Time for a change

Lately, I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch. Call it what you like – hitting speed bumps, in a rut, down in the dumps. Perhaps a quarter-life crisis?

I don’t normally blog about my job because (1) I’d bore you to tears (it’s more likely that I would end up in tears) and (2) everything you write can be found on the Internet and I didn’t want to get fired. But I no longer have to worry about no. 2 because I have just resigned.

This was quite possibly the hardest decision I have ever made and for fear of no. 1, I won’t go into the details. But it was time to go. The problem was nothing else was in order to actually do that, meaning I didn’t have another job to go onto. So I tried stalling for a couple weeks. And things only got worse.

After some long talks and a lot of tears, we decided handing in my notice was the right thing for me to do. So, as of this past Tuesday, I am working my month’s notice and then I am out of there.

I could go into all the bad things. I could tell you what I didn’t like about the place. Some of you already know it anyway. But what really pushed me into making this decision?

Two things.

1) Two weeks ago, I was almost to the end of my long morning commute. On a good day, it takes just over an hour, door to door. On a bad day, it could take up to 2 hours. It was a bad day. The Victoria line was experiencing severe delays. It was extremely hot and stuffy on the train. It would stop for long periods of time in a tunnel and then when it would pull into a station, people would push onto the train, making it even more hot and stuffy. When we arrived at Kings Cross, two women pushed their way onto the train. They were both dressed in smart business suits. They both looked to be in their 40s. One of them positioned herself so that she could hold onto the pole. The other tried to get past. The other elbowed her. Then a full elbow fight broke out. “Excuse me! But I am getting on this train!” “Well, don’t push me off it!” And back and forth they went…these two professional businesswomen!

I just stood there, smushed in between a group of Italian tourists, trying to move my face every few seconds to get a breath of air. And I watched these two women and I thought to myself, What am I doing? Is this what I have to look forward to? Will this be me in 20 years? Will I be elbowing my way to get on a train, to get somewhere first, to get to the top?

2) When you don’t like your job, it’s very hard to get up in the morning. It’s even harder to do the commute. Last week, I missed my usual train by three minutes. So I had to kill time for 20 minutes and get the later train home. I walked to the last car, hoping it would be almost empty so I could have some peace and quiet for a few minutes before the rush of people got on. I made my way to the last row of seats and sat down. I looked next to me and there was a crumbled Times.

When I turned over the paper, I instantly recognized the columnist. Not because I ever read her or know her. But I was once mistaken for her and it has always stuck with me.

When I was studying in London in 2004, I did an internship with Reader’s Digest magazine. Probably the most exciting thing during my time there was the Christmas party they hosted at a restaurant in Harvey Nichols. The guests were a mix of writers, editors, celebrities, politicians and media contacts. They had prepared name tags for everyone and even me, the nobody-intern, got one.

I like to think I mingled with the best of them. At least I think I did pretty well for an intern. The canapes were delicious. The drinks were flowing. And I was probably the only intern not downing glasses of champagne in the corner.

Late into the evening, I noticed a woman smiling at me from across the room. She said something to the people she was standing next to and they all looked over at me and smiled. Then she rushed over to me.

She introduced herself and said, “I love all your work.”

It was very clear she had had too much to drink and she was sort of swaying back and forth. So I thought she was talking about Reader’s Digest work in general, not my work. I smiled politely and said, ‘Thanks.”

She went on and on. “I just love everything you do.”

Then my editor at Reader’s Digest stepped in and whispered to me, “She thinks you’re Caitlin Moran.“

Now, at the time, I had no clue who that was. But I can see where someone who had too much to drink and only glanced at my name tag could be mistaken. After all, my name tag had my maiden name : Caitlin Marvin.

I don’t know if that woman ever realized that she was talking to an American intern and not her favorite columnist, Caitlin Moran. But I will always remember that night and how I wished one day I could be at one of those parties and someone would see my name, recognize it and tell me they liked something I wrote.

I never read The Times and although I have never forgotten that Christmas party incident, I hadn’t thought about it much. Until I saw that paper. It got me thinking all over again and wondering what is next for me and what’s out there for me.

I have to believe that there is something better out there. I have to believe that even if I have to travel in cramped trains and spend time and money doing it, where I’m going is worth it.

And I realized I couldn’t say that about my current job.

These two incidents reminded me of what I really wanted to do and what I would be happy doing. Now, do I think I am going to get a job as a columnist? No. But maybe I could get a job where I had more time to write. Or a job where I felt I was able to build on my skills. Maybe I could get a job where I actually felt good about myself and what I was doing.

So, that’s my news. Now it’s time for me to go elbow my way onto a train…

A lesson in city living

I don’t normally mind my commute. I get to read or listen to music. I read the free newspapers. Sometimes I do my makeup.

No one talks on the train in the morning. It’s just what’s done here. It’s perfectly quiet except for the odd sneeze and the whizzing of passing trains. Nobody looks at you. Some people sleep. Most people read or listen to their iPods. Taking the train can be really relaxing.

