almost witty

Sorry for not entertaining y’all with words of wit and songs of erm… song but my life is currently the equivalent of four headless chickens wandering merrily down the M4 just waiting for the big truck to come and turn me into so much Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I’ve developed a pecuilar habit of suddenly mixing up my consonants, so that when I think I’m saying “sleeping like a log”, I’m actually saying “sleeping like a dog”. I did 8 hours of train travel on Monday (beat that, Joe!), and the eternal sunshine outside isn’t exactly helping. Yesterday one answerphone message gave me some slight hope for the future but of course I misintrepreted it with hilariously dubious consequences. Oh and I’ve lost my watch.

On the plus side, plans are firmly in place for a move up to North Wales for some point in early July. On the minus side, it’ll probably involve a huge convoy of truckers, and then the hunt for cheap/free furniture.

But I shall leave you with an example of just how scatty and disorganised my brain has become.

Last Wednesday, I had a meeting in London. So I jump onto the train, before realising I’ve forgotten the handy piece of paper that tells me where the meeting is. Not a problem, I think. I’ll just log onto work when I get to work and retrieve my email.

Not so simple. The computer refuses to log me in - indeed, I try three times and it locks me out of my account. The IT staff won’t accept proof of my ID unless I either fax them my ID or go up to their office in person. So no score there.

Next step - go up to reception and ask them if they know. The charming receptionist looks through all her papers but can’t find any mention of said meeting. But HQ is a big place, it might not be on the list.

Final step - call the switchboard, randomly pick the relevant department and hope the other person on the line knows where the meeting is. Thankfully, she does.

Unfortunately, it was the day after. I’d gone to the meeting a day early.

I’ve finally submitted my various pieces based from the Doctor Who press launch that I attended on Tuesday night. (And lo, Doctor Who 2006 is good. Oh yes. Tennant *is* the Doctor. And it’s old Who. and yet new Who. Together.)

The powerful editor-that-be wanted some gossippy pieces to go alongside the coverage - and I was unsure as to what material there could be gleamed from a relatively dull press night (no major celebs, minimal nipple count). but, blimey, working with a professional talented journalist does wonders for your copy. By the time we’d batted it back and forth, sending amendments and suggestions to each other’s copy, we’d unearthed a few sparkling gems of wit. Even if I do say so myself.

I’m not too sure how many of them will get used, but permit me the chance to blow my own trumpet for once, and you’ll be rolling down the aisle with these gags. Alright, maybe not but it might raise a smile.

(I did once intend to use a blog as a way to sharpen my comedy skills by trying to write one gag a week based on the news’ events. Might just try that again, as soon as I can start watching the news again!)

Another persistent bit of tabloid Who gossip doing the rounds is that Jordan (Peter Andre’s wife, not the middle eastern country) is set to join the cast. But writer Russell T Davies vetoed the idea in no uncertain terms in front of the 200 strong press pack. Perhaps he didn’t want to repeat himself - after all, the last series had plastic dummies taking over the world under the power of evil transmissions.

Annette Badland, who played an evil Slitheen masquerading as the Lord Mayor of Cardiff in the last series of Doctor Who, was spotted at the press launch, as was Nicholas Bourne, leader of the Conservative Group in the National Assembly for Wales. So watch out if there are suddenly plans to demolish Cardiff Castle in favour of a nuclear power station. Still, at least Nicholas had a golden ticket, which is more than we can say for the partner of another Welsh AM, heard loudly demanding entry to the screening. You’d think they’d have something better to do than watch an example of a much derided institution reinventing itself for a contemporary audience.

Another persistent bit of tabloid Who gossip doing the rounds is that Jordan (Peter Andre’s wife, not the middle eastern country) is set to join the cast. But writer Russell T Davies vetoed the idea in no uncertain terms in front of the 200 strong press pack. Which is understandable. You can have farting aliens faking an alien invasion before destroying Big Ben, but having a former glamour model who marries a former pop star better known for his abs and banana diet, who then renews her wedding vows before the first year is even up would really break the bounds of believability.

Another persistent bit of tabloid Who gossip doing the rounds is that Jordan (Peter Andre’s wife, not the middle eastern country) is set to join the cast. But writer Russell T Davies vetoed the idea in no uncertain terms in front of the 200 strong press pack. Shame really - after all, the Doctor prides himself on changing appearance, body shape, companions and personality every couple of years.

It’s been oooh about five years since I last did any journalistic duty, but last night, I got to don my trilby hat and press pass once again and for a brief fun evening, I was an entertainment journalist again for quite possibly the coolest thing to hit Cardiff this year.

You would have thought that in the intervening five years, with the consolidation of computer technology and all the Web 2.0 goodness, that journalists would have changed their interview-gathering equipment a bit. Perhaps a computer that’d automatically transcribe words, or at the very least an iPod that records to MP3.

Not a bit of it. Throughout two major press conferences, the table was crammed with dictaphones, and small cassette recorders. Not a single digital recording device. And these are media professionals, who would no doubt appreciate all the time-saving a digital recording device would bring to the table. But I guess not!

I stumbled across two workmates (male and female) putting Tippex on a drawing pin. And we all made a little joke about putting things on his tip. and then I said

“you mean, she’s smearing his tip with white creamy goodness”.

An observing workmate said:

“You always have to go too far, don’t you?”

Somehow, that says more about me than 1000 About Me pages!

Or alternatively, American (corporate managers) don’t believe in holidays, the Brits believe in more holidays. As I am Woman exclusively reports from some no-doubt-award-winning building in the heart of South Wales.