The Former PA

The Brink

2009-03-29T22:37:00.009+01:00

After many costume changes and much discussion, we finally arrived at The Brink at 8.30pm, just as the after work crowd were leaving.

Spread over three floors, the (self-proclaimed) Amsterdam-styled bar was the height of sophistication that year. In light of this, we all adopted a suitably sophisticated pose and grabbed the first empty table we could find.

Being as it was a mini-celebration, BFF volunteered to get the first round of drink(s).

“One coke, three straws” BFF asked the barman, with his best butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. It was not quite up to countering the look of sheer venom that the barman threw him. Undeterred nonetheless, BFF soon returned to the table with our drink(s).

With a vain attempt at retaining a sophisticated air, we all tucked into our drink(s), whilst BFF returned to the reason for celebration:

“Now JB, the thing to remember when on TV you always need to know which camera is pointing at you and look into that camera, thus getting the audience on side with you. It’s a tip I picked up when singing with Sister Sledge.” At which point MPG and I rolled our eyes at each other. BFF had once appeared on stage at The Ice Box with Sister Sledge. Having attained a thirty second slot on Breakfast TV the following morning, BFF was now the resident “expert” on all things television.

“I’ll make sure I remember that.” I dutifully replied, “but I still haven’t received confirmation that it’s taking place yet.”

The rather arch barman chose this moment to swoop and retrieve the glass (three straws) and swished back to the bar in a frenzied huff. Every Monday, the barmen at The Brink were new and for one day only were quite sweet, as the week progressed they grew more and more special and over-confident with every passing hour. As today was a Thursday, the barman was at his worst, still we figured he only had three more days to go, so we chose to ignore his moodiness and hold out for another fifteen minutes or so before buying another drink(s).

Just as MPG had conceeded defeat and was about to go to the bar, a group of people walked into the bar, all dressed very smartly. Amongst them was the dark haired girl from the Channel 3 waiting room.

“Don’t look now,” I say to BFF and MPG in an urgent whisper, “but that girl in the black and white herringbone jacket is the scary-looking girl from the interview waiting room.”

As if sensing me looking, the girl turned her head and spotted me. To my surprise she made an excuse and broke away from her friends and made her way over to our table.

“Hi, weren’t you at the interview today?” she asked me, and as I nodded she extended her hand and introduced herself: “my name’s Emily.”

“Pleased to meet you Emily,” I replied, “I’m JB and these are my friends Edward and Pip – but we just call him MPG, because he hates his name.” I reciprocated, realising too late that I was gabbling.

“Hi” say MPG and BFF.

“What did you think about the interview today?” Emily continued, “did you realise that we were going to be on TV?”

“No I didn’t, did you?” I replied.

“No me neither, I just replied to an advert in Crème – how about you?”

“The same,” I said, “wasn't it strange? Did they tell you when we were going to hear what happens next?”

“They only told me that they would call me with more details.” Emily replied.

At this very point, as if by magic, both our mobiles rang simultaneously. We both reached for our phones to see Channel 3 on the caller ID.

Back at the Ranch

2009-03-23T00:03:00.008Z

"Oh my God, so it wasn’t an interview for a job, it was to be on a TV show?” exclaimed my BFF, later that evening back at home in Niagara Close. “So what did you do?”

“Well, since I’d already signed their release form, what else could I do but go ahead with it?” I replied.

“So you’re going to be a TV star?” asked my other flatmate MPG, eyes wide with delight.

“I guess so.” I replied, not quite as convinced of this as my friend. Then as the realisation dawns on us at what’s just happened we all chorus:

“COOL!!!” Our favourite phrase du jour, stolen from some annoying child we met once at a club in Hoxton Square, who said ‘cool’ unrelentingly to anything and everything anyone said the whole night long. Ironically at this time Hoxton Square was anything but, though in fairness the club was quite ‘happening’.

“So what happens next?” asked BFF.

“Well if I understood them correctly, and that’s not guaranteed, everyone who was there this morning goes into the next round.” I replied.

“So what were the others like” asked MPG, eager as ever for details, well one detail alone. “Was there anyone cute?”

“Well there was this terrifyingly efficient-looking brunette girl, some ditsy-looking blond girl, aged around 12, then a scarily intense guy who was dressed head to toe in black who was just too cool for school. “ I answered.

“Was he cute?” asked BFF

“Well, not exactly, he was too over-styled to be cute. However, there was one other guy there." I continued, "He was relatively young and very handsome in a Latin-lover kind of way.”

“Ooh, did you have Eye-Sex?” interrupted the irrepressible MPG, (Eye-Sex being his phrase for making eyes at each other, most usually across a crowded tube train).

“I hope it was Safe-Eye-Sex” uttered BFF in his best chaste, faux-Quaker voice.

“Girls, with my glasses you know it was safe – but I think the glasses are more Femidom to contact lenses’ condom.” I replied. “But who’s talking eye-sex? I was way too nervous to concentrate on anything other than not having a dodgy stomach.”

Despite this, MPG did have one final question: “Did he have a big cock? Or were you too ‘distracted’?”

“MPG!!” both BFF and I exclaimed in unison in mock horror.

Then I relent: “Okay, I didn’t get a complete view, but his trousers did suggest that even you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

MPG looked ecstatic, feigning a swoon worthy of any of Jane Austen’s heroines, (who would more-likely have dropped dead of shock at the preceding conversation). MPG however quickly recovered and declared: “We should go out and celebrate! To The Brink?”