And no one really talks on the tube either. But it’s not as relaxing because you’re usually crammed on there with tons of people and you can’t even find a space on the pole to hold on to. And it’s not necessarily as quiet because there’s a lot more sneezes, coughs, too loud head phones and now, the most annoying thing, mobile phones that play music on speaker.

Although you may be pushed up against someone, there is no real human interaction. When someone sneezes, there’s no “Bless you.” When everyone can hear (and is visibly annoyed by) the loud music coming from a mobile phone, no one says anything. When a group of teenage boys take up a row of seats and throw their rubbish on the ground, people just look away.

This was something I had to get used to. I ride in the same train car every day with the same people and I have never said one word to any of them. Most days I sit across from the same man (it was my spot first!). When someone sneezes, I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at them.

Most days I just feel like a robot. I can’t even remember getting off the train and getting onto the tube. I know my stop by just looking at the clock. I very rarely notice that they’ve changed the ads in the station.

The sad thing about this is that people forget that is what we are…people. Last week, a girl passed out at the bottom of the escalators at Warren Street station…we all just moved around her as the TFL workers attended to her. Several people sighed and grunted as they passed, annoyed that they had to filter into a different escalator line.

And today…as I was rushing back to the office after lunch, my arm and another person’s arm hit as we passed each other on a very busy street. It hurt. It may have even been her big handbag. I apologize…a quick apology. The kind everyone seems to do here. The one that hardly means anything. The one you say when it isn’t even your fault…like this moment.

Suddenly I hear someone say very loudly, “Sorry!” It takes a second for it to register. I turn around and the woman is standing there, looking at me like I am a murderer. She is waiting for a proper apology. I say sorry again and turn away. As I turn into my office, I am stunned. And a little embarrassed because I don’t want anyone to think I am rude. And I do feel bad but I’m not sure why. I did say sorry. She hit me as much as I hit her.

On my way to Kings Cross to catch my train tonight, I was thinking of this. Why is it that no one can be nice when it matters? Why can’t someone offer a sympathetic smile when someone sneezes two times in a row? Why did this woman care so much that she stopped me and forced me to apologize again?

And then it hit me. Maybe she is just feeling how I am feeling! Tired of being invisible. Tired of the hustle & bustle… which always sounds great when you talk about it at Christmas time or read about it in tour books…but really, “hustle & bustle of the city” is overrated. Maybe she is tired of people bumping into each other and not making a sincere apology.

But then I thought…we may be feeling the same way but the next time I sneeze, I am not going to turn to the man next to me and demand he says, “Bless you.” She went about it all wrong.

And this just got me all upset again. And I only got more upset as I entered Kings Cross and saw the crowds of people. More pushing, shoving, more “excuse me’s” and “sorry’s” even when no one is listening. I finally make it to the small grocery store in the station. I needed to pick something up for dinner. Of course, the store is packed and people are grabbing food off the shelves like they are stocking up for war time and the line is wrapped around the fresh vegetable section.

While I’m debating over mild or medium cheddar, I hear the woman next to me say, “Don’t steal that.”

And when you hear something like that, you just have to look. There was the young, spotty teenage boy looking sheepish by the boxed sandwiches. He takes the sandwich out of his bag and goes to put it back on the shelf but the security guard has already seen him. Too late.

A look of panic spreads across the boy’s face. The security guard calls out to another security guard. The boy looks from the security guard to the woman to the door. And then the boy starts to cry.

The woman takes the sandwich off the shelf and grabs a bag of crisps. “Do you want a drink too?”

The boy and the security guard look at her as if she’s crazy. We all do. I am surprised she hasn’t already left the scene to continue shopping. And then she turns to the security guard.

“It’s not stealing if I buy it for this young man.”

The security guard shrugs and steps back. The woman passes the food to the boy and places £10 in his hand.

He wipes the tears away and says he’s just so hungry. He thanks her as the guard takes him to the cash registers.

A few minutes later, the boy runs back over to the woman. He hands her the change and thanks her over and over again. He thanks the security guard and the guard shows him out.

The woman looks at me and we smile. And then she shrugs and says, “We’re all hungry sometimes.”

And it made me smile all the way home. Every once in awhile, in this big city, among the hustle & bustle, you get a glimpse of life…and it is meaningful and purposeful and most of all, very real.

These boots were made for walking…(but not the kind of boots I wear)

It is officially Spring and England decided to start acting like it. Which would normally be a great thing. The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, the sun is actually shining…

Except it means I no longer get a ride to the train station.

I’ve been dreading this. Three weeks ago it starting to feel a bit like Spring and Scott announced, “I’m going to be riding my bike again soon.” And I got that feeling in my stomach…the feeling that says, You better start planning outfits that go with your sneakers.

Luckily the bike tires had gone flat (and no, I didn’t do it!) so he had to push his cycling plans back a bit. Then the next week it snowed and yes! I was guaranteed a warm and dry ride to the station.

But then I knew I was in trouble on Sunday when he took his bike out of our bedroom where it has been stored for the winter (yes, our bedroom! How I despise this bike!). He took it outside, pumped the tires and rode around the block. And I knew then that on Monday, I’d be wearing those New Balances.

