I’ve read that beautiful chicks think that being beautiful is enough in itself, and they don’t put in any effort in the sack.

Friday, 30 June, 1995 9:30am

Hi Sis,

So, how about Hugh Grant’s little brush with the seedy underbelly of urban America?  Poor bloke, he’s really blown it (couldn’t resist, sorry). I feel a bit sorry for him, did you see the look on his face in that mug shot? It must be on the front page of every rag in England.  Everyone here keeps saying “But he’s got that gorgeous Elizabeth Hurley.  What’s he going to hookers for?”  Personally, I think he was doing research for his upcoming role as Pee Wee Herman.  Or maybe Liz, like a lot of beautiful women, is a dead root.  I’ve read (in Cleo, the fount of all erotic esotery) that beautiful chicks think that being beautiful is enough in itself, and they don’t put in any effort in the sack.  Maybe Hugh just goes for low-rent types.  Do you think his career will survive?  I think maybe it will in England (as long as the gutter press gets something juicy from the Royals in the next few days) but perhaps not in America.  America was founded by Puritans don’t forget.  It’s funny isn’t it, the whole world loved Pretty Woman, which is basically a story about a whore and a rich man.  Maybe this will boost Hugh to unimaginable new heights of fame and glory.  Maybe he’ll team up with Rob Lowe in an all-star skin-flick called…. BUSTED!!

Someone new is starting in the office today, and I’ve forgotten her name already.  She was introduced to us by the 2nd in charge who said “This is (insert name here), she’ll be taking over from Melissa, doing the Marketing Newsletter, and you know, anything else that’s lying around.”  To which the new girl said “It worries me when you say that.”  They laughed it off, but the poor thing doesn’t know what she’s in for.  Do you know that we have people with BA’s in journalism handwriting addresses on envelopes for junk mail?  This is done so that the recipients think it’s personal mail and don’t pre-emptorily toss it in the bin. (Is pre-emptorily actually a word or did I make it up?)  That’s right, BA’s writing addresses, nine hours a day. By the end of the day they have writers-cramp so bad they could be mistaken for polio victims.

So I’m thinking about this party now.  It’s gonna be full of all those RMIT hydroponically grown Wunderkinds that are eating up office space here now.  I have this theory that they’re all grown in pods and share a common DNA base, a Stepford kind of thing.  Anyway, I’m a bit worried that they’re all going to be these dreadfully over-educated, pretentiously sophisticated people who smother their own belches even when they’re alone.  You know people who actually read Nietzsche, not just have him on the bookshelf nestled between Nabokov and Ruth Park.  I just went and photocopied my news clippings and passed them out, and I see they’ve already got the new girl doing telemarketing.  That’s right, instead of working on one of the major dailies (Herald-Sun, The Age) the dreams of the bustling journo office, over-brimming with erudition and informed repartee have culminated in phoning people from a borrowed desk and harassing them to renew their subscriptions.  God, how depressing.  If I had to do that I’d quit in a week.

Same day, 1:39pm

I’ve just had the complimentary Friday Lunch, and I over-ate as per usual.  You can never say no to free food you know.  So I’m huddled over my heater with my Friday pot-belly, feeling sleepy and trying to think of ways to tart myself up for this party on Saturday night.  I’m catching a cab there with Simon, my office mate, which is a bit of responsibility really.  It means I can’t just trundle off whenever I feel like it (which is usually about half an hour after getting there).  You know, I guess it’s a bit silly moaning about the responsibility of shared cab rides to a new mother.  Are you enjoying this motherhood thing? Are you Walking on Sunshine?  Write and tell me of all these new experiences you must be…. experiencing.

Anyway, I’d better get going, I have to psyche up for this party, put my dancing trousers on, dust off the party face, you know the rest.

PS 30 June 1995 001

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