#bridgetbythebridge

#muchadoaboutnothing

 

This past week, I stood, my face moistened by the salty liquor of pink skin suffocated in BB cream, mineralised paint and shimmering dust. I stood, my womanly curves, straightened between the stays of our 21^st century answer to whalebone and linen; elastic control-topped strangulating hose. I stood; my Raphaelite curls immobile, gleaming with glistening something and super-hold something else. I stood, I felt the cool air waft over my humid skin, cool air, emanating from the rhythmic beat of paper waving the still, tepid air suspended in the back passage of London’s National Theatre. I stood, breathing in that cool air, watching that paper beat out the pulse of a strong male hand, the strong male hand of Benedict Cumberbatch. #bridgetmeetbenedict

 

Posh Accoutrements

 

This past week, I had the tremendous fortune of attending the National Theatre Bright Young Things Gala. I say tremendous fortune because it cost me almost as much as a return flight to Sydney. I say tremendous fortune because The Critique offered me the seat, a seat left vacant at the very last of last minutes. I say tremendous fortune because I moved about a room filled with heroes and heroines, even a Hera. Yes, Billie Piper, who brought to life Shakespeare’s nubile dolly-bird in a BBC produced version of Much Ado About Nothing shared her fire-bin ashtray with me.

Cinderella’s preparations for the ball began the weekend before.

A trip to the West End to lay down at the altar of Karolina, Duchess of Depilation, an hour with Maria the Manicurist and an entire afternoon with David of Essex, the Magician behind the mop of non-pubic curls. That same weekend, an entire day was spent sweating, huffing and puffing in the fitting rooms at John Lewis, attempting, in vain, to find something that wasn’t jeans and a T-shirt that might optimise the visual impact of the flesh and bones attached to my cranium. Dresses were donned, shoes were shod and fantastical jewels of polymer and plastic were strung together upon thinnest nylon to adorn the overflowing prow of the good ship Bridget. #muttondressedasspam

Finally, the big day arrived.

Have you ever tried to shove a sleeping bag inside its nylon sheath? Have you ever made homemade pork sausages? Have you ever trussed a Christmas Turkey? Have you ever sewn a strap, and then used a large safety pin to turn the fabric inside of itself? I’m now certain I employed a unique combination of all these skills, and some ancient voodoo, to get myself inside of the Spanx Tights and the fully lined, floor length jersey dress I wore to meet with the most famous cheekbones since Linda Evangelista didn’t get out of bed for less than ten grand. 

Arriving, as per usual, uncomfortably earlier than the only other person I knew, as in, person I knew in real life not just off the telly, I had to wander in front of the entrance for a few minutes. Rather than casually check my phone, or stare wistfully into the oncoming traffic, I chose instead the far more glamorous “slam into someone very famous while you try to extricate your cigarettes and your lighter from your too-tiny very-fancy going out clutch” move. I have no doubt that Damian Lewis, our dearly departed Nicholas Brody of Homeland, found the top of my head thumping into his shoulder as exciting as watching Claire Danes grimace for the past 3 years.

The Critique did finally arrive and we entered the mystical, ivy-coated corridors at the back of the theatre, today made over to resemble the secret garden where Titania wooed Bottom; that, or a very posh Surrey backyard. We sipped on something that is apparently British, and also sparkling white wine. Not Champagne, and not quite nice, but bubbly and alcoholic and I’m going to get my money’s worth and drink whatever they proffer. #youcantakethegirloutofparis 

I sipped, I stood, I stared, I laughed at the right times and made the right comments and holy-fucking-shit Kit Harrington just said excuse me to me! Jon Snow, who can take down a Dragon, a White Walker and Ygritte with only half his arm, can’t walk past me unless I turn to the side. Not sure if that is a good thing but I now have at least one actual famous person who has said something to me.

Then I saw Benedict.

 

Look very closely...

 

I saw him, I realised I could stand, in my little wedge heels and look straight into his eyes and became decidedly underwhelmed. #theyalwaysseemtallerontv The Critique, who is better at this game than I, managed a whole conversation with him. I managed to gape, gawp and gurn. Then we heard him speak.

How is it that a man can tell a story involving pissing in a shower and still sound ethereal? Still sound like his every vowel was spun from honey and brandy and cigar smoke… and a shitload of money? Could it be that all my lefty, pinko, commie values go speeding off into the sunset as quickly as my elastic torture knickers as soon as a perfectly rounded ‘good evening’ is emitted from the lips of a well spoken man? Is it only the well spoken that weaken the resolve of this hardened, tired and angry wench of the western suburbs? Am I incapable of fancying anyone that cannot whisper a sonnet and use the word shall in a sentence? Is my inherently downstairs self, coveting an elevated upstairs life? Am I only attracted to #poshtotty ?

That evening saw me discussing the potential outcome of the Scottish referendum, the social impact of Australia’s resource-based economy and the different responses to recent terrorist incidents in the Middle East. I did feel uncomfortable, because of the stupid pants, but I was sitting around a table of people who had things to say and that helped me think a little less of the Herculean Trial required each time I needed to pee.

