Jesus Christ I was on the edge today. Today verged on the worst day ever in The Fish Tank.  It started off fairly well with a marathon sleep, followed by a walk to work in the pissing rain, yet I was still relatively chirpy by the time I finally swam up to The Tank....and then it all went downhill. 

No one would answer phones, I have a welt on my index finger from hitting the answer button "Good morning Nemo speaking!"...so at 12.20pm today the 26th of September in the year 2012, Nemo went on strike. Now when I say on strike I decided (in my head) that from that point until feeding time at the zoo 1pm, I would not answer the phone unless all four other individuals on the desk had answered and there was, quite literally, no one else to answer the phone except me. I SHALL NOT BE MOOOOOOVED.

So, not being satisfied with my attempt at de stroike, I felt that people really needed to know how I felt today.  Therefore throughout the afternoon, I:
- told my boss that I wasn't really a sales person at all
- told one of Flipper's helpers that I was in denial that I worked in any kind of tank
- announced really loudly that a bit of me died inside today and soon there'd be nothing alive inside, all dead, just black, dead eyes
- mouthed to one of the lads on the desk in full view of half the tank "I-hate-my-job!"
- snapped all the split ends on the left side of my head
- muttered under my breath every 30-40 minutes "I can't cope"
- told a work colleague to tell a customer who had phoned for me that I had jumped out the window, but if she wanted to leave a message, they'd pass it on should I survive
- sent crazy emails to my work buddies which I'm sure they've held on to as evidence of my psychotic behaviour should I lose the plot entirely
- downed tools at Levi Time(5.01 wha' wha'!) and ran out the door so fast I'd swear my feet did not touch the ground (and I'm not being cliched in saying that)

I'm wondering should I bother going in tomorrow at all!

It might surprise you to hear that Nemo is single 😆  Yes if you hadn’t already guessed by my reference to aged ovaries, my dream of the husband with the house and my free time to blog, let me set the record straight. Nemo is single. Now I don’t know if many of you folks are single or have been for some time, but do you find the “advice” offered a tad irritating and patronising??  I know it comes from a good place, but so too does Daniel O’Donnell and you wouldn’t clone him, now would ya?!  My two favourite are “Give him a chance, you might get to like him” and “Sure you work with tonnes of fellas in The Fish Tank, surely there are some great guys there?”  I’m a non-tank dater. I don’t do The Tank. I don’t believe in dipping the pen in the company ink (although I’m quite sure that’s a male phrase…that an ex said to me incidentally. Weird) It’s not an elitist thing, it’s more to do with the fact that I have an inability to deal with the unknown. If I hooked up with someone from The Fish Tank (well firstly I’d have to do a lot of searching, no disrespect WWs but…) I’d be able to cope with seeing him most days, with the morning after the night before, even with the “let’s not do this again” look, but I could not cope with all the other fish knowing that Nemo and Yer Felleh got together last night. God no!

Anyway, as it happens I’ve never had any problem with that whatsoever. No single Fish Tank resident has ever, ever made any kind of move on me! No SINGLE resident.  Ah yes, but I have to think every time I go to say the number of married residents who have.  At last count we are at six. Six! Six married fish have tried in some shape or form to get jiggy with Nemo.  Now, at last check I don't have "Mistress in the Making" tattooed on my forehead but it would seem I am more attractive to the not-so-attractive, older, married male fishies in The Tank.  Here's a run down of the six lucky suckers to date:

1. The boss. My first boss, 50s, bald, glasses, thin, smoked a pipe. I was about to turn 22, he told me my interview suit didn’t do anything for me, the clothes I was wearing right now were much better, then leaned over, put his hand on my knee and told me his wife didn't understand him and they were separating. I nearly vomited there on the spot.  I think when he saw me vomit on myself outside of the castle where we had our Christmas party, our potential relationship was doomed. Ach, what could have been… 

2. The “gentleman” who offered me a lift home after the Christmas party. I wouldn’t call myself naïve, but I would have called myself drunk and a cheapskate. After about 15 vodkas, a freebie lift from an oul fella from The Tank sounded like something my parents would commend me for.  He told me he thought I was as deep as the ocean and leaned over to lob the gob. I then knew that this was probably something I should not brag about to my parents (or colleagues or friends or therapist even!)

3. The newly married man (who incidentally was quite attractive, alas), asked me if my boobs were real and if I could prove it, then asked for a kiss.  The night continued with him trying to hold my hands under the table in front of a bar of friends from “the dark period in my life”. I can't say I wasn't tempted, but four months married seemed a tad early to be havin' it away with a work colleague...

4. The Penguin. About 5 foot tall, didn’t have much of a neck, wore a long floaty black rain coat, reminded me of the character from Batman from the way he laughed to the way he walked.  Concocted a story in his head that we’d “more than just pecked on the cheek” at a hotel room door, and asked to come in for coffee when dropping me to my rented accommodation after plying me with drink all night. I had to block this one out as I am quite sure there are many, many people in The Tank who, to this day, have heard Nemo had an affair with The Penguin. I can’t cope with the thought!!

