Red Tops and White Powder

News flash: They make stuff up at tabloids.

We journalists at “proper” magazines (inasmuch as I could call my former employer such) always liked to say they did, but after my four days’ work at a red top, now I know for sure. I’m half outraged, half amused.

How was day-to-day life at the tabloid? Humbling. The person I worked for is someone I considered a peer – we are approximately the same age, and, when I was in my former job, position. But although she has an assistant, she treated me like hers, having me RSVP to parties for her and do clip searches. Initially I was furious, but then I managed to laugh it off as her issues – which clearly she has if she needs to do that sort of thing to me. She also sent me to parties no one in the planet would have been able to get a story out of, because the celebrities there were Z-listers. But she insisted I go anyway – infuriating because in her regime I only get paid for parties if I come back with a story.

It was an exhausting week, but it’s over. And it was four days’ respite from the fear that is eating away at me now: That I have no paid work lined up at the moment, and that I may not get any. I’ve been scurrying around London doing admin and making the most of my last days covered by private healthcare, but now it’s time to stop freaking out and start working. Or trying to.

* * *

Reason Number 472 why I’m grateful to be thinner: Fancy dress parties.

At the last minute, a fashion industry friend invited me to a Roaring Twenties party last Saturday night. I couldn’t order anything over the Internet because I wouldn’t be home to receive it, and I had very little time to shop because of my hectic work schedule.

Told there were flapper dresses in the sale at French Connection, I popped out at lunchtime Friday. It was nice to worry only that the shop near the office wouldn’t have my size, instead of the fact that there was no size in the whole chain of shops that would fit me. And besides, I knew if the flapper dress didn’t work, I’m of the size now where I’d be able to find something.

As luck had it, the shop only had 2 sizes – a UK 8 or a 16. On principle I refused to buy the 16, which left me trying on an 8 (a US 4). It fit! (Full disclosure: I ended up needing a bit of help with the last of the zipper on the night, although I like to think that was due to all the fringe getting in the way.)

I felt like the dress was slightly too tight around my chest, but it was hard to feel self conscious about my clothes when I was too busy feeling (slightly) self conscious for being a goody two shoes. I can’t remember being at a non-work, non-celebrity, non-St Tropez-type party and seeing that much cocaine use, and so widespread. And they were pushing it on me, and hard. (I refused, and repeatedly.)

I’m totally not that kind of person, and honestly, I think I’m OK with that.