CO-SHANG AND WELCOME TO GEEK PIE!

My name is Caroline, this is my blog and it's a pleasure to meet you.

I live with my sister on the outskirts of swinging London town, in a flat we're constantly one late rent payment away from losing.

At the moment I'm a journalist in name only (check out my sexy business cards) and I'm desperately searching for my first job in journalism.

That's pretty much what this shebang is all about. Shall we see what I've been up to today then?


Feel free to sign up and talk about anything either on the tag board below. It's usually occupied by weirdos, headfucks and best avoided around midnight

   

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The name of this site (if you're a lawyer working on behalf of Chris Morris or Charlie Brooker) is inspired by the Channel 4 show Nathan Barley. If however, you have no such affiliation to either of those parties and you have no idea of what or who Nathan Barley is, then just assume I made the name up myself. I'm a clever girl like that.
Basically, in the premise of that show, Geek Pie is a haircut. In the premise of the internet, it's the name of my website.
And that is, as they say, is that!








Geek Pie Does Desperate Housewives
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Thursday, April 13, 2006
What's with the long face?

I like to think of myself as a resourceful person. For instance, In the past I've made my own clothes (note the word "made" and not the word "worn" there) and wrapped an entire wardrobe in wrapping paper to try and make some kind of interior design statement. It's just a pity that the statement I seemed to say was: "YOU'RE SHIT AT THIS! QUIT NOW!" Obviously, I'm not terribly good at being resourceful, but God loves a trier.

However, one thing I've always been good at is making the best of a bad situation. Today was going to be a good one. I had the tiny issue of a job interview to get through first, but once that was out the way I was going to meet up with one of my old uni housemates and spend the rest of the day drinking.

Unfortunately, at the eleventh hour (literally, it was 11pm last night) she phoned to say that she wasn't going to be able to meet up; that we'll have to do it again some time and blah, blah, blah.

Disheartened, I then had a thought. I'll just go out with someone else and thus the day would be saved. Hurrah.

Or at least I thought it would be. Do you have any friends that it always seems like a good idea to meet up with and then when you do you remember all the reasons why you were secretly happy that they moved away to Bath four years ago? Well I do and that was who I ended up meeting up with instead.

This boy's name is Graham. I've known him since I was about six or seven and he's always been the same. He's always been about six feet taller than everyone else, so he stoops when he walks and I can never drive him anywhere because he can't fit in my car. Or at least that's what I tell him. He's got ginger hair, is a bit spotty and he's slimmer than the chances that anyone would ever choose to have his babies.

But, first and foremost, he is the biggest defeatist I have ever met and so as soon as he opens his mouth you start wishing you weren't there. He never seems to see the good in any situation or anything that happens to him.

I met him today at a pub near Old Street, because that's near where my interview was. He stalked in, having to nearly half his body height in order to make it through the pub door and avoid banging his head on the ceiling.

He sat down and we started talking. He's got a new job (good), it's pays well (good) and the work is not hard or too boring (good). But, everybody there hates him and he doesn't want to be anywhere people might not like him. Part of me really wanted to tell him that maybe he should leave right now, but I'm a nice person.

He said that he'd love to play guitar in a band for a living, and me being the supportive person that I am asked him what his band was like.

"I don't have a band. No one wants to play with me."

"Why? Have you placed ads and stuff?"

"No." 

"Well, how do you know that no one wants to play with you then?"

"Just do."

And that was pretty much how the rest of my time spend with him went. I was planning on spending the whole day in the pub, but after an hour he started to really bring me down and we parted company. Now I'm back home and quite capable of typing lucidly, not exactly how I saw today going.   

I just don't know how someone gets like that. Completely and utterly unable to register any kind of emotions other than complete indifference and pessimism.

Hmmm, and I thought I was a grumpy sod.



Someone needs to:
God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
By Coldplay



Posted at 08:29 am by Carrot
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Sunday, April 09, 2006
Getting lost

It used to be the case that my Sunday afternoons were spent being driven around by my parents. All seven of us would pile in the car, go for a drive and then come back again. It was totally pointless.

Today, I had the dubious honour of returning the favour to my Dad. You see, the dentist job is based just outside of Elstree and so I'd have to drive there. As the furthest I've ever driven is probably Harrow Weald (hello bruv!), I didn't have a clue where I would have to go. And so my Dad offered to drive with me and show me the route.