5. The friend. Dedicated to his wife and children, spoke of them all the time, chastised me for being great fun on nights out, quiet and serious at work (never did understand it was the vodka that turned me into Fun Bobby!), cornered me with deep and meaningfuls every night we were out, when jokingly asked by the girls in a group “If you could shag anyone in The Tank, who would it be” refused to answer, but sidled up to me a couple of hours later with the random phrase “The answer is you" *roll eyes"

6. The shhhhhhleaze. Wavy hair, creepy eyes, followed and waited for me outside the toilets at a function in the actual tank, with Flipper and Flipper’s number two watching him. Eventually two people on his team came over to me and asked if I was OK and brought me over to their group...

I mean who can blame me? Crazy, older, married male fish groping at every angle.  No, no, for now I'll spread my fins further afield...and maintain my non-tank dating strategy.

I have decided to change Normal PT's name to Super PT because he has actual super powers.  Today I weighed in at an all time low. He said "This is your lowest Nemo, the lowest I have here on record" "Oh Super PT this is the lowest this body has on record, I think I was born, weighing in around 10 stone!" I shit you not  my friends, I never, ever remembering being anything under 10 stone. And today I hit 10 stone 8.5 pounds. Not bad for a 30 something single fish who on Feb 21st weighed in at 12 stone 7 piounds, eh?!

Yesterday I bit the bullet and hit the shops for that dreaded trip. Buying work suits. VOMIT!  You may remember a few months back I mentioned Flipper had told us to brush up, step up and pay up for some professional, corporate threads. And when I am (temporarily) released from the tank I'm expected to look oh so very professional indeed and that means suits.  So with all my running, eating less shite and training with Super PT, I now look like I'm dressing up in my father's suits!!

So off I trekked into town to buy two suits that fit me and do the job in demonstrating an air of professionalism at student prices. I arrived at Marks & Spencer, dying for a pee and therefore vowing I'd be in, tried on and bought in 20 minutes max.  I raced around the not-so-varied selection of work suits, grabbed three in two sizes, 14 and 12, and ran, very quickly (the pee!) into the changing rooms

I tried the 14 jacket, swimming on me. The 12 jackets fit perfectly.  I tried the 14 skirt, zipped it up and it dutifully fell to the ground. Too big so!  I tried the 12 skirt and it was weird, I think it looked too big, it just did not look right. I turned it this way and that way, I sat it on my hips, I sat it on my waist, nope this was not going to work. Oh for God's sake now I've just gone from being between a 14 and 16 to between a 14 and 12 and now a 12 doesn't look right either.  I had now forgotten about my need to pee and thought "Ah sure, just for the laugh..."  "Em excuse me, could I get this skirt in a size 10 please?" No sniggers or smirks, no "yeah right" eyes, um OK, this is kinda weird.  She returned with the skirt and I snuck back into the changing rooms. I took the skirt off the hanger, unzipped it, stepped into it and slipped it up. What? No rrrrrrrrripppp when it got to my arse? No sweat patches when I finally zipped it up?  No panic trying to figure out how I'd get out of it? No... eh what th... This is really strange, I've never felt this bef...eh I think this size 10 skirt fits me. It fits! It fits!  I got outta that skirt so fast I, I nearly peed!! I smiled cheerily at the fitting room attendant, I cooed at the snotty child in the way, I skipped over to the counter...."I'll have this size 12 jacket and size 10 skirt suit please", I beamed at the (male) cashier.

So I now own the first size 10 skirt since my 2nd year school uniform skirt when I was 13. (The fact that I continued to beat myself into it every school morning until I was 16 is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life.) OK so it's M&S and we know they're on the generous side but give me this - please.  I now hold four different sized skirts in my wardrobe, 10-16, all of which fit me, which is telling of the good old high street shops!  And Normal PT, I hereby pronounce you SUPER PT!!!!!!! You are a superhero!

I went out with the other tankers there last week. We were all sitting around a table of food and cheap wine pretending we were a random group of friends and not actually all working in The Fish Tank, in case the meeja (media) got wind of it and we end up with really unattractive photos of fish tankers in The Tankard Post boozin' and laughin' and acting the eejit alongside "Tankers in €40,000 Bond themed party".

The table was split down the middle right by me.  On the one side we had "management" and most of their brown nosers. The other side populated by the young ones and a few of the not so young who just did not fit in the other end.  It was ironic that I was straddling two sides of the table as the 30 something professional within me could have acted with a bit of decorum, laughed pleasantly at Flipper's jokes and stop slapping people's hands when they touched the bottle of red wine that I'd placed beside me; the young 'un within me could stay down the "boisterous end" being loud, boisterous and secretly giving two fingers to "management"...and yet the Nemo within me wanted to stand up on the table, strut down to one end, glare, then down the other end, stand tall and say "See you boys tomorrow - suckerrrrrs".  Alas I did none of the above, but I did enjoy picking up the many titbits from the ridiculous conversations that were being had:

