Wanted: Tarty Typist

It's 7:15 in the evening and I'm still at our lovely London office, looking at the top half of this out my window. It's warm and sunny and I'm wearing a shirt and tie, been in meetings and sales pitches all day (receiving, not giving).

My two-day workshop went really well, but I have about 25 pages of minutes to type up, a brand proposal to write, several sub-projects to manage, and I was told last night that "before you leave the UK early next week, I want you to have a plan written out to fix Project EF-UP (not its real name). And you'll need some allies, so talk to Franz and Hanz."

I'll need allies ... great, I feel like I've just been given a blindfold and pushed into a minefield. Franz is being a cry-baby (what kind of ally is that) and Hanz is off on hols for the next 3 weeks. I love Europe.

The boss is on hols next week as well, but he told me I'd get a special number where to reach him each evening. Magic.

"So you'll be spending the weekend London?" he asked.

"Yes, I've got to meet with the agency next week and have a couple more meetings to plan EF-UP."

"Well, at least you're having some fun."

Um, not yet ... but maybe on the weekend. I love typing minutes in a hotel room when the weather's nice in a fun city. Sunday is SoHo Pride. Maybe I'll drag myself away from work and have some fun.

Maybe.

And maybe I'll just work on my minutes and proposals tomorrow and go have a few pints tonight. Who knows, maybe I'll find a little London lad to pound out some dictation for me. They all love texting over here, maybe I can convince one of them to text my handwritten notes.

Which reminds me of one of my favorite jokes ...

"Excuse me, can I use your dictaphone?"

"No, use your finger like everyone else.