Last week, because I was going for an interview my Dad drove me, but he can't do that forever....well, maybe if I offered him cash. I had to find my own way. So I packed my Dad into the car and off we went.

My Dad decided that to make sure I knew exactly where I had to go we should do the trip quite a few times. If I'd known that "a few" actually means nine times. I'd probably told him to forget it and that I'd find it on my own just fine.

So what if I got lost, ended up in Aberdeen or with my car over turned in a ditch? At least I wouldn't be suffering with numb bum, gear changers arm or with the afternoon's playlist from Heart 106.2 glued to my internal stereo. My Dad has very poor judgement when it comes to radio preference.

Also, my Dad used to be a courier, meaning that when he gets into driving situation he starts reverting back to his old effing and jeffing ways. The window goes down, he sticks his arm out the side and if someone overtakes, cuts you up or merely looks at you at traffic lights he gets a bout of courier tourettes. This results in him shouting "wanker" at the top of his voice, opening his eyes really wide,shaking his head and throwing his arms in the air. It's quite off putting.

Then he starts saying things like, "next roundabout, chuck a left and steer a right." What exactly does that mean? I asked him and he just laughed, opened his eyes really wide, shook his head and threw his arms up in the air. He also says things like, "If we weave the back double, we'll shave on time." What?

In the end, after all those hours on the road, I started to glaze over and day dream. I kept missing turnings and going wrong on roundabouts (something I refuse to take the blame for) and something tells me I should leave a bit early in the morning.  I think I'm going to get very lost.


Posted at 01:47 pm by Carrot
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Saturday, April 08, 2006
Hair raid

If I ever became Prime Minister I'd outlaw two things. The first would be giving imbeciles the power to vote (electing me? The country is screwed). The second thing would be to make it illegal to administer a head massage to someone while offering them things.

Today, I went to the hairdressers. The brief was simple. Go in, get my barnet chopped and then get the hell out there. If you stick around in those places for too long, you end up buying lots of hair care products. Usually, lots of different things in pretty coloured cans. Let me ruin the illusion for you, regardless of the packaging, they're all just hairspray.

I wasn't going to fall for it. I just wanted a haircut. Nothing more, just a lot less hair than I've been rocking for a while. Unfortunately, things started to divert from the plan as soon as they plonked me into a massage chair and started washing my hair.

Within seconds, I was completely spaced out. That's when they pounced. My hairdresser, a colourist and some salon juniors suddenly appeared, standing over me as I had my head resting in a wash bowl, while someone with a God-like touch gentle carressed my head.  They started talking about adding colours to my hair, restyling and paying me compliments.

Within minutes, my simple wash, cut and blow dry had turned into so much more. I was now having a total restyle, with colour consultation and with a product presentation to end. I was at their mercy all because of a simple head massage.

Three hours later I emerged sporting hair that looked like a cross between Sarah Beeny and Vince Noir-- two names I didn't think I'd ever be using in the same senctance.

It cost a lot more and now I'm feeling a bit guilty, although I did keep to the original plan not to buy any products, so really I've go no reason to be. Now I've just got to figure out where I can go tonight to show off my new hair.

Ta ta.


Posted at 01:44 pm by Carrot
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Friday, April 07, 2006
I'm a wannabe gangster
've been banned from watching "lads" films and TV shows ever since I spent the summer a few years ago watching the first four series of the Soprano's. Things were going fine to begin with, but once I started really getting into it, things went a bit strange.

One night, my Mum told me that we were having chicken again for dinner. This led me to turn to her, pat her on the cheek and whisper in her ear: "You're dead to me!" I laid down my napkin, threw a fistful of fivers onto the table and walked out; never to grace their doorstep again. Well, not until I'd been to the chip shop and got something to eat that I actually wanted.

I also stopped using my mobile completely, choosing instead to make all my calls on public telephones. Any conversations I had with anybody had to be conducted in a very public place (in case I was taken down by a hit) or in my car (never know who might be listening). They would also always begin with the words: "Are you wearing a wire?"

I also started giving my friends and family bizarre nicknames like, Davey the monkey, Annie the trollop or Andy the face. I didn't know what for, but it just seemed appropriate. If anything, it probably worked in my favour if the pigs ever came round our gaff wanting names. I wouldn't be able to remember any, you slags! 

If I needed a favour doing, some shopping bought in or a taxi booked, I would write down the details and seal it in a brown envelope. I'd pick a person I knew would get the "job" done and send a car to pick them up. It was usually my car I sent and I'd be driving. I'd then take them to a secluded spot, order them out the car and throw the envelope at them. I'd then tell them: "Read the contents. You've got an hour." I'd leave them there and drive off.