"Fishy was conceived that weekend we all went to Donegal" (Did we need to know this?)
"You've got a great poker face Nemo, I can never tell what you're thinking" (before spilling a pint of cider all over my trousers)
"So, you have your new girlfriend on a 3 month rollover" (Married fish to mid 30s fish)

I suffered with the most almighty hangover the next day. I could eat nothing and water was not settling well in the stomach. Eventually, at 10.07a.m. I vomited. I vomited in The Tank. Yes, at 30 something, I was sticking my head down the bog, trying to silently vomit (impossible FYI!) and burst as few blood vessels as possible in my eyes so as not to raise further suspicions.  The previous week I'd experienced light headedness and dizzy spells and I wasn't exactly quiet about this. I've also been rather vocal about my reduction in the consumption of alcohol...and then puke at work. Fortunately I was sufficiently drunk the previous night to banish any concerns that I was in fact withchild and about to become Nemo, a single mother. Jesus Christ! 

I'm a driver. I love driving. I much prefer to drive than to be driven. It's not that I'm a nervous passenger per se, I just drive the entire journey with that person, indicating in my head when they should, braking in my head when they should, shaking my fist at the idiot drivers in my head when they do, etc. etc. But Christ yesterday I realised that I'd had enough of driving for a while and would happily steer clear of the motor car for at least a day! 

First experience was had as I drove southbound on the M50. I had the pleasure to, quite literally, come across the charming driving of a business vehicle, aka the buck driving the van emblazoned D. McMahon Roofing, Tallaght on the side. This buck clearly thought he was King of the Road as he slid across three lanes of traffic, indicating for half of the time, sailing right into my drive path and nearly cutting me in two. So of course in a lady like fashion I flashed him; the lights that is, which for me IS lady like, I could have honked him out of it, roared out the window, given him the two fingers, but no I just flashed the lights to warn him (more than once!) that I was there and he'd almost taken me out with him.  Anyway, so I’m continuing in lane two, which he’s already cut right across and he's in lane one....when I’m coming up behind him he has his two fingers pressed up against his window as he drives along and then glares at me. What an ignorant individual!  So of course I just mouth “Charming” and note name and number of the vehicle in question. It may be something to note, charming roofer, that if you're going to be that rude and ignorant on the road after breaking every law in the book, you might want to do so in an unmarked van?? Just a suggestion!

Later that evening, I'm heading off to a light class of aqua aerobics (or so I thought it would be!)  I'm crossing a relatively main junction on the south side of the city, we have the lights and there's a van in front turning right. I'm going straight. So as he turns, the light is going amber, but I’ve already crossed the line for stopping. Hey I've been known in my day to scream "Commiiiitttteeeeed" as I fly through an amber light and have no issue in admitting it. This, was not one of those times. Anyway, I've already crossed the line for stopping and when the van in front turns right this little starlet JUMPS THE LIGHTS and I nearly go into her. Frickin' learner driver too.  I jammed the breaks, ABS totally working, massive thud sound as the tyres hit the ground and what does she and her ee-git of a friend do? Stare dopily at me as they tentatively drive on and me screaming FOR FUCK SAKE at them. I'm sorry but my lady like reserve was used up by D. McMahon Roofing earlier that day.  Shaking like a leaf, I then have to reverse from the middle of the road as all the cars are coming up and down the main road, with loads of pedestrians looking at me like I’d knocked down a little old lady. Might I, for the record, state that the learner driver was in the wrong as I, driving ahead, had right of way over her, crossing over the road. OMG still fuming even thinking about it. 

I was released from The Tank momentarily today to meet with a customer. Now this gentleman (and he was a gentleman in the olde English sense) was old school. Fine man in his late 40s, who insisted on referring to the “pretty girls” that the young man had brought with him.  Now if I haven’t already mentioned this, I’m in my mid to late 30s, so a girl or pretty are words one would not choose to describe me. At one point he offered to explain to “you girls” the basics of what he did. I mean it didn’t take a genius to figure it out, it was kinda in the name…like asking what type of food does Burger King serve…swiftly followed by gratitude for the manager who had brought two “pretty girls” with him today. What was beyond funny was that I clearly looked about 5 years older than the buck who had brought me along! 

The 40 minute journey back to the office was spent debating, both with my passengers and my own self, what I am. Am I girl? A lady? A woman??  I'm not a girl. A young, naive, slightly innocent, purty l'il thing is the image that's conjured up in my mind when I think "girl".  Rightly or wrongly and with the best will in the world, I shall never be a lady. I mean I think of someone who "holds their counsel", who smiles politely, nods and supports her husband (see I don't even possess the vital accessory!), sips her drink and...I'm more guzzle a glass of red and I'll tell you what I really think, while guffawing, pointing my finger, poking my head and telling some fella exactly what my opinion is!!  Which leaves me with woman.  I'm in mid-30s, fighting every day to maintain a wasitline and work in The Tank. Have I not been cursed with enough in life?  I don't know what it is but for me woman suggests one of de wimmin, a group of females cackling, swilling their vino and talking of babies, men and men. This confuses and concerns me. I love being female, I love everything that goes with it (except the constant need to dehair my body, the gravity drive on our bodies and monthly reminders of the tick-tock of the biological clock), but I struggle to be comfortable when in The Tank and related locations I'm thrown into any collective term for females.  So I've decided, fine gentlemen I meet in my business life, I'd prefer if you did not call me a girl, nor a lady nor a sista nor a mott nor a woman...just call me Nemo!

