Settling in

I'm bored of this already. Kez must be worried that I'm going to steal her job away from her because she gets to the phone before I can even lift my finger to push the button and she volunteers for everything. It's sweet in a way but she's making me look lazy. There's still plenty for me to do but every time a boss walks past Kez is looking busy and I'm just sitting staring intently at my screen. Although I pull a pretty good "I'm busy" face, Kez nearly blew my cover by shrieking "Oh they're pretty!" as I was Ebaying a pair of shoes earlier. A boss type was walking past and looked over. I felt like a fat schoolgirl caught stealing biscuits.

Being a receptionista at a TV company means talking to telly people who are mainly wankers. A gentleman caller came in at lunchtime when Kez was out getting the sandwiches and stood expectantly at the desk while I emailed off some forms to security- I know, what glamour! Being the professional I am I looked up and said hello and asked him who he was here to see. He told me and I replied that I'd be right with him as soon as I had typed this short email. He tutted, tapped his fingers and after what must have been three milliseconds of waiting said "God, could you type any slower?" I looked up, smiled from ear to ear and said "I'm sure I could, sir, would you like me to try?" This could have gone either way, but luckily for me, after he frowned for a few seconds he laughed, apologised for being a grump and said he'd wait in the seating area. I made sure he got fresh coffee as he waited for the fat bastard he'd come to see to come and get him.

It seems as if my arrival here has caused something of a stir among the various delivery men and couriers that come and go each day. This is quite usual wherever I go- not because I am stunningly beautiful but just because the receptionist I'm standing in for is usually so sick of their sexist remarks, pathetic jokes and chronic halitosis that she talks to them only in grunts and is generally a frosty bitch to them. A bit of new blood means that they can recycle their jokes and try a bit of friendly repartee with a woman who isn't their wife. I play the game for a while- it can break up the day and they're harmless enough really- but it does eventually get boring. Today we had a delivery for one of the researchers, whose surname is Mycock. Now, I realise that this is kinda funny in a puerile way for a second or two but surely once the joke has been made, that's all there is to be said. Not so with bearded pusball of a delivery guy, who stood and leered for what must have been 5 whole minutes chortling at the name, making references to his own deformed and- naturally- huge member and generally being a prick. Kerenza was in stitches the whole time so the guy thought he had a captive audience. Strangely, when the Mycock in question- 25 years old, 6' 6" and built like a rugby player- came down to collect his parcel, the delivery guy's face soon changed and suddenly the joke didn't seem very funny any more.

All change

I spent Tuesday licking my wounds after what I guess was a sacking. Poor Donna phoned in floods of tears at my removal and has confirmed that Pam is a good friend of her mum's, so that's one little mystery sorted. And do I care? No! The poisonous bitches have done me a favour because now I've got an even better job.

I'm back across town working for a TV company. It's a two week assignment with the possibility of longer. The last receptionist went to go travelling and everyone's so busy they didn't have time to recruit a new one. I can see why- the last one was so shit she probably spent her last month frantically trying to cover up some of the mess she'd made and by the wrinkles on her supervisor's face, she wasn't entirely successful. Yet again I'm sharing reception duties but this time it's OK because like me she's a temp. I reckon I could be in for a long haul because Kerenza (yes, that's her name) has been here for three months and is loving it. Famous-ish people have been trooping through the doors at a rate of knots since I started yesterday, which excites Kez no end. She's your typical slavish Heat reader who gobbles up every bit of celebrity gossip she can. She spent half an hour yesterday extolling the virtues of Paris Hilton's new single and when a middle aged D list TV presenter asked her is she could call him a taxi she practically slipped into a diabetic coma so I see \i'll have to watch her . She's harmless, though.

The thing about TV people- the guys especially- is that they're really full of themselves. For some reason, TV still has some glamour attached to it even though in London every other person you meet a party is "in TV" or "putting money together for a film". I've already had someone over giving it the big flirt technique- asking my name, if I know anybody here already, telling me we'll catch up later. Sounds harmless enough I know but he must have touched his crotch a hundred times and he was leaning so far over my desk I could smell in minute detail what he's had for lunch and what washing powder he used. Usually in the first few days I lap this up and encourage it but I've had a hard week, there's a lot to sort out thanks to the inept young lady here before me and I'm not on the market anyway so I just nodded for a bit and then went back to my work while he was mid sentence.

The offices are super modern, the telephone systems fully functional, chair is less than a year old, desk space is huge, air con is on and delivery men are suitably reverent. I think I'm going to like it here.