If they didn't do what they were told, oh the repercussions. I won't go into details, but let's just say, you don't want to be the receiving end if my cab doesn't show up or if I find I'm a couple of tins of soup short. Capishe?

Anyway, this nonsense all ended once the DVDs were seized and I returned to normal after a couple of days spent in the rehabilitation facility of my front room with only a few tapes of Sandra Bullock rom-coms for company.

But this morning, I watched Layer Cake on DVD (such a great film) and I can feel myself slipping back to my old, bad ways. I keep thinking about scores I have to settle and jobs that have to be done. If someone says something ambigious to me that could be construed as slightly defamtory, I've grabbed them by the collar and pushed them up against the wall, demanding to know what they meant. 

I'm not really sure where this will end, but I think I'll leave it there. I've got some faces to take down. Slags!

Ta ta!


Posted at 01:43 pm by Carrot
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What is this feeling called loath?

We've started to get some feedback off people who have seen our efforts on the Geek Pie Does Desperate Housewives site. So far reactions have ranged from full- blown laughter to silence followed by a protracted period of head scratching. Also, one thing that keeps being said is: "You really need a job, Caroline."

For once, instead of looking at the floor and mumbling something about trying hard and waiting for people to get back to me, I can now look them straight in the eye and say: "I have one!" Actually, this is a bit of a half-truth.

I had an e-mail off the editor of the dentist magazine who interviewed me on Monday. She was confirming that she'd like me to attend a second interview and asked if I'd be interested in going and working there for three days next week. Best of all, I was going to be paid. However, I think they might have been taking notes on recruitment from Alan Sugar as I have a feeling that after those three days they are going to turn around and tell me whether I've got the job or not. Oh well, I never been paid to attend an interview before.

I really hope something does come of this because I'm getting sick to the back teeth of being at home all the time. I've got no structure to my life at all.

With no reason to wake up with a clear head, I've been drinking more (especially since my course ended). When I was at my last job, I never used to drink if I was in the next day --well there was two occasions where I did, but the repercussions put me off doing it again. The first time, I was housesitting at my parents house while they were away and the emptiness of the house started to get to me. So to cope I got twatted. The next day, I woke up late and managed to get work on time, but when I got home after my shift, I realised I'd forgotten my keys.

The second time, my hangover led me to verbally assaulting a small child and getting a written warning. So I learnt my lesson and didn't do it again. But now, apart from concerns about my health, there's nothing to persuade me not to do it. Most nights I'm knocking off a bottle of wine to myself and alot more at weekends.

 

Government guidelines say no more than two glasses of wine each day for a lady. Bottles are made of glass, so surely two glasses is the same as two bottles. Sorted.

This can't go on. Firstly, because I've started to developed a wine belly. Secondly, it's also contributing to my increasingly sedentary lifestyle. In my last job I was running up and down stairs all day to the stockroom, looking for stuff for customers.

In the evenings, I'd then go to the gym and then crash out in bed. On my days off, I used to be up and in the gym by nine o'clock. Not doing this, has increased the productivity of my blog no end, but my waistline is suffering.  Now I feel so dog rough in the mornings, the last place I want to be is in a gym. Also, I was in far better control of my eating habits than I am now, but writing about them would be another blog all of it's own.

I know it might sound rich saying that having a job will help solve these problems, but I know it will. I only have to look at the difference in my behaviour last week when I was on work experience and this week. Last week was early nights, healthy meals and not even thinking about drinking. This week, I've basically been sat around twiddling my thumbs until I can pull the cork out of the next bottle wine.

Regardless of whether I get this job or not, things have to change.  



Discoing down to:
Alcazarized
By Alcazar



Posted at 06:46 am by Carrot
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Thursday, April 06, 2006
Choices

I think I've seriously damaged myself thanks to yesterday's little festivities. At the end of it my feet were black with dirt (that's what you get for running around with open sided shoes on) and red raw (I don't think I'll bother wearing high shoes for a very long time yet).

My head is pounding too. We've been trying to upload all the videos and picture clips we took yesterday, but the computer has decided he doesn't want to do  that and keeps crashing. I admire our computer's style though. If he doesn't want to do something, he won't and if you give him too much to think about at once he has freezes. I see this as the computer equivalent of having a bit of a sit down and composing your thoughts.