“To The Brink!” BFF and I replied.

The Interview

2009-03-22T23:36:00.009Z

We leave the waiting room and walk down an endless rabbit warren of corridors. I feel like I should be dropping markers so that I can find my way back again. By now my nerves are really kicking in.

After what feels like thirty minutes, but is probably only ten, we arrive at the door to the interview room. Just before he sends me into the room, Peter, the guide turns to me, hands me his clipboard and says:

"Oh JB, just before you go in, can you sign this release form".

I'm a bit baffled by this, but say "Okay" and take the clipboard and, I put this down to nerves as much as naivety, I sign the form and hand the clipboard back to Peter.

Peter then holds the door for me and with a "good luck" sends me in to face the interview panel. They look more like a firing squad rather than a hiring squad, but I march bravely across the room to the chair in front of their long desk. Then I notice that there are cameras everywhere, I think I count at least two on the panel and one, maybe two more facing me. I know the job is in TV, but surely this is ridiculous?

The most senior member of the panel then addresses me in a rather severe tone:

"Please tell us your name and briefly why you think you are the right person to be on this TV show."

"I beg your pardon," I reply. "I thought the interview was to be a PA for Channel 3?"

"Actually, no, we are making a reality TV show and you're in it." Replies the chief interviewer.

Err, hang on a moment, can someone get me the Trading Standards People? Since when did my replying to a job advert to be someone's PA mean that I wanted to take part in a TV show?

The Waiting Room

2009-03-22T18:35:00.008Z

I had expected to wait for ages before I heard anything. How wrong I was. Having posted the letter everything suddenly zoomed forwards, a mere two days after making the application, I got a call asking me to come in for interview the following Tuesday.

So barely a week after sending out my CV, I found myself sat in a generic waiting room at Channel 3 with 4 other candidates. All of us were nervous. None of us were talking. I don't know who was setting up the interviews, but a more diverse set of people I could not imagine.

First of all there was I, sat wearing a pin striped suit with white shirt and (admittedly rather 80s) red "power" tie. (At that time I hadn't quite grasped the dress code for TV). Initially I wasn't feeling too confident, until I surveyed my competition.

Opposite me sat a young looking girl who was a walking emoticon: her blonde hair was tied in bunches and she had on stacked trainers with white tights, a pink tutu and a pink t-shirt with a large red sparkly heart on the front in sequins. Her eyeshadow was pale blue and she was sucking a lollipop in the best school-girl manner. I just knew she had a fluffy topped pencil in a luridly coloured, furry pencil case in her silver baby back-pack. She looked about as professional as Baby-Spice.

Next to her was an equally "professional" looking androgynous man. He was gamine dressed head to toe in black, topped off with a bright red patterned ethnic skull cap. The whole look was finished with a goatee beard, some very severe round glasses and a well-worn copy of Kafka in his hand.

On the same side of the room as me was a much more likely candidate. She was an extremely well dressed woman of 25 or so. She was wearing terrifying secretary chic: tight black pencil skirt, tight pin-striped blouse (at least I wasn't on my own with the pin stripes!) black fishnet stockings and black patent high-heels, which bordered on the S&M Madam. Her glossy chestnut brown hair was tied in a professional chignon and she was wearing the archetypal seductress red lipstick and tortoiseshell glasses. Did I say I was feeling more confident? Well I was petrified of her.

The final candidate was sat on his own on the left hand wall. I shan't beat around the bush - he was absolutely gorgeous! Swarthy dark brooding looks, with curly black hair. Full lips and a body to-die-for, he was just far too sexy to have walking around any office, you would never get a stroke of work done.

I snapped out of my reverie as an assistant came into the room, carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset. I had only a moment to think that he looked looked more like a runner than an executive, when he called out:

"JB? Can you follow me please", so follow I did.

Shipwrecked

2009-03-19T23:54:00.014Z

I never wanted to be a PA, but I didn't want to be unemployed either. Graduating in a recession, I was six months searching for a job before I took the first job that came along, that of Junior PA in the booking office of an upmarket cruise line. Whilst the job was far from ideal, it did have two things going for it. First it was a job (hello!), second it was in London. I was delighted.

Now let's be honest, aside from being employed and being in Central London the job was hardly my dream job. I was in my twenties and my idea of hell was being stuck on a cruise ship with a bunch of old people. Yet despite this, I soon rose to the dizzying heights of Senior PA.

The only time the job was actively fun was at travel shows, when it was all hands on deck (pardon the pun) and everyone manned the stand. Then you could use the line which never grew old: "Can I interest sir in a cruise?" or to add a little variety to the day: "Does sir like cruising?"

Three years into the job, I found myself trapped. Despite having a degree in business, I did not have either enough qualifications or experience to get another job, except within the cruise industry. Something radical had to happen, but when that something appeared it came as quite a shock.

My boss returned from a business trip to head office in Germany with the totally unexpected news that our London office was being shut down. What was I going to do? Please save me from another job in the cruise industry. But worse still than that - please let me get another job!

I did not know where to turn, job hunting filled me with terror. At that time I had not heard of recruitment agencies, I thought that job adverts were the only way. As luck would have it, my BFF (Best Friend Forever) stepped in, he had seen an advert in that day's Times. The advert was very brief:

Do you have what it takes to be a successful PA? If so write to Patricia Scott, Channel 3 TV, London, enclosing CV.

On the downside the job asked for a PA (again), on the plus side it was in TV. What did I have to lose? So that very evening I sent off my CV and covering letter and crossed my fingers.