Yesterday someone asked me what code was invalid. The invalid code was 3TZ and normally I would've said, 'Three, tee, zee.' This time, however, I paused, then replied: 'Three, tee, zed.'
Z is pronounced zed here. I don't know why, and I don't like it. Having lived in the UK before, zed isn't new. But my willingness to conform is. At least when it comes to work speak. Goal 1: sound like I know what I'm talking about (fake it til I make, say zed like the locals, etc.). Goal 2: know what I'm talking about (this is harder). Ultimate goal: be an autonomous, competent part of our team. WHOA DREAM BIG.
On Thursday, some intern girls and I headed to Bond Street after work for Vogue's Fashion Night Out, hoping to run into Gwyneth Paltrow and score some bargains. I was tired and starving, as I am every weeknight these days, and to our pleasant surprise we discovered many designer stores were serving free champagne (the nice stuff I can't afford!), cocktails, and delicious finger foods. I enjoyed nonchalantly walking through a couple boutiques, sipping my champagne, pretending I could afford £800 coats. But for the most part, I sort of felt like Anne Hathoway in The Devil Wears Prada - everyone was skinny and impossibly well-groomed and -dressed, and I hadn't shaved my legs in a few days and was wearing flip flops.
London is new and I feel like I'm playing a part in a play. Sometimes it's stressful. Like at work when everyone's joking around and I need to ask a question but don't want to feel stupid or interrupt the jokes. Or when I'm walking down the street and the wind's blowing and my hair is frizzy and all in my face and I'm fumbling with my purse and umbrella and Oyster card and I feel clumsy and Anne-Hathoway-in-Devil-Wears-
I love weekends. Enjoy yours!