The situation of the present

Job hunting graduate with "life experience", a "good" degree, "fantastic work ethic" and absolutely bug#*£r all attention from (paying) employees.

 

Sound familiar?

I eat, I read, I go to the swimming pool, I speak to others about their similarly stagnant position.

We are treading water, a generation moving slowly to nowhere with only a few strong (or lucky) swimmers.

Online applications seem futile, does anyone ever get a response? Who reads them? (Perhaps there's a job there...)

Success stories seem to be the people that google a real address, swipe their laptops to the floor and stop living in the ether - force themselves into a building and hold their office of choice at gunpoint until someone gives them an interview. (I imagine that's how it goes, mine's not yet a success story so please allow for some guesswork here).

The internet just seems to me to place a barrier between us and even getting an interview, with so many job sites regurgitating the same jobs to thousands of uninspired readers shooting off their CV "just in case". What's the point? Is there any point? Please, if there is, inspire me....

Some days there is hope in the air of one's childhood bedroom where many seem to have returned, some melt into hours of tapping and typing and grunting and tea and facebook surfing.

A healthy diet consists of three meals of inspirational videos a day: great for the mind but sodding useless for getting any attention from an employer.

These videos make me feel great though. I feel like a better person, I feel like there's more to life than the momentarily scary situation of the present, I feel like something will come up, and that I can achieve anything.
Great, so just...sit back and relax? Life is fine?
No.
So, stop watching videos and get up and out?
Ok.
Where?
Down the street....co-op has Kitkat Chunky's on offer...
fab.
Sit and contemplate how much easier life was at school, in the same small village I have now returned to to stare at inspiring videos all day.


Medicine degree, anyone?

Leonardo Da Vinci, Painter at the Court of Milan.

"It changed my perspective on life. The man was just a genius in so many areas"

So I sort of had to go. 

Drawn by the glamour of the idea that these paintings may never all come together again, especially not in our lifetimes, the above comment from a friend visiting from the states solidified a desire to see what all the fuss was about. However, when the radio brought Adele to my ears and my eyes slit open to see that it remained dark outside, da Vinci was not exactly my favourite man. The excitement of the previous evening and the denial of the ugliness of a 5.30am alarm were reduced to an all too familiar rendition of "Someone like you" on the radio. But one has to 'mind', on these sorts of occasions, because it's not everyday that one finds the likes of someone like Leonardo da Vinci and the passion he clearly had for his work - I thus got out of bed.

Trafalgar square, the houses of parliament, and an already growing queue of expectant bodies slowly visible as the sun rose made the time immediately bearable. The act of waiting became part of the event, and the collective experience of early morning mixed with expectation of what the day yet concealed quickly excited conversations over clutched thermos flasks. I am no self-proclaimed art-buff and my knowledge of art history is limited -as it seemed with many queue'rs, but this just seemed like an experience that, whilst living in London, one would have to have a damn good reason to miss.

5 hours and 2 lectures hurried-to later, we got our tickets. By 1.30, we got underground and into the rooms of paintings that were buzzing like hives with intrigued, inspired spectator bees....

Walking the galleries is a mixed bag of experiences. The first room takes a bit of battle and when you're not quite in the museum mind-set yet it takes a little patience. In scenes that completely informed me of why we are are a nation known for loving to 'stand in line', people were forming natural neat queues to shuffle past each painting or sketch and read each plate. It was slightly painful but at that point concentration is high enough that you don't quite mind. Don't worry. When it get's to room 2 and beyond the spaces open up and people tended to forget the need to push their bag into your lower back and hurry you on in the most passive aggressive method possible for a gallery. You're free to just walk away from them without the fear of losing your revered 'place'. I'd advise getting a headset guide, lose yourself in it and forget the amount of people. Despite some of the grumpy spectators who seem to want their own private viewing, it really isn't a problem.

The exhibition takes its temporal focus from his invitation to Milan, accompanying the group of varied specialists that Duke Ludovico Sforza was enticing to his court. Room 1 draws you to the workings of da Vinci's mind. The first item is a modestly sized drawing, which when studied depicts his beliefs in the connections between sight and observation, imagination and beauty, and memory. Complex sketches of the inner workings of the brain -although biologically flawed to 21st century minds- reveal a mastery of close, detailed, continued observation that streaks throughout the gallery and the rest of his work.

