I'm sorry that I'm late to the blog again. I was meant to write on Valentine's Day but I had to move to my new pad in Shoreditch and visit a night of confessions for my feature. It was definitely an interesting way to spend a day meant for love. I was squashed in a room with 50 people revealing all manner of naughtiness and nastiness about their lives, interspersed with a man playing a banjo accompanied by an animated Henry the hoover. The life of a journalist is truly varied.
Another excuse is that I haven't been able to eat properly while on the course so I have put on weight and my fingers are getting fatter making it more difficult to type (honest Keith - they're like a packet of Walls). Seriously, at this rate I'll be wearing a moomoo - one of those sheets with an elasticated neck - that people wear on Jerry Springer.
Well GYB, premier B2B for the gap sector, has truly landed and the pressure is on. Tomorrow is deadline day and we are still rummaging around in the hovel we have created for ourselves. Charlie is king of the heap and he's giving Tracy Emin a run for the money with the pyre he's cultivating under his desk. In between, making are way through the mounds of paper and piles of Cougar bars, we are furiously laying out copy and killing all the widows and orphans.
The mag is really coming together and is looking fabby doobie even if I do say so myself. We are still managing to laugh despite Roberta turning up the heat on headlines and Keith wandering in and out to point out problems from a distance. He has the ability to spot a typo from 20 paces and it always seems to be on one of my pages.
I am still struggling with grammar and Will has informed me in the nicest possible way I'm a crime against punctuation but I guess it's just my mountain to climb. Really need to climb it soon well before midday deadline tomorrow :s
Right, I must dash and write a few more headlines buoyed by Gloria Gaynor's I am What I am.
See you post deadline,
Much love from your favourite sausage-fingered scribe xxx