as well; I get the distinct impression they are insanely toxic, in spite of their benign, mint-like like appearance.

I hear cedar wood is the classic moth-repellant, though I don't think I'm in the market for a cedar-wood wardrobe just yet. The internet tells me a more expedient solution is to simply give clothes a good airing every once in a while, though of course this presents problems of its own, living in a gardenless flat in London.

Anyway. I've got some interesting things to do, and am going to look at a flat this evening.. though it costs a bit (alright, quite a lot) more than I really want to spend..

Weekend Parklife

On Saturday I went to view another flat. Depressingly, it was an American style block viewing which the Guardian wrote about the other week, and my Estate Agents seem to have adopted enthusiastically.

The affair took on something of a farcical air, with assorted couples trailing round and popping out of doorways to eye the flat and each other up.

It was such a beautiful day I wasn't really in the mood anyway, to be honest, and after that I wandered over to Brunswick Park where I sat on a bench and sketched. I quite like Brunswich Park. The only thing about it is it's quite small, and at least on the weekends there's always a posse of South London lads playing football, and screaming to be heard over each other's insults and the relentless shaking crash of the football hammering into the fence behind the goal. It gets a bit distracting.

That evening I went over to Ed's and sat on his roof with him and Vic chatting, before going to the Hermit's Cave where it was a sister of a friend's birthday.

Sunday was if anything, even hotter than Saturday, so I went for a wander and to take some photos with my new camera. I went and met up with Ade later, and we went and sat in Ruskin Park talking.

Dropped into the Joiners arms for a pint en route home. Sam rang to say he completed the Paris Marathon in four hours and twelve minutes, though it was eighty degrees, and by the end he resembled a giant salt-lick.

After that I went home and ate a takeaway in front of the TV. Jess was back from St Albans. She's pulled out of the of the offer she put in on a studio flat in Forest Hill, having realised it's much the same size as a rabbit hutch, only far more expensive.

After that I sat up doing a some work, then got to bed one-ish.

I'm not booked in all this week, and part of me is hoping it stays that way, I wouldn't mind a couple of days to sort other stuff out. I just got given some work, but it was a complete non-brief, where an account handler waved a A4 printout with some dimensions on under my nose and said "just do this yeah?". Scrutinising a bit I see that in fact my mission objectives need fleshing out somewhat. So, back to rambling on the internet while she bothers to find out the facts.

Drinking and thinking

Last night I went round Vicki's house, and she cooked tea for me and Ed - a pumpkin risotto. A brave choice I thought, though it was delicious: sweet, sticky, moreish winter stodge (though of course March seems to have got bored of Winter and advanced straight to Spring).

Her housemate Claire was seeking some help touching up a headshot of her in Photoshop, but as her iBook only had a trackpad and no mouse, it was something of a challenge to finesse anything... I touched out some blemishes and showed her how curves and levels could achieve a more dramatic contrast in tone - I wasn't sure what else I could demonstrate in a five minute crash course.

After that we trundled down to The Hermits Cave (there's no apostrophe in the sign, by the way) where we had one of those rambling, slightly drunken debates about life in general I sometimes find myself locked into on a week night.

I don't think we really set the world to rights, though as a result, something did occur to me during one exchange about cohabiting with other people. As I've said before, living with others can be hard work and I've always considered myself a fairly easy going person, but henceforth I think when deciding whether to live with someone, I'm going to make damn sure I really want to live with them.

If you actually enjoy someone's company, flatsharing is a relative breeze, and you don't really sweat the small stuff so much. I moan about cleanliness and noise, but really, I'll forgive a multitude of sins if I have affection for someone..

Wheras if you don't.. if there's even the slightest hint of doubt about sharing your personal space, you tend to chalk up even the most minor transgressions ("You didn't do the recycling!") on a mental score card, which will, if you're uncareful, ultimately feed resentment. Which is sort of unfair, I suppose (In any event, all my housemates are great, by and large – end caveat).

Anyway.. not exactly a moment of blinding insight, but an interesting reflection I thought. I'm like a modern day Plato or something, and he liked his caves too.

We were a bit drunk though.. the barometer of my inebriation being when I wobbled the table mid gesture and an empty Leffe glass danced off the edge and smashed to bits on the ground. All eyes on us. Oh dear.

I woke up today feeling tired and fuzzy. It took ages to get to where I was working on Hanway Street, possibly because I caught a 42 (which never seems that fleet of foot at rush hour). It was a quietish day and the work was straitforward enough, though my keyboard seemed to lack half the keystrokes necessary to create things like brackets, dashes and question marks, and had a button which said 'help' in Italian. This was in itself a replacement for a previous device which had a non-functioning hyphen/underscore key, letter 'P', and space bar. All fairly essential when working with type I'd say, though I got around it by copying and pasting those elements.

As I guessed it might do, this week's booking wound up early. I left early at around half four, which I didn't mind really as it was such an unseasonably lovely day. Walked up past Spitalfields and cut across the road near Liverpool Street Station, then up through Shoreditch to the roundabout at Old Street, where I caught the 55 up through Clerkenwell to Oxford Street.

Went for a nose round the Cosh gallery on Wardour Street looking in vain for a print I saw there a month or two ago by Fred Deakin, which now adorns his new mix cd. Gone gone gone, alas. After that I headed north of Oxford Street to meet Ade outside his work, before adjourning for a pint at some generic Noho rentapub. I had left my Golden Virginia at home, so underwent the slightly humbling ritual of offering to 'buy' a rollup off someone, whereupon I was surrounded by a host of eager hands proffering tobacco products, for no fee.

I headed back home after that, stopping for some food at the consistently excellent Silver Lake, which I sat and ate in front of the telly. Hotel Babylon was on, which is one of those ultra Beeb-by-numbers programmes which is presumably by now generated by a proprietory algorythm somewhere in the heart of Television Centre. Fairly uninteresting, in spite of its arsenal of sub-Lock-Stock editing.

Anyway I'm sleepy now. Some work of my own to get on with tomorrow, then in the evening, to the Ritzy in Brixton to see the new David Lynch film. Might eat in the cafe there beforehand, though hopefully it won't take as long as last time when I waited an hour for a pizza. Cheerio.