Today was not a good day in The Tank.  I am losing the will here, the will to get up every morning, to get dressed, to leave the house, you know the one, the will to live!  We were recently served with a schedule of when we are to do certain tasks and in what way.  Now we’re all well experienced, quite well educated people in our 30s, who have been around this and other tanks a few times and know how to pick up a phone, write a letter, draft an email.  So this hot house idea (as it’s called!) made me angry-angry, red HOT angry.  In an effort to locate some of the old focused, driven, motivated Nemo, I decided I’d really try my best and spent some time trying to “get behind my portfolio, really understand the tipping points for my customers” and all that bullshit.  It lasted about 20 minutes and I gave up. I went to the loos and actually hung out there for a while, looking at myself in the mirror. Not admiring myself, no, just staring at m’self, trying to figure out who that was in the mirror, having a mental conversation with self about how I found myself there and all the twists and turns and crossroads that let me there…and was it really all that bad to spend time alone, with self, chillin’ in the ti’lets?  Eventually I left. Well I had to, someone came in.

In case you hadn’t already figured it out, we deal with money in The Tank. Money in all sorts of shapes and forms, types and sizes.  So when you hear of the economy nose diving or some Central Tank meeting to discuss what needs to be done to control this spiral, think of me, at the end of the headset and chain discussing with fellow Tankers what impact this comment or that comment is going to have on various shapes and forms of money. Then the phones hop and it’s acrylic talons at the ready:

*click* “Hello Nemo speaking? What currency? Buying or selling? Is that just one payment or do you have a number of them? Rate there at the moment for you to buy six hundred and fifty thousand GBPeriwinkles is 0.7821. Yes, it is quite strong. It’s difficult to say really, there was no particularly poor data behind yesterday’s weakness it was just a risk off day, a build up of poor sentiment, poor earning results, concerns over Euro debt crisis and signs of slowing growth from China to the US are all now conspiring to deflate confidence. Yes, yes, absolutely. I understand. Will it be better tomorrow? Well I’m not sure Seamus, I reckon if the wind changes direction and moves eastward over the gulfstream in the Atlantic at the same time as Mercury moves into retrograde, but just before the precipitation in the air reaches a level higher than 18^th August 2010 then yes, I do reckon we could see a strengthening of the Euro…but it really is just a view”

*click* “Hello Nemo speaking? What currency? Buying or selling? Is that just one payment or do you have a number of them? Rate there at the moment for you to buy seventy six  thousand USJohn Doreys is 1.2058. Yes it is quite strong. Well the Euro fell below $1.22 to the dollar yesterday for the first time since the middle of 2010. Meanwhile, equities suffered another day of losses with the ISEQ, FTSE, S&P500 and Erustoxx all extending their losses for the week. Yes, yes, absolutely. I understand. Will it be better tomorrow? Well I’m not sure Sile, bear with me there a moment and I’ll flip a coin. Heads or tails? Tails?  OK…aw sorry, it’s heads. No won’t be any better tomorrow. Do you want to go ahead with that? Hello Sile? Sile??”

*click* “Hello Nemo speaking? What currency? Buying or selling? Is that just one payment or do you have a number of them? Rate there at the moment for you to buy one hundred and fifty thousand Ozzy Ozbournes is 1.1755. Ah yeah, you’re fucked. Arse has fallen outta the Euro. Will it be any better tomorrow? Lord Jaysus fucked if I know. I’d quit while I was ahead if I were you…but don’t quote me on that”

The phone rings a lot in The Fish Tank and I tend to be one of those who answers it most.  My preferred position is phone resting on shoulder, chin supporting it to prevent falling and scribbling notes frantically.  After many years of defying everyone, protesting and chanting “No To The Headset” I have succumbed, I’ve been broken, my neck’s in bits, my physical therapist is rich, but finally I've hung my head and sighed. My spirit is shattered. I’m wearing a telephone headset.

It was a bit of a novelty for the first ten minutes, then I realised that not only do I look like Dolly Parton in 9-5, except without the blonde set , 18 inch waist and pert boobs, but this THING now chains me to the desk. I have become a robotic version of my former self who has to release herself from the technology to have a wee.  “The Fish Tank, Nemo speaking....who's calling? Just a second"..."Hello Nemo speaking, One moment please…” AGH!  On the plus side, according to my wizard physical therapist my neck is longer, so if I gain a few millimetres on my fat neck, I’ll stick with the headset for now.