This leads me to what I found most fascinating in the layout of the exhibition. The obsessive sketches that da Vinci produced in the run-up to his famed masterpieces are all laid out around the walls surrounding the pieces. Whilst "The Lady with the Ermine" stands alone on a wall in the centre of room 2, it is encased by the workings of the artist before it's completion: close studies of  the movements, gestures, bones and sinews of the hands, practice at defining the fur of a mammal thought so beautiful that it would die rather than soil it's fur. It is far slicker than the usual confusion in museums where each room seems to have 4 doors to other rooms and one needs a map in order to make any sort of logical pathway through. Instead, viewers are invited to look at these smaller works as a method of unpacking the larger works which would otherwise be arguably unfathomable to the untrained eye, - to many otherwise a marvel without a meaning. It is a credit to the gallery that they have acquired such an array of his works to be displayed.

I had read that some felt the exhibition was "bulked out" with da Vinci's drawings and other works, but this shouldn't put anyone off. The volume of work that is not actually his own but the work of pupils is at times slightly frustrating, but opens up avenues of thought about the nature of art in 14th/15th century Italy, and throws further light on the sheer meticulousness of his style. Although his own paintings and sketches greatly aided an understanding of that style, the work of his students did something quite different. Under his instruction his protegés completed work that has often been mistaken for his, and has lead critics to dispute the artist of all bar one of da Vinci's paintings. His instruction meant that this talent could be copied brilliantly, but not entirely achieved without his absolute dedication to his subjects. Feeling quite pleased with ourselves, we managed to identify the works of his pupils in the first few rooms - more than a mere method of bulking through conglomeration, the inclusion of such works were a clever way of engaging spectators and lessening a sense of ignorance, I felt.

Walking through the exhibition there are just rooms full of beautiful, intricate paintings, finished with gold halos, glassy eyes and individual strands of hair. Most impressive to me were his sketches of material. Uninspiring as it may sound, he accompanied close-up copies of hands and feet with countless observations of the folds of cloth and the ways in which light falls upon different materials in different positions - even a close look at the sleeve of one of his portraits will reveal this incredibly close attention to detail that I just found astounding. The most impressive spectacle however has to be the two versions of "The Virgin on the Rocks". The rather ghoul-like faces of the second version stare back at their former selves, more idealised, more perfect, and with halo's added in by a "concerned" on-looker later on in time. The paintings reveal a philosophical shift in the artist's thinking as he moved from his previous focus on natural representation to a new, devout style and a belief in the artist's mind as a reflection of the vision of God. - a philosophical journey manifested in the structure of the exhibition itself.
With so much to say for itself and it's artist, it is incredible to think that this second version only came around in part because of a financial dispute meaning the first had to be sold, (or that's what the guide said). Now if you are Dan Brown, you might disagree with me on this one.....

Surprising to me but incredibly entertaining, were the moments of true personality that catch your eye when studying da Vinci's work. His studies of the grotesque figures alongside the idealised beauties of the world were used in some pictures to reflect his disregard for the courtly beauty that was so often revered above all else in art and life. Laughing out loud is perhaps not something someone might expect from a very serious exhibition about one of the most famous artists in history, and is not entirely congruous with the "feel" of the event. But da Vinci had a great talent and a sense of humor to go with it, it seems. 

Look closely at the top left hand corner of this sketch, for example. 

Genius.

Painter, sculptor, philosopher, teacher, scientist, inventor; the list goes on and makes me feel more unaccomplished with every word... 

So, if you have a free morning to spare - (who's busy at 6am?), take your self down to Trafalgar square. See the sunrise for yourself, (take lots of warm woolies!) but most of all treat yourself to the indulgence of a few hours staring at this man's work, before you have to fly somewhere to see it all individually...

National Gallery, London. 9th November 2011 - 5th February 2012.
There's still time - go!

“Yes, that's it! Said the Hatter with a sigh, it's always tea time.”

Life get’s a little more cheery with tea. Fact.

Tea makes you feel better on a sad day, warmer when it’s chilly, and feel at home when you’re far away.

Everyone from Henry James to my family bang on about tea, hell, it’s one of the best presents to give/receive if you ask me!

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. ~ Henry James

It is no wonder that we, as a nation, have a reputation.

