London Adventures #10 - All spread out.

Oooooo saucy title indeed!

Actually, I could very well be butt naked, but because of the magic of the internet, you'll never know. You'll also never been scarred, like Harry Potter, with the image of my bare skin crouched over a cheap laptop. That's one for the photo albums.

Moving swiftly on—Today is Tuesday and I spent almost all day listening to Jazz whilst I did my work, and oh boy, I have enjoyed that. I do now have a gruesome headache but I've chugging water like an elephant on ecstasy, so it should be gone soon enough. I doubt this is related, but my headache started right after lunch, and at lunch I could smell something rather strange.

So there I am, minding my own business eating a sandwich on the roof garden, and I can smell something, something I wouldn't usually associate in a building worth millions of pounds, 11 stories up in the air. I can smell really, really strong weed and it's coming from the bush behind me. Now it's very unlikely that I have a headache through excessive inhalation of secondary weed smoke, but bloody hell; someone was having the 'doobie' of a lifetime behind me.

So, not wanting to return to my desk smelling like Bob Marley's sofa, I went down to ground floor and decided I'd try the 'Leon' cafe which has been taking my fancy the past week. In short, bloody lovely design—but expensive as hell and painfully mediocre (or at least my mostly cold fries were). I must say though, if I could eat their packaging, it would of likely been the best lunch I ever had.

The Tate's new building—outside the offices and I thought would make a good space filler.

As I got walked back to my desk, pink stripped pink bag and coffee in hand (from Leon) I decided to take a detour past the other magazines working on the same floor as me. Turns out it's mostly boating ones; "Boat World" "Yachts and Superboat" "Bloody Huge Yacths n' Crap". Okay, that last one is made up, but there is about 8 different magazines all pumping out nautical publications, and they all have one thing in common—the overwhelming smell of expensive suits and male BO. That place smells like Hugo Boss' sweatshops.

Once I had bypassed the boating section, I got to my desk and received two things of great pleasure to me. Firstly, a free copy of NME, which I had worked on the previous week. And aside from all the little bits of editorial and editing I did, do you know what I found on the final page (which I also deigned). This little beauty.

I highlighted it to save you lazy sods from having to read any more.

My name. Printed. On paper. In NME. SO BLOODY HAPPY.

So after I had calmed down and my smile no longer streched my face to look like some like of mass muderer, I asked Tony (as I do about 20 times a day) "Do you have anything else you'd like me to do?" and his reply, with a pointing finger of enthusiasm "Yes, I've got a feature for you to have a shot at". I almost died. Or maybe I actually did; either way, it's no definitely going to print but there is still a chance, so for all I know I could be chilling with God on a cloud right now.

So, that is all I had to say for today, but like yesterday I'm going to make a final note. This final note is not about me though, it is about another intern.

Final note: Meghan White, I think that is the name I heard you bellowing at a courier; you keep doing whatever you are doing. You may never read this, but I have remembered your name and I'm terrible at remembering names. You've been in the NME office for a total of 12 hours (two days) and you've already done more work and more walking that I have achieved in 20 years of life.
If I was even half as confident, loud, or useful as you—I'd be at least twice as successful. So if there is a glass ceiling, this girl has walked up and down that corridor so hard that the shards of workplace inequality are being crushed under each strut of her leather boots.