Going on holidays is hard work from the pruning and preening to the €98.53 reinforced Boots’ bag.  My preparation usually starts about 4 weeks prior to departure with the growth of bodily hair…to then allow for quick and long-lasting removal of the hair!  You’d be amazed how debilitating this can be. It’s like the gods just knew. As soon as I embarked on the annual growth fest, the sun came out. Everyday I arrived in The Fish Tank late and with the blackest, darkest clothes I had. I ended up in the 25 degree Irish summer wearing skirts and black tights, trousers and boots, one week in I couldn’t even get away with capri pants!  The main advantage to working with the Willy Wavers is that they don’t notice such things or if they do, they’re unlikely to ask “Hey Nemo, why aren’t you wearing half nothing like every other Irish person once the sun comes out?”  Add to that Pilates once a week (doing the hundreds with the sun shining in and creating a shadow of hairy legs that would make Big Foot jealous) and injuries which required attention by the very kind physical therapist I regularly visit. Now I know my legs are hairy. I’m a hairy girl. The upside? Lashes and lashes of, um, lashes, “striking” eyebrows, thick dark hair which stands the test of big hair rollers, GHD straighteners, industrial strength hair dryers .  But the downside is very thick, long, man-hair on my legs (and arms and underarms and the odd stray chin hair, but that’s for another day!) Anyway, back to my poor long suffering physical therapist, I prepare him by telling him I have preholiday growth and apologise for the state of my hairy legs. This would, of course, be alright if I only visited him once in the four week growth period. But nooooo, my body decides to let me down again and I’m in three times in three weeks. He must surely be thinking by now “Christ girl, shave them already. This is becoming a hazard for me!”

Ah but the hair growth is just one of the stresses of holiday prep. The other, for me, is holiday tat shopping. I’m the type of girl who buys her holiday stuff once a year and usually leaves most of it in whatever resort I end up in. Pick a Saturday, go to Penney’s, buy a HUGE bag load of stuff costing about €20, bring it home, try it on, decide to bring half back (never do!)…and throw the remaining half together with some semi normal stuff. When they talk about high street and designer mix I really don’t think they meant Penney’s mixed with Warehouse.  I have realised as I get older that while Penney’s worked a treat at 25, a decade later I just can’t quite carry off the practically see through, low quality, high trend get-up anymore.  So today was the final run around town and I think I did quite well. But I don’t understand it, I always manage to end up with about 10 skirts/trousers and 2 tops. What is it with me and my inability to match clothes?  I mean my lower body is not exactly the superior aspect, by all accounts the upper half is the one to shine, yet I still struggle to find anything to put on it, never mind accentuate it, as they say! And I’d buy more dresses except my body doesn’t suit the dresses of today – neither shape nor age wise. There is nothing like a pretty tea dress / summer dress to highlight the fact that my “amazing knockers dahling” are, in fact, a good three inches lower down my body than they were 5 years ago and that I have no waist to speak of (of course this is all to change once I lose the half foot off this waist). I always have this picture in my head of Barbadian-chic, tousled, wavy beach hair, tanned and toned in my holiday gear whether it’s by the pool, at the beach, in the bar, but somehow the reality is always more Benadorm than Barbados.  Still and all, nothing an ol’ mojito or two won’t fix!

Fear not my readers (or reader, I fear I have only one reader, prove me wrong, g'wan!) I'm back. Apologies for not posting in a few days, but you know people to see, money to make - BOOM! BAM! BOOYAKA! Yes there are just some of the terms you're likely to hear from the WW's in The Fish Tank.  The WWs , I hear you ask? The Willy Wavers. Willy Wavers are usually early 30s males, working in a tankard environment, usually with a goal to make money. The greater the money the bigger the wave. The greater the wave...well, who knows, I'm a non-tank dater myself!!

Anyway, back to my Willy Wavers. I (perhaps not so) fondly refer to the gents I work with as Willy Wavers. Their success is never about who landed the biggest deal or who made the most money. No, no, their success is based on who can shout the loudest, waving their willy to cover the greatest area. Come on, you know them... "Batman! (cos they always have super-hero nicknames) 250K, Starfish Enterprises. In the bag! BOOM!"  "SuperTed (cos there's always one). Sea Horses Inc, riiiiidin' home. 5 big figures! BAM!" I've had to stop myself from standing up, grabbing my "fabulous knockers dahling" and shouting "Total biatch on the phone, tried to tell me how to do my job, cut her in two with my acerbic, sarcastic tongue - MIAAAOOOOW!" 

But time - and familiarity - breaks you down and I'm now there, the sole female fish thinking "Boys, boys, can you not just buy a Toyota Celica and hit on the 24 year old like any self respecting mid 30s gent...and put that periwinkle away!!"

Rain has returned. Now I’m not one of those people who talks incessantly about the rain. “Oh! There was our summer…Awful weather…4 inches due, place will flood again…Rain, sure what would you expect in this country…Oh my God it’s raining!!!” OK so the last one might be a bit me. 