To our American counterparts, tea is an English mystery. From what I have experienced, tea is a quaint, British fancy that when mimicked will turn said mimicker into a very fine Brit-alike. On countless occasions I have been asked in faux-Brit accent (most recognisable as the Queen’s accent), “would you like a potto’ tea darling?” I guess it’s an attempt to make one feel at home…

So it seems that us English are stereotyped for our love of the little leaves we brew and strain and no longer call tcha, but tea. But, an interesting encounter with The Rare Tea Lady left me bedazzled as to just, how, improper we really are when it comes to tea-drinking…

Considering we drink around 165 million cups of the stuff a day on this little island alone, we sure do succumb to the mighty power of consumerism and the fate that poor tea leaves have fallen to. Yes, I am talking bags.

Let me explain. Wandering the Southbank’s Tea and Coffee festival with fellow tea-enthusiast Jon, the Rare Tea Lady was up next to do a lecture in a nearby marquee. To lure us over, this wondrous lady shouted her simple slogan:

“My mission is to de-bag Britain!”

Simple.

And she wasn’t talking the urban dictionary wouldn’t-want-to-be-her “bag” of crass insults between neighbours. No, she was talking small, paper, square/triangle/circle/pyramid/teapig etc, bags. In the 70's, only 3% of our population used a teabag. Last year, only 3% didn't...

Tea was created, in China, more than 5000 years ago. Then the Brits found it, liked it, put tax on it, smuggled it, coaxed China into giving it to us in return for Indian opium, got them addicted, and well, inexorably intertwined with the opium wars, the rest is part of our lovely history.

Now tea is OURS. 

And now we desecrate it. Henrietta Lovell [said-Tea-lady] brought up tea in a way that I’d never thought of before: When a friend comes over, you get out the coffee beans, the nice biscuits, the nice vino, etc etc. Very rarely does one get out the fresh tea-leaves. Or do you?? It’s something we should do FAR more often and, as Henrietta said, is not that much more expensive. Even the Ritz short-change us at tea time, their "high tea" comprising of.....champagne.

A small spoonful of leaves in one “potto tea” is a gem to treasure; add just one cup of water enough for you to drink and NOT filling the pot and leaving it to stew – these leaves can be re-used around 5 times, (and even more if you are a poor student like myself.) It is even recommendable for good taste to use a porcelain cup.

What’s more, white tea is excellent for hangovers.

Green tea is fab for studying with as it has heaps of natural caffeine in it.

Black tea is excellent for being all British and having tea parties ;) 

But bought, bagged tea is not the way forward, I hear. If you buy some of that lovely cheap "cranberry and apple" tea from the supermarket, -don't be fooled by its packaging finery! There are people who get paid to pretty-it-up into a consumer-luring box, in the sentiments of the tea-lady: Don't succumb. There are mainly chemicals in that bag that infuse to make a sickeningly bright pink colour in your cup and fool us into thinking "ahh, healthy herbal fruity tea". 

Furthermore, I believe in the decaff myth. A friend of mine who traveled to Africa last year said that if we all could see the process that goes into decaffeinating tea and coffee, we would never touch it again. The act of stripping coffee beans of their natural caffeine takes so much effort and chemical action - why not just go for Rooibos (redbush) tea? Its lovely, can be drunk with milk (if you are strange like my father), and most importantly, naturally caffeine-free. 

You can get very scientific about tea, too. 

Tea is rich in flavanoids, natural anti-oxidants that help keep healthy, cleanse away, give life a bit of extra oomph – and they sound awesome, don’t they? 

A national study of 1,764 women in Saudi Arabia showed that tea drinkers were 19% less likely to suffer from cardiovascular disease than non-tea drinkers. (UK tea council). 

It also contains fluoride, which helps look after and WHITEN teeth - its the stuff on all the toothpaste adverts anyhow! 

Studies are even being done into the validity of black tea as a cancer-busting aid – pretty nifty. (Tea-Advisory Panel)

So, I'm slowly joining the bandwagon of the tea lady: de-bagging my cupboard as I can afford leaves and cooing over my re-discovered teapots. Why not go for it too? Get your friends over and get the posh tea out! Plus, cake-stands are all in at the moment.

Want to make the perfect cup of tea? Check out advice from the lady herself :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYVAhArdh6Q&feature=player_embedded#!

Ciao for now! I’m off to…..put the kettle on ;)

Going underground.

If the barrier's angry -  you 'aint got no money, 

No use in holding us up it's not funny.