Cinderella kicked off her slippers back home in the Material Mansion, alone, shortly after midnight. She washed her face and combed down the curls ready for another day slaving over Outlook. She had one night at the ball, and then, she went back to work.

 

“Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me”

Act 1, Scene 3 

 

In need of a magnifying glass? Sherlock & Moriarty

 

#oneandonly

A few weeks back, my fleshy, dimply thighs bore a striking resemblance to two stamped hams; two pink triangular trapeziums of human woman, each branded with an identical violet diamond high and centre, looking much like Christian Grey might have had a go at me with a mallet.

But we all know... I am just not that lucky.

I’m the girl who gets laughed at, the girl who stands out, the girl who is more often than not the butt of the joke; likely a joke about butts. I’m the girl who makes jokes about herself to take the sting out of yours. I’m the girl who writes a blog about how awkward and unfortunate she is, an antidote for her tears. I am the girl who cries wolf so that my voice louder than yours. I’m the girl that spends a day outdoors and bruises like a peach. 

In order to keep this light and breezy, we’ll focus on just how stupid I am, a stupidity that has left my fleshy envelope permanently marked from head to toe. 

The first time I ever went on a team-building day away, I was left with scars on the undersides of my feet. The delicate pads under my toes were shredded by the sharp razor sharp edges of oyster shells. At Planet Hollywood, being part of a team required the ability to walk through shallow water, at 3am, wearing only your swimsuit, inky dark water hiding the fertile oyster beds below. 

Recognising the searing pain in my toes, fearful that the leaking blood might attract rather more carnivorous marine life, I flung myself backward and raised the injured foot as high as I could without sinking. (Go on, picture it, and piss yourself laughing, I would.) Blinded by panic, I flung myself backward directly onto the oyster shells and simultaneously cut open my palms and lacerated my butt cheeks.

Two days on a houseboat in Cronulla, already feeling vulnerable because I was the only girl wearing a swimsuit rather than a triangle bikini, vulnerable because my skin quickly turned red while everyone else bronzed and honeyed, vulnerable because being witty and clever isn’t really useful when you’re stuck on a boat in the middle of the harbour with 10 oafs and 5 strumpets, I returned home with a permanent reminder of just how much of a team player I was, a silver wishbone under my middle left toe.

After Bruce’s Burger Joint I moved into the Cathedral of Colourful Coffee. 

Determined to prove my love for the Sage Siren and her Caffeinated Concoctions, I actually had a starring role in a 2-day adventure in the Hunter Valley, on a farm, under the sun, crawling with spiders, infested with snakes and no less than an hour from the nearest trained medical professionals.

The various attendees would be blessed, as they were welcomed onsite. I, dressed as an Ethiopian Farm Women, brewing and brazing coffee over an open fire, would bless them. I would recite a poem recounting the magical powers of coffee, they would laugh at me, we’d all get changed into our outdoors wear and go orienteering. Halle-fucking-ujah, coffee is so magical it will help you overcome the pain of being paid pennies per hour to wake up at stupid o’clock and spend your days blending dairy fat with sugar and ice for the Arabella’s and Nigel’s of the Eastern Suburbs.

Not so much a team building away day, as an opportunity to consume one’s body weight in alcohol was a weekend spent on Queensland’s Gold Coast. Now working, as I was, for an entrepreneur, the rules that a large American outfit followed to a T were thrown aside in favour of better booze and cleaner coke. That trip broke my favourite shoes and my spirit. A few months later I left the country. 

Welcomed into the Silicon sleeve of high technology, where profits soar and share prices skyrocket to the beat of an avaricious generation, team days take on a more challenging, ever more athletic level. The valley is a place where one proves just how dedicated one is by pushing one’s body to the outer limits. One doesn’t drink, one hydrates. One doesn’t sleep, one restores. One doesn’t belong, one is.

Be it hours spent riding through a forest facing into glacial winds, scaling an indoor wall, descending a mountain or crawling through mud, I sweat, I swear, and I muse on the fact that I was explicitly employed for my intellectual capacity not gymnastic flexibility. I wonder at why I must prove that I am Bear Grylls to be accepted.

If I had ever remotely imagined that I was skilled enough in adventurous pursuits, I would have pursued a career as a Bungee Jump Instructor, or as a National Park Ranger, or as a Fucking Crocodile Hunter. I chose to become a Human Resources Professional because I value my human resources; I value them so much I prefer to keep them on level flat ground well away from wildlife, nature and any kind of soil that wasn’t fabricated by a Michelin starred chef.

I propose we spend a day analysing the relevant merits of Shakespeare’s comedies. Perhaps we could experiment with a sitting in a meeting room, discussing the political fallout of taking military action against religious fanatics or gun enthusiasts? How about a team day discussing the historical and cultural significance of sites visited during a holiday spent somewhere other than Bali or Hawaii or Ibiza? 

 

Drinking this might help..

Maybe I’m not cut out to be part of a team, maybe I can’t blend in, maybe my loud voice was made to be heard, maybe I’m the one and only, maybe I’m just meant to be by myself because I was given too much to say, too much to think about and not enough ways of using the word awesome in a sentence. 

Maybe, just maybe, I really like me, and I really like you, and really like that we’re different, and that really is Ok.