Breezy is less sympathetic and has a lot less romantic view of how he operates. She started hitting him and to protect the safety of everyone involved I've had to seperate them both all day.  

That's giving me a bit of a headache and it's not been helped by the fact that I spent most of last night drinking white and red wine because that's what Bree would do. Yes that was the only reason I did it, because Bree does. I wouldn't personally. I'm a slave to my art.

I've been trying to write stuff for the website to try and tie it all together. I've given up for now. It's alot easier writing about how hard the process is, then actually writing for the project itself.

I could do with a sleep actually. I had an e-mail from the dentist magazine people yesterday and ,with all the running around that went on, I only had a chance to consider what they said when I went to bed. They said that they were definitely calling me back for a second interview, but also they 'd like me to work there for three days next week. They're going to pay me, but I don't really know where the interview fits in with all this.

Part of me thinks that it'll be like a three-day interview and so --Apprentice style-- if they like me, I'm hired. If they don't, I'm not really fired because I wasn't really working for them in the first place.  Also, yesterday I had a call of a mate of mine who works for the publishing company that makes Good Housekeeping, Cosmo and lots of different ladies mags.

She wanted to know if I would like to do some work experience there, because the person who was supposed to be going had dropped out. Part of me really wanted to do it. Ultimately, that is the type of magazine writing I want to get into. But so far, all the jobs I've applied for on those types of magazines I've been turned down for on the basis that I lack experience.

If I went on work experience, there is a chance that I could meet someone who might help me make my big break in consumer publishing, but I might not too. I took the dentist up on their offer and I start my stint on Monday. I think I made the right choice. I'll get money and experience, exactly what I need if I'm ever going to bagsy a by-line in a magazine for ladies.


Posted at 01:40 pm by Carrot
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Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I'm a speccy speccy four eyes to the end!

I have to go to the opticians today. I haven't had an eye test for about two years and I'm very excited. Sitting in a small room while a stranger shines lights in your eyes might not sound like everybody's idea of a good time, but it certainly is mine. I go there, he does his thing and confirms that I still have worse eyesight than a one-eyed person with cateracts. It's music to my ears.

Why? Because I love wearing glasses. I've been a speccy speccy four eyes since I was six-years-old. I can barely remember what it was like not to have to wear them, although I do remember two instances that made my Mum think that there might be something not quite right with me.

I'd been telling her for ages that I couldn't see the blackboard properly at school, but as my oldest brother had used this as an excuse for his pathetic GCSE results, she didn't believe me. Every afternoon she used to come in the front room and tell me off for sitting nose to screen with the TV. When I used to tell her that I had to because I couldn't make anybody out on screen, she used to send me to my room.  

She was definitely in denial and you can kind of see why. Whenever any of us at home got a new toy, the other four kids used to demand the same. I think my Mum thought that if she got me glasses everybody would want them. 

Also, I wrote an article about my first pair of glasses for the university newspaper and I asked my mum why it took her so long to get her arse in gear and sort out my eyesight. Her answer was that with my droopy fringe and crazy hair she thought I looked cute when I was sat there squinting, straining my eyes and getting headaches.  



The last time I wrote about this it made the press. The university press

Eventually, an accident involving me being bounced off the bonnet of a police car at a zebra crossing made her take notice. The policemen got out the car and told me off. He asked me why I wasn't watching where I was going. I said I was, but I just didn't see him. With the prospect of her six-year-old daughter receiving either a criminal record for talking back to a policemen or becoming road kill, my Mum finally took me to the optician.

And now I have to take myself.



Just thought it looked pretty.
Dora the Explorer: My Talking Backpack




Posted at 01:49 am by Carrot
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Monday, April 03, 2006
Last days of freedom?

Since my course ended I've spent my days sending off CVs, filling out applications and waiting for the phone to ring. So far I've only been invited to three interviews. Considering I've answered about a million job adverts over the past few weeks it got me thinking about what might be the problem with my applications.

I think my CV is stellar--apart from having the wrong address on it-- It's all gold and it's certainly got something for everyone. If you need cheering up, why not have a laugh at my non-existent job history? If you want to get a bit teary eyed, why not have a gander at my desperate sounding personal statement? If you want to be bewildered, check out what I did my degree in. No, my CV is not the problem.