Sunday night, I set my alarm, allowing plenty of time to get ready and walk to the station in time to make my train. I had come to terms with the idea. I was ready for it.

But on Monday morning, when Scott’s alarm was going off before mine, I knew something was wrong. All wrong. I forgot to change the clock on my phone for Daylight Savings and therefore had slept in! I jumped up and scrambled to get dressed. I was not ready for this!

Scott was peacefully resting in bed and I had the sudden urge to put on my “feel sorry/guilty/bad for me” face and beg for a ride. But I held my head high and resisted.

Surprisingly, I got to work just a few minutes late.

Last night as we were getting ready for bed, I was deliberating over what jeans to wear. Scott asked what the issue was.

I began to explain that only certain jeans go with certain shoes. And because I am being forced to wear good walking shoes, I can only wear certain jeans that are just the right length.

To this, Scott looked flabbergasted (don’t you love that word?).

Scott: What do you mean you can only wear certain jeans? What are you talking about?
Me: Well, I wanted to wear those jeans but they are too short when I wear those shoes. I can only wear those with flats.
Scott: Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you care what you look like when you’re commuting? Just wear your trainers [sneakers for us yanks] and bring another pair of shoes.
Me: I don’t want to have to change out of socks and sneakers when I get on the train! Too much hassle.
Scott: So wear the flats then.
Me: But I’ll get shin splints if I have to walk such a distance in flats!!!

This went on for a few minutes until Scott announced he was going to sleep, therefore the conversation was finished.

But it’s true. It is a predicament for me. And causes me extra hassle in the morning. Not to mention that I have to get up earlier while Scott gets to sleep in later.

Grrr.

So it looks like I’ll be walking from now on. Unless of course it rains…in which case I do get a ride. Or if it snows…and let’s face it, this is England. Weather is unpredictable.

Maybe there’s still hope.

Leaving on that midnight train…to Hatfield

It’s almost midnight and I have only just arrived home after a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I should have known that when they said England would experience 80 mph gale force winds, it would be a bad day. I should have pulled the covers back over my head and called in sick. But no…I got up and dressed and dried my hair (what was I thinking???) and stood on the train platform with all the other suckers as horizontal rain pelted us in the back. The train took forever and Kings Cross was closed due to a power failure. So I followed every other poor soul down the steps to Finsbury Park station where I waited for 15 minutes for a semi-empty tube. Then when I exited the Warren Street station, my umbrella blew inside out and snapped. Don’t you hate when that happens?

God was practically insisting I turn around and head back home. But I pressed on and made it to work in…well, a disheveled state but let’s face it, no one was looking their best this morning.

Because I work in a basement and never get to see daylight…I had no idea just how bad the winds had gotten. But when we ventured out for lunch and were standing at the crosswalk, the wind blew by and ripped a billboard off the side of the building and threw it into the street, causing cars to swerve and people to run for shelter.

The weather got worse and it soon became clear I wasn’t going to be getting home at my normal hour. Instead, I left work at 5:45 and made my way to Kings Cross to face the music.

Every train, on every line out of the city had been cancelled. And every tube line was experiencing severe delays as well. Scott was on his way into the city for a work party in South London so I couldn’t rely on him to save me. I contemplated calling my parents and seeing if they could get me a hotel room at the Victory Services Club with their military discount. Or maybe I could just call for some sympathy.

I stood in front of the electronic boards…waiting, hoping, wishing the train to Hatfield would suddenly appear to be “on time” or at least, “delayed.” Anything but “cancelled.”

No such luck. An hour later, and with no more fingernails to chew off and just one more bar of battery left on my ipod, a train to Cambridge was announced. And then they said they’d be stopping everywhere before Cambridge. There was a mad rush to platform 1 and I managed to secure a spot standing by the door. Just as the doors were closing, a man squeezed on and positioned himself right in front of me. He was so close I could count his ear hair. Of course I didn’t because that’s disgusting. But I could have if I wanted to.

The train slowly worked its way up London and stopped outside New Barnet. Then the driver came on, “Uuuhhh…ladies and gentlemen…uuuhhh…um.” Not a good sign.

“There seems to be a tree that has fallen across the tracks.” He explained that he would need to turn the train around and take us back to London.

I felt like screaming, “Not London! No, please! Let me off here! I’ll walk across the fields. I’ll risk getting electrocuted on the train lines. Help!”

We crept back towards New Barnet and the train came to a stop. The doors opened and we fell out onto the platform. There we were, 15 miles from Kings Cross and about 15 miles from Hatfield. I was stuck right in the middle with no trains running in either direction.

We all migrated to the bus stop outside the station and about 30 minutes later, a bus showed up and the driver announced that he was going to all stations to Welwyn Garden City. Great! That’s me!

Then we all discover that the driver does not have a clue where he is going! An hour and a half later, I set foot in Hatfield. Home sweet home.

Until I actually get home and see that the tiles from the roof of our building have been ripped off and are littered all over the parking lot.

Oh well, at least we live on the ground floor.

For more on the crazy weather we are having here, read this.