Just top up and pay up

and get on the stairs, 

If you're not in a rush then don't stand on the left! 

Cheery conductors you'll find on the tube,

Wish they'd just get the damn thing to move,

BEWARE: Smiles are banned at most times of day,

Alongside giving your seat away.

Watch out for the rats though they can't reach to foot level, 

Get rid of the screaming child - give it some revels! 

Shouting and swearing and huffing, harassing, 

More tube delays

the crowds start amassing. 

Shouting and huffing and sweating and swearing,

Crumples appear on whatever you're wearing, 

"Red Signal ahead" "but all lines are fine", 

Doesn't seem that way: "Body on the line". 

"Train terminates here" wherever you're heading, 

No tubes to your workplace or café or wedding,

It's hot

no-one cares

there's no geography here, 

It makes no use knowing the city streets clear, 

For tubes have their own own routes, their own rights and rates, 

And all you can bet on is that YOU'LL BE LATE. 

The Kitchen Sink - silliness and sincerity.

(As featured in the KCL English Society Journal)

 

A kitchen bizarrely like my own Preston-based Grandma’s and a family as northern as can be to go with it – The Bush Theatre’s rendition of Wells’ ‘The Kitchen Sink’ captures the north of England with all the grit of real life that drama can contain.

The kitchen sink style takes on an interestingly direct manifestation on the stage in this play, the kitchen literally created by a fully functional kitchen unit. Used for the copious brews made, the preparation of meals, eating of biscuits, - and even as an emotion-cooling fountain: the kitchen and it’s blocked sink are truly at the heart of the drama. Realism does not replace artistic subtleties here, as our fly-on-the-wall audience status lurches the audience right into the domesticity of family life in a place where old societal systems are fading, and the trustworthy milkmen of the old days such as Martin are becoming a memorial of the past.

The south, London, art and ‘boys from Eton in pashmina’s’ are ostracised from the rural town only alluded to from within the kitchen walls. Withernsea is stuck in the customs of the past whilst the characters with their individual eccentricities attempt to escape. Slight claustrophobia ensues from the staging in the round chosen for the performance, yet rather than an intruder one comes to feel welcome in Martin and Kath’s home. As dimmed lights are all that accompany scene changes, the family members visibly clear the debris of props away as if tidying for visitors- you almost expect someone to reach over and offer you a mug of Yorkshire tea. Their kitchen becomes a place of unity where the working class characters meet, eat, chat, argue and celebrate: a welcoming hub of familial love.

Comedic as well as compassionate, the trivialities and absurdities of everyday life are greatly drawn upon in order to create pure laugh-out-loud comedy - ‘dead funny’, one might say. Sampson consistently brings hilarity, from his dancing and yodelling along to Dolly Parton in karaoke duet with his mother, to his expostulation about the necessity of sequins covering the star’s nipples in his portrait of her. Coming from a town where Preston seems exotic, one can understand why the his dreams of London seem outrageously inappropriate to his father, who can barely even come to the terms with his son’s sexuality. Whilst hilarious, Sampson’s characterisation of Billy begs sympathy. Nevertheless, with Rhodri’s portrayal of his stubborn father and our proximity to the intricacies of the family, one is also drawn to feel strongly for a man whose narrow-mindedness alongside his own problems only manifests itself into upset and a level of self-loathing.

             

At a time when our own professional futures are uncertain, the poignancy of the father’s ending “There’s life after milk – I hope” sets an optimistic endnote undermined and somewhat unsatisfying in its attempted reassurance. Dashed hopes of urban migration are all the more resonant when watched from a London theatre, the city that shattered Billy’s creative dreams and only holds limited offerings for fledgling professionals in the present day.

What a delight it is, therefore, to lose oneself in the frivolities and silliness of daily life through the kitchen of one family. My only complaint is the occasionally soap opera -esque feel to the play, yet this mainly leaves one wanting to come back next week for more. Despite the uncertainties faced in their changing lives it is warming to watch the reassurance gained through the infrastructure of the family. 


A performance for anyone needing a pick-me-up and a reminder of the joy in life’s simple things, take your chocolate digestives along and enjoy.

A life in the day - getting all Times-esque

A life in the day ... of a UEL worker. 

So this idea is intriguing. A snapshot into the lives of people, given to you as if you were allowed to sit in their pockets for a day. 