Anyway, generally I’m not that bothered as I’ve come to expect a drop or two over my 30 something years.  But God, when it comes to dressing for the rain and battling the elements , I lose all patience. This morning I woke up, dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day. I mindlessly pulled the black suit from the dry cleaning bag and drew the blinds…rain!  With only 30 mins to walk to work, stop for coffee, hit the loos and make self semi respectable again, I thought “F__k it, it’ll be grand”, tucked the back of my too long trousers into my socks, pulled on the ol’ Converse, rolled my hair into a hat and took to the well beaten path to The Tank. Half way through the Eagles Take it Easy I realised that there was something funny going on around the ankle of my trousers. A bird shat on me! I shat you not!!! This was probably the first time in two weeks (since I left suits in to dry cleaners) that I looked professional and now a bird shat on me. Bird shit is good luck, my arse!!!  Sooooo p*ssed off!  I made a detour to Tesco on the way and picked up a jumbo pack of baby wipes. If baby wipes work on baby shit, they’ll work on bird shit. However you’d be amazed at the dodgy looks you get walking into the ladies with a jumbo pack of baby wipes first thing in the morning! Like seriously what do they think I’m up to?!  Hiding a baby behind the bowl? Changing myself?! 

I met yer man Jim from the concrete block in the midlands at the lift later “Ah, you’re dressed!” he said. Yeah yeah I know he knew what he meant, I knew what he meant, but the four work colleagues waiting for the lift did not know what he meant! These people know me by name, but not my reputation. I went puce of course, which screams “Jim saw Nemo naked. What the….” And tried to laugh it off in that “Oh now!” kinda way…Baby wipes to the toilets this morning, surprised you’re not naked comments this evening. Oh I’m going all the way to the top!

I'm tired and bleu today. It was a long day of muffling yawns, keeping eyes open, feigning interest and enthusiasm...at in between trying to make some money. I spent most of the day getting a customer update from my new boss. So I had to sit with him as he went through all the customers who were now mine, all mine!  At one point he said "So, howya gettin' on. Do you like it?"  "Do I like it? Like what? The two geriatics I had screaming down the phone last week as no one would listen to them (uh kinda hard not to when you're screaming at me!)? The guy who I spoke to 7 times in 12 minutes as he asked me if Shane was off the phone yet as he was afraid I wouldn't pass the message on? The meeting we had yesterday about the meeting and the briefing update? The work colleague who keeps asking if I have a second when I've a sandwich stuffed in my mouth?  The gazillion spreadsheets which all contradict each other? My new work colleague who I'm going to a meeting with on Monday who won't call me back to say if I'm going with him or not?  The man who refuses to talk to me cos I'm a female fish? The endless questions from "management" about the performance of this fish, that customer, this area, that territory? Or the fact that I've spent the last hour trying to keep my eyes open while listening to you rabbit on, while eyeing up the window, wondering if you'd notice if I jumped?  Yeah man, I'm loving it. Livin' the dream!"  Of course I just turned and said "Oh yeah, it's great!"

I had my first session with Normal PT this evening. Was very excited at the prospect of getting back in the training zone, losing weight, developing muscles, getting stronger.  I was hoppin’ around the living room like Rocky Balboa *fist pump*!  I wore my trimmest pants, my freshest 1000 mile socks and the top which contained me knockers the best.  I needn’t have bothered…or he could have at least told me they had mirrors everywhere. Feckin’ brothel wouldn’t have as many. Everywhere I looked were the rolls of fat that my training outfit didn’t manage to cover, never mind contain!  

Anyway, it seems I have to lose a grand 6.5 inches off my waist. 6.5!!!! I know! Over half a foot!  And that’s before I add the inches to shave off my neck, bicep, hips, back and chest.  It seems no matter how hard I try, they all tell me “You’ll only lose a very small amount from your chest”…Guess it beats them saying “Get over yourself Nemo; tits are for life, not just Saturday night!”  Ya so I have about 2 feet of fat to lose but sure it’s all grand, that’s what I’m there for and I’ll be a shtick by Autumn (late Autumn!)  I even enjoyed the stretching at the end…you’d be amazed how much more concentrated you are on the stretch when you’re not trying to shift Woodie’s Wood Pecker away from your hamstring!  No, I like Normal PT. I think this could work for me, I’ll even go back for a second session!

I have a dream…of a three storey over basement house on Pembroke/Waterloo/Haddington Road.  I just love the idea of maybe buying it already in overcharged, underserviced, self-contained units, living in one as I do them up and evict tenant one by one. Don’t go all moral on me, this is my dream!  In my dream they will be evicted from mine and walk straight into another one at 70% the rent.  Anyway, then I’ll have this really cool house in a slightly shabby chic part of town. Wellington Road, Merrion Road, Strand Road, Sandymount, they all too have lovely three storey over basement but I feel I’m missing some vital accessories on those roads – a husband, a child, a Bugaboo, a Range Rover, a portfolio of investments, you know yourself!  

