Posted by: Vicky V | April 24, 2009

Anyone for dominoes?

I finished the week looking the bad side of heroin chic after spending most of Thursday night returning the filing to its former alphabetical glory.

Office cock-ups aside, it’s generally quite exhausting being me at the moment. I’m up at seven every morning for my early morning exercise. I still haven’t worked out how best to swim non-competitively so I am running on the pavements where I can legitimately overtake people on the basis that they are just on their way to work and not competing with me. Although one man called me a passive aggressive “dipstick” (haven’t heard that word since 1989) for hovering behind him as I tried to overtake. I don’t have a social life because I’m spending most evenings remedying my mistakes and everyone at work thinks I’m a nincompoop. Everything I’m doing is completely counter intuitive, not least arriving at work at what feels like lunchtime (see rule 1). I may be keeping to the rules but I feel like an interloper, an outsider, a very tired shreddie in a box of weetabix.

Cream horn must have sensed this steaming self pity because, with a click of her talons, she summoned me to meet the rest of the office. It felt a bit like when Sharon Marconi, leader of the hip gang at school, invited me to her house party on the condition that I didn’t wear my aubergine tank top and lace-up shoes. I made a mental note to call Marconi, who I hadn’t spoken to for 14 years, and say “whatever Marconi, I bet you’re laughing on the other side of your face now that tanks and lace-ups are totally on trend”. In Zoolander’s voice.

On second thoughts, maybe I’d just tell Suze about my insight later.

Back to office introductions. First came Zack who I only waved at in his massive glass office. Just as well there was a barrier between us otherwise I might have licked his gorgeous, 40 year old face. He co-founded Strike with Patsy, and manages some of the models. I shall call him The Domino for all his well tailored right angles and dark features. And he is most certainly a player in the game of women. He winked at me. There was a spark.

The smaller office next door to his is shared by two managers. The first specialises in male models and is called Sophia. Her name is pronounced “Sophyarrrrr”, she looks like a horse, sounds like a horse and hereinafter shall be known as Mare. The second is Detroit, who specialises in female models. He has Danny DeVito’s tummy, Gok Wan’s quiff and a satchel like the one I used to own at school. In. Your. Face, Sharon Marconi. I shall call him The Gun because he pumped my hand so much it hurt.

Out in the open plan area is Bernard, who is the office runner. As his name suggests, he is flagellated looking and pale of face. His legs look like they’ve been whittled into points because his skinny jeans are wrapped so tightly around his pale little ankles.

Absent from the office this week are Karen and Ben, bookers and scouts for the new talent, or “Future Faces” department. Apparently Karen has picked up some kind of worm in St Barts. Cream horn said it was caused by a toxic fig but even I know you can ingest a special kind of worm that eats all the food in your stomach and makes you lose weight. I know this because my brother Spike tried to slip one into my chilli con carne last Christmas. I know it didn’t work because I put on a stone over the holidays. Spike is a tool.

Ben sprained both his ankles water skiing.

Don’t these people do anything normal like play badminton or visit their Grandma in Anglesey for Easter?

Cream horn said it wouldn’t do to have the whole of “Future Faces” out of action. She said Strike should be riding this competitive climate like a cowboy high on Wham Bars. Could I therefore pop down to London’s Alternative Fashion Week for a spot of scouting?

I really didn’t want to get into the business of working on someone else’s turf; I got badly burnt the last time. I will be filling you in on that shameful little story soon. But, my job at Strike was still precarious and I couldn’t afford to be fired. Not least by someone who looks like a pastry.

Down at Spitalfields, hub of Alternative Fashion Week, I did indeed spy a model. She looked interesting rather than beautiful. All pointy angles and alien eyes and quite unlike the girls whose portfolios I’d been filing away the night before.

I told her to approach the agency but, on no account, to say that I’d sent her.



  1. […] appointment book that Patsy and Karen were due to meet Lydia Markhova at Shoreditch House . Now Lydia is the chick I spied at Alternative Fashion Week some weeks ago. I felt an affinity with her because she looked like Dr Spock so I referred her to our website […]

  2. […] My model swimming buddy is called Ben who was absent when I first joined the company because of a water skiing accident. […]

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