A day in UEL clearing is multifaceted, bringing both joy and disappointment, anger and a sense of resignation. It is a job both invigorating and tiring and after two weeks there I know more about UCAS than I did when I went to uni myself....

As the 5am alarm bell calls, the DLR is not far behind, the circle line being the only obstruction.

I tell you something, King's Cross shows far too many signs of life at that time of the morning. For some people, 6am tube rides are the norm. -huh?

Sleep and a delve into CityAM [[quite possibly the actual most soulless publication I have ever read, without an ounce of intriguing content...]] which induces further snoozing until Cypress.

A well received brioche and a cup of tea are the perfect end to the hour long journey in, courtesy of UEL. Hazy faced hotline staff hover about before the voices come flooding in and our backsides become molded to our chairs for 12 hours.

By the time we get to our phones, the voices are already waiting on all other sides. Call, chat, transfer, click. Call, chat.... Suprisingly, this first day brings less stress than anticipated, with tears kept to a minimum and rituals of politeness well observed. Endless departments are sent applicants, endless e-mails sent, strange questions asked, and many cups of tea made. Students from all over continue to flood and flood our lines with hopes of their acceptance.

With barely enough time to dial " #2# 3333 * c " before the next call comes, we head off for breaks in rounds. My favourite part of the office is the view. Situated right by London's City Airport, we sit and watch as other people fly away whilst we are chained to our headsets and the voices. Sounds depressing, but it is actually a very inspiring sight. Planes have a strange power to them that always makes you stare as you wonder how on earth they are being lifted up and not falling back down again....

As the hours pass the calls get slightly more frantic, as you'd expect. Front-desk duty is worse than the phones. You find yourself trying to put people on hold when they are stood in front of you - somehow doesn't quite work. Physical people are harder to make wait than phone-callers, and the frustration in their expressions is painful to see as you realise your not being efficient enough as they might hope. To each applicant, clearing revolves around them and their place, and 100 other people are totally not having the same problem as they are.

As you can tell, brain function gets scarily impractical as people start connecting to the wrong extensions and wearing their headsets to the loo. Furthermore, the job takes over your life for the days of service, as you speak in phone-lingo to everyone you encounter and can hear phone's ringing as you eat supper... Good job the atmosphere in the office was jolly and the desks surrounding me filled with people who were both helpful and comical.

And most of the students are worth it. Hearing the little voices brighten and breathe gusts of relief makes all your efforts to get them a course worthwhile. UEL is not a university that prides itself on its "league table place", but values the precious nature of education and the importance being able to learn. Many of our applicants were not suited to the systems of school in order to achieve A*s, had personal family histories which hindered them, or wanted to further their education in the one thing they loved, not english maths science and a language.

Seeing more money than I have ever seen spent at Kings being poured into their multi-million pound sports centre and Olympic involvement, their accommodation, their business incentives (amazing opportunities to have your own office with them).... UEL gives those a chance to an education who may not have been the best in their class. You come to lose the snobbery perhaps assumed by top league-table institutions as you see the appreciation of those who are able to clutch onto further education in the areas they long for.

On the flip side....
Despite the utter irritation caused by people calling with no idea of what they wanted to do, asking only what courses they could get onto with 70 UCAS points (oh, it happened pretty regularly), we had to try and refine their search in order to find them something. If someone really doesn't care what they study as long as they get to uni, why oh why are they spending all that money?!? But you can't say that on the phone. Some people really deserve the opportunity to continue their studies, and some people are clearly unfortunate victims of the "must-go-to-uni" society that we live in. University is sadly a knee jerk reaction for too many people, something which will be interesting to observe with the horrendous fee increases next year. The knees, predictably, will not jerk quite so hard.

Journey home and a time to more fully appreciate the splendor of the views on the Dockland's line. Flipping impressive. After flying through Canary Wharf one gets a view of the O2 from every angle- reminders of "school trips to the Dome in 2000" and consequent conversations being sparked.

Cypress - TowerGateway/Bank - Circle Line - King's Cross - Home.

Head goes to pillow and wakes up again at 5am.

Helping people, creating futures, being shouted at.

Best. Day. Ever.

I'm mrs lifestyles of the rich and famous - you want a canapé?

Sat, a beached piece of liquorice after a night out with the fellow bassets crowd, I contemplate yet another night spent with the High Society crew.