It could be my cover letter. It's always difficult treading the fine line between sounding eager and totally pathetic. Also you want to sell yourself without sounding arrogant. Bothered, but not bothered. Sometimes I send them off and impress myself with how good I make myself sound. I then read them back a few days later and can't believe what a load of old wank I've written.

I'm not really sure how good my interview skills are. I've been on three so far and heard nothing back from any of them. I think I must have shocked them into silence with my stupidity.

I had another one today, which seemed to go alright, but then I thought that about the other ones I went to as well. Clearly my interpretation of events must be somewhat different to my interviewers. Actually, it went very well. They invited me for a second interview next Monday so fingers crossed.  

In the meantime, me and Breezy have been making plans about what we can do to waste, potentially, my last week of freedom and her Easter holidays. Iíll just say this: keep your peepers peeled. Geek Pie is getting mobile.   



Hopefully this will be more than the title of a CD for me soon:
Employment
By Kaiser Chiefs



Posted at 08:14 am by Carrot
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Sunday, April 02, 2006
Stupid girl!

One key thing they hammer into you at journalism school (AKA clown college) is to check, check and double check your facts. Unfortuantely, despite the fact this was bought up every day and they even gave us extra lessons about it on Saturday, I obviosuly didn't quite take it on board.

I went round my Mum's yesterday and was presented with my post. I had three letters related to jobs I'd applied for. Two of the letters were asking me to attend interviews and the other was basically asking why I'd even bothered applying in the first place. Still, this flumoxed me slightly. Why were these letters being sent to my Mum's and not directly to Geek Pie HQ?

Being a journalist, I got on the case straight after I'd had a cup of tea, a bit of a sit down and walked home. I had a ganderat my CV and almost immediately (I had a hangover so my thought processes weren't quite as sharp as usual) I managed to solve the mystery. It turns out that the one thing I'd not bothered to check while I've been updating my CV was where I said I lived. What a twat, eh?

I rang my Mum and asked her to check if there was anymore post anywhere for me. There was. Another letter asking me to go for an interview for Sub-editor position at a printing magazine. It was dated 4 weeks ago and I know for a fact it's been filled. One of my mates off my course got the job there.

Hey, if you're a friend of mine and you wear this, come and stand next to me because you'll be right!

So my own stupidity means that I've lost out on a job. Ironicallly, one of the key responsibilities of a sub-editor is to check facts so the job probably wouldn't have been for me anyway.

I'm so pissed off with myself. Yesterday I was moaning that my lack of confidence might hold me back in my job, but it seems that my lack of common sense might hold me back even more.

I'm getting angry even writing this. I'm going to go and hit something with a blunt object. Back soon.



Currently listening to:
Pure Pleasure Seeker
By Moloko



Posted at 05:35 am by Carrot
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Saturday, April 01, 2006
First contact

I hate open plan offices. They're just a minefield of potential social mistakes aren't they? Every place I've been to, either on work experience or for paid employment, has always had an open plan office and I've never been able to get used to it.

 

The biggest problem for me is when I arrive in the morning and trying to work out the imaginary boundaries . You see, when you're in an open plan office, the shear size of them means that it's impossible to say hello to everybody. Therefore, the people who work there only greet the people who site within a certain distance of them.

 

In September, I did some work experience at the BBC. Every person who walked in there seemed to say "howdy" to everybody based on that floor when they walked in. When I was working at Avis Customer Care (worst nine days of my sorry little life) you only had to say "hi" to the person who sat next to you. It's so strange.

 

The pressure with work experience is making sure you say "hello" to the right people every morning. You want to make the person who could give you lots to do knows that you're around. Also you need to make sure that anyone who might have a part in the recruitment process has your face firmly etched on their memory should any jobs come up.

 

This is something I'm finding very hard and have done this week. I'm not very good at selling myself to people and I don't think I'm particularly memorable either. I do the work they give me (and ask for more when I'm done), I'm nice to everybody  and I'm very good at controlling my murderous thoughts around them. But, I don't think it's enough. 

 

In a industry where making contacts is key if you want to get ahead, I'm not sure I'm shameless or cut throat enough to do it very well. This is only going to hold me back I'm sure and it's so frustrating. It's just not in my nature (yet) to just start shaking hands and whoring my skills to people. It makes me feel very uncomfortable and awkward.

 

I know it's something I'm going to have to work on if I'm going to get a job but I just don't know how to loosen up.



It's not too taxing and it's what I need:
What Will the Neighbours Say?
By Girls Aloud



Posted at 05:05 am by Carrot
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