So I’ve decided the shabby chic part of town will work better for me. When it’s all done up, I’ll then meet the man of my dreams. F__ked if I know where as I’ll have no money to go anywhere, maybe he’ll do some work on the house, but then I’d be paying him and that could blur the lines and then I might feel like I’m paying him to be my husband, maybe he’ll fall from the sky like bird shit!  Oh it doesn’t matter…so I have my husband and well with such a cool house and ridey man, there is one gift I can give him over anyone else, yes the gift of life - a child…from my aged ovaries! Because did you know, that according to Gloss magazine last week, who was quoting some fertility guru, at 35 your reproductive organs are considered old! Old! Well thank you very much Gloss/fertility guru/the world. As if the developing jowls, grey hairs, inability to suffer a hangover, scowls from TopShop child sales assistants, weren’t all enough of a reminder, it’s good to know I can now add ovaries to the list!  They went on to say that they often wonder why couples wait so long to approach them when having fertility problems. Let’s be honest, when a 38 year old woman goes into the clinic to look for help, it’s not like she’s been smugly married since 25 and thinks “Mmm, I think I’ll wait til 37 to have a baby, woopsie my ovaries are old!” Sometimes life just happens like that. 

When I was 12 I had to write a story of where I’d be in 10 years’ time. I said married with two children, working as a teacher, living in Manchester, married to Lee Sharpe. By the time I got to 22 I realised Lee Sharpe was probably not going to head out ‘of a Saturday’ to Coppers, I didn’t want to speak like one of the Gallaghers and I didn’t think babies were for me either.  Fast forward another 10 years “or so” and I probably would find Lee Sharpe in Coppers (if my ovaries aren’t too old to get in!), Manchester’s got great shopping and well on the babies thing, I’d kinda like for me to be making that decision and not my bloody aging, sorry AGED, ovaries!

Perspective! This word is soooo overused and no more than in The Fish Tank. “From a strategic perspective…from a customer perspective…from a global perspective…from a front office perspective…from a management perspective” But never “from my perspective”. The word is banned from my vocabulary. I’d rather use three words and regularly go out of my way and use "point of view". Well from a grammatical point of view you all need to broaden your vocabulary and maybe take an English class!!

My work colleagues are starting to metamorphis into soap characters!  I can no longer watch Fair City (we’ll address the fact I watch it at all another day!) without feeling like I’m back in the tank every time Zumo Bishop rasps his way through a scene…and now Eastenders is ruined too. Max Branning has abandoned the car lot and is now working in the Fish Tank.

Just back from a night away with one of the girls. We picked this random hotel in the middle of a housing estate in a midlands town, which had a bargain deal going on. You know the type of hotel, the one that’s advertised as a castle / country home / estate. Ah yes, there is an estate with this hotel, a housing estate of 542 3-bed semis, which in fairness do look spacious, close to numerous amenities and with a view…of the concrete block that is the hotel. Anyway, I didn’t give a shit, took the day off work, ran 5 miles in the morning and rocked on down to the hotel all set for a girly weekend of body scrubs, salad lunches wine, patting ourselves on the back for only eating half of the chips and cackling in the residents bar at 11.30 at night!  We arrived, checked in and I had my dreamed of Caesar salad with three glasses of wine. Needless to say this food diary to be returned to the new PT will read chicken salad dressing on the side, 0.5L water, rather than chicken Caesar salad with bacon and croutons, half the dressing on the side, 3 x white wine, 0.5L water. The lounge was amok with golfers, men around my Dad’s age, just in from the 18 holes, pint of the black stuff and scrutinising the shot on the 12^th by the water.  Anyway, going back to my trip to the concrete block in the midlands, myself and my buddy were there in the lounge, being the very girls we kinda slightly sneered about three years ago. We’re dissecting the shocking cost of weddings (she’s to be wed soon), gasping at the price of photographers, convincing ourselves that flowers are over-rated, resigning ourselves to the fact that you will spend on a wedding what my uncle spent on a 3 bed semi-D in Drumcondra 20 years ago, when I realised “Shhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! Body scrub!”  I’d booked a body scrub for 3 and it was now 2.55. I blame the dhrink!  I’m sure the therapist took a step back when I smiled, slightly cock-eyed and through pursed lips before going “Hiiiiiii *Chablis breath*”… Oh well, I won’t be rushing back in a hurry!  After the scrub and a camomile tea in the relaxation room, I dreamily headed back to the bedroom in my robe and bikini. For a split second I thought now here’s where you end up standing at the lift and you hear the words “Nemo?” and spinning around to some ex with his stunning 20-something year old bride. So when I got through the lobby, I bounced into the lift and hit floor 2…the doors parted, I spun around (I’d been checking for chin hairs in the lift mirror!) and there as if in slow motion, was Jim…from The Fish Tank!  We both stared at each other, I said “Ah Jaysus…” and Jim said what we were both thinking “This Fish Tank is too small!”

