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!