A tin of allsorts, we come together from all parts of London to serve the rich and famous; students, graduates young and old people all dressed alike in black.

It's fun, sometimes. The wages suck and the regularity of shifts do too, but when you get some hours it's like an evening spent catapulted into the world of the wealthy that is just so far flung from student life you never would imagine it goes on whilst nibbling on your regular pasta/beans on toast.

It's an interesting world to be allowed to watch. I await the opportunity to become a voyeur and mingle with the crowds - on the wrong side of the champagne tray, admitted.

But as someone threw over their shoulder to me in a comment whilst chucking wine down the sink and flinging canapé crumbs into the bins, "Money doesn't buy you Class".
And it certainly doesn't.

Tonight was interesting. A bunch of city workers invited to the Barbican for a free booze-up. We knew it would be hectic. The fact that every man woman and dog got 2 tokens to spend on a glass of wine/beer/champers, plus a free cocktail bar, was enough to raise a few HS pulses under our liquorice uniforms - if only we smelt as nice.

It was hot. It was crowded. The rich were as up themselves as they generally are. I realised tonight they most of them aren't actually the rude buggers I always took them for. No, they don't purposefully look at you like a piece of sour liquorice they just spit out, they just don't even notice you are there. Which is kind of worse.

So I have been observing. And there are certain types of guest that seem to recur at these kind of events.
1. The snobs. These are possibly the worst. They stand in your way whilst you balance a tray full of glasses and bottles in one hand and try to tap their arm with the other to get through, they nearly whack you off balance with their flamboyant arm gestures and then glare at you as you are forced to shove past them before a whole lot of glass gets shattered.

2. The blazé women. -no, these are the worst. Worse than the ones who don't acknowledge you, are the ones who see you coming and still give you no time in their socialite day. They watch you approach, with no room to move past them, turn and continue the conversation they were just having. Then to top it off they'll turn around and dump their glass onto your already full tray as you brush past, almost making you drop it. Again. That makes me want to throw the whole tray at their feet, but the most I can muster throwing is a dirty glance instead.

3. The fledgling professionals who look very lost but flounce off when they see you looking at them like they were just born for this world. Mate, its clear to see that last week you were here, just like me. But hey, credit to them for tossing in the apron and stepping over onto the other side. They tend not to be so rude.

4. The lovelies. Polite members of the crowd who actually see you as a replica of their own children/grandchildren and appreciate the state of aching pain your feet are slowly descending to. They rock. A simple nod of appreciation for your work makes a huge difference in a crowd of elbows and swishy hair, tooftoff conversations and filthy glares. On another occasion one man came over to me and personally thanked us all for all of our hard work, - private events are usually nicer like this but still, the resemblance to my grandad was both touching and rather poignant. He would have loved some of the food we dish out sometimes, usually a proper bit of meat and vege... :')

5. There's then the intoxicated guest. These come later on and are by far most entertaining. They often ask for your name, and on occasions like tonight when there is a dance floor, they decide to dance with you. When carrying trays, this is not so fun, but otherwise its an excellent way to break down some of those class-y boundaries and let you see the business-world descend into sheer adolescence and sillyness. Those suits don't mean anything really. Beware of them roaming around the kitchens in search of the loos.... Free beers can lead to a lot of confusion.

6. The ones who think you are magic. Drunk or not, some people just think that the black uniform means we can perform magic tricks. "Can you jut go and get me a wine?", "can I just balance this on your head whilst you walk to the kitchen?" "can you pour me champagne into here [[for free]]?" "can you bring me specifically back on of those specific canapés whilst I move around and chat to people?" "can I pay you [[instead of standing in line like everyone else]]", umm, no sir. *huff puff huff*," "will you just" "can I just" "can't I".... IT'S NOT MY JOB. Go queue and pay and wait like everyone else. Lots of huffing ensues with these, but it's ok they eventually go and bug another member of black-clad staff.

So some are rude, some are nice, and some are just oblivious to the work that goes in to their evening of schmoozing. But we're there to serve, and serve they make sure we do.

At the end of the day, I come home in a free taxi, a free glass of wine and sandwich in my system (it's not always this good) and free mints in my pocket. A tired little basset worker, I may not be livin' the rich and famous lifestyle right now, but it can't be all bad. Winning never gets old, we just have to wait for our time to claim victory. And who say's winning means money, anyway.