I’m what some might call a “big” girl, what Gok might call “curvy…amazing knockers dahling!”, and what I call “a woman who needs to watch her weight…24/7!”  In my spare time, I try to engage in as much exercise as I can to allow me to eat and drink all the good stuff that our Lord (and Cadbury’s and Wolf Blass and Milano and Faustino and Tay’ho) created for us. I use the debit/credit technique of life, so I cycle, run, walk and attempt the odd embrace-your-curvy-amazing-knockers-together classes. I worked with a personal trainer for many, many years and for many, many months was at a weight and body shape I was pretty happy with. Then sure what happens to any man and woman relationship where it’s based on getting you to look smaller, hotter, but still with the “amazing knockers dahling”?  Well, let’s put it this way, when your PT can tell you your chest size without taking measurements, when you find yourself going “Will I open my bra?” and it doesn’t end with “Call meeeee”, you know you’re heading in one direction and one direction only…where the words “you’re hamstrings are quite tight” mean a different kind of stretching to the ones you might be thinking.  So after far too long of “Do your legs need a stretch?” texts really meaning “Will I call over for sex?”, I knew it was time to say goodbye to Sleazy PT and either try it on my own or find Female PT, Gay PT or “Normal, Professional PT”…I opted for the last and have my first session in the coming weeks. I have to say I am very excited and even the request of a food diary every week hasn’t deterred me. This is the new me! I wonder what it’ll be like to train with someone who doesn’t grin every time you complain about an exercise and says “It’ll come”

Oh God, have I ever told you about what I call the dark period in my life. Well today I had a gentle reminder of it…and it had to do with the clothes I was wearing. I dhraaaagged myself out of bed this morning and panicked about what in the name of Jesus I’d wear. Flipper (our King of the Sea!) had this chat with us a few weeks back to say that we had to pretty much stop wearing the scruffy gear we had and wear professional, sharp,  even dapper clothes to work. I did (subliminally) enquire as to whether a clothes allowance would be available, but (subliminally and literally) he ignored my requests.  Anyway, I managed to pull out a black skirt, black top and mint green cardi which had that sharp, casual-chic look…albeit just in my head. But that’s not really the problem. You see I wear hold ups. Not in a sexy way, I mean there is nothing sexy about the yard of lard that oozes over the silicone laden hosiery nor the chafing of my thighs on the silicone top that tries desperately to cling to my over-due-a-wax legs!  No, no, I wear hold ups cos I just could not be doing tights (or shit hangers as an old friend called them!), they’re so hot and sweaty and all those man-made fibres!!  Ick! So there I was in my hold ups, black pencil skirt, black top and green cardi except every time I moved I could swear I was flashing the cellulite lards over the silicone topped “natural tan” hold ups to all the WWs (Willy Wavers) on the team! And there in a second I was transported back to 2003, to the dark period in my life, during which time I was chastised for wearing a skirt that was too short! I KNOW!! I mean it’s hilarious now, but was kinda morto at the time, particularly as I was still living in the bubble that was “I’m 25 and at my thinnest” (I had recently turned 26 and piled on “a few” pounds!) Then the charming woman who was tasked with telling the fat, slutty 26 year old waited until the day AFTER the offending (NOT SHORT!) skirt had been worn to tell me. So there was I wh0rin’ around the office in a “short skirt” as “management” tutted at the hussie and I completely unaware of! And she also had the gall to say to me “Well Nemo I could have waited until Gerry was back tomorrow and he could have said it to you”…Eh yeah!! How much fun would it have been to see Simple Gerry shuffle in his chair, clenching his arse cheeks together in awkwardness telling someone half his age that there’d been a complaint about the length of her skirt! She stole the one piece of enjoyment I could have got out of that whole experience!  Anyway, there I was reminded about this time of my life when I was the hussie in the short skirt. Ten years later I was there in a short skirt, yet now much more aware of the length…and it dawned on me. I called this “the dark period in my life”…as it was a time where we worked on a desk, from 9-5.25pm Monday to Friday, we all took morning and afternoon tea breaks, we were moulded into robots by “management”, we called them “management”, all my work colleagues told me I didn’t belong, then adding “in a good way”, we drank…a lot. Does this all sound familiar to you??  I need a bottle of vodka.... LARGE!

Today I found myself telling my sister to “keep your eyes on the prize”!!!! Can you believe it?!? I’ve turned into one of the fish!!  “Lads, we’ve a budget of 30million this year, we’re behind 6% year to date, 4% year on year. The starfish segment is up year on year, but we really have to empower our sea horses increase the capability, work with our people on the ground to ramp up the numbers!  We need some joined up thinking! Now let’s round up the troops, put our heads together on this one, make sure we’re all on the same page, going forward this is a key initiative for the business, management have taken a helicopter view on this and are strategizing as we speak. Let’s really get the heads down on this…keep your eyes on the prize, rah rah, Rasputin!”  PKWOO!!

I’ve worked in The Fish Tank since I left college in the late 90s. At that time I thought I’d be beating the offers away with a large stick or if truth be known a quite sexy whip – whoootcha!  Needless to say this fantasy hasn’t quite materialised as I thought. I began in The Fish Tank on a Bank Holiday Tuesday . By Thursday I swore I’d give it 9 months and then I was gone, to work “in PR, as you do. For over a decade I’ve oscillated between thriving in work, thinking this is something I might be good at…and physically stopping myself from standing up, there and then in the office and going “I have no idea what I’m doing here!!!!”  Nearly 14 years on, I’m still in The Fish Tank, still dreaming that one day I’ll get out for good behaviour!   Over that near 14 years I’ve had interesting, fun, farcical, downright incredulous times…and now it’s time for me to share the fun…here’s hoping you enjoy them.