For my awesome sister Nell

‘Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim’

Nora Ephron

‘Girls, if boys say something that’s not funny, you don’t have to laugh’

Amy Poehler, American actress and comedian

‘The world is full of guys. Be a man! Don’t be a guy’

Say Anything

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Life is pain … but it doesn’t have to be painful, aka the introduction

The office of magical thinking

A day in your life in Daily Mail headlines

Sex tips for smart ladies

Movies lie – damn it, woman, they lie!

What to expect when your friends are expecting

Talking about eating disorders without using a single photo of Kate Moss

Every dating guide you’ll ever need

You don’t need Winona Ryder to tell you how to live your life

But do you like him?

You’re never too old for Topshop

The ten commandments of being an unannoying vegetarian

The Forwardthinkoriums

How to cheer up your friend who is depressed about being single without lying to them, patronising them or making them feel even worse

Exercise – it’s just like sex!

How to read women’s magazines without wanting to grow a penis

There will always be something wrong with your body, which means nothing is wrong with your body

Beyond the armpit: a ten-point (plus three addenda and some posh little footnotes) guide to being a modern-day feminist

When to listen to your friends, and when not to

Ten signs you are having a non-awesome date (possibly autobiographical)

Ten awesome women (in no particular order)

Five awesome films and five very un-awesome films

Ten awesome books

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

Life is pain … but it doesn’t have to be painful, aka the introduction

‘Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.’

Thus spake the Dread Pirate Roberts/Wesley to Buttercup in the glorious 1987 movie, The Princess Bride. Aside from learning that one should ‘never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line’, this is probably the most valuable lesson that wise film taught me. But, contrary to what the Dread Pirate Roberts/Wesley¹ appears to advise in this scene, I have never believed that one should just accept it.

The Nietzschean pirate was not wrong. Life is definitely pain: the Daily Mail exists; there are still people in the world who believe that banning abortion will lead to happy families as opposed to mutilated women; every straight man I’ve ever met prefers boring Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s to glorious Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story² and, call me a crazy idealist, but I’d have thought that by the twenty-first century any movie that suggests the only happy ending for a woman is marriage would be deemed as unacceptable as any movie that suggests the only jobs available to black people are maids, drug dealers, sassy best friends or Nelson Mandela. Oh. Wait a minute.

Then there are the pains that come from within and, going purely from my own experiences and observations, women are particularly enthusiastic about inflicting these on themselves, almost as much as some of the aforementioned exterior agencies are about inflicting them on them, and it is entirely possible that the two sides to this equation are not unrelated, even an ever-interlooping system. After all, bullies look for susceptible targets.

This is not to suggest that women are delicate victims who need protection, or that feminism treats them as if they are, or whatever nonsense some folk come out with to justify not confronting such things: ‘Show me a smart, competent young professional woman who is utterly derailed by … an inappropriate comment about her appearance and I will show you a rare spotted owl,’ one journalist wrote in an editorial in the New York Times³ in 2011, suggesting that secretly women love to be reduced to their physical appearance and only pretend they don’t because they think to do otherwise would be a betrayal of the Sistahz and their ‘Orwellian’ attitudes to sexual harassment. But then this journalist also seems to think that a woman’s age (‘young’) and employment status (‘professional’) are in any way relevant to her credibility as a sensible person and, rather more jarringly, suggests that only weak women can’t handle harassment (or worse), thus putting the focus and blame on the women’s reactions rather than the men’s actions (an all too common tack in a variety of contexts), so perhaps we need not waste any more of our time on this theory. Although I can’t help but regret not getting to see that owl. I do like an owl.

It’s hard to be awesome in an occasionally lame world. That so many bizarrely retrograde clichés and expectations still dominate so much of society and pop culture is depressing enough; the number of people who perpetuate them, internalise them and even enact them because, I guess, it’s easier to do this than to come up with one’s own ideas, one’s own arguments, one’s own life, can feel downright deadening on a person’s soul.

As a woman who works in the media and watches a lot of movies, I, inevitably, notice this in particular in regard to the depiction of women in the media and movies. This, I guess, is because feminism has arrived at something of an awkward place in that while equal rights (if not equal pay) are, at the very least, expected, anachronistic expectations and depictions of women remain. But to be honest, the fact that we’re even talking about feminism or, specifically, the definition thereof is depressing because it seems spectacularly lame to have to stroke one’s chin about what gender equality means. I have yet to see a single article asking, say, ‘Are Civil Rights Dead?’ or ‘Is the Fight Against Racism Relevant to Twenty-First-Century Fiction?’, to paraphrase two recent chin-strokey articles about feminism, neither of which, incidentally, came from the strawmen of daft right-wing tabloids but two ostensibly liberal and ostensibly respected British publications.⁴ It never ceases to amaze me how much of a meal people still make about the definition of gender equality. I’d have thought that the clue was in the name, but then I always was very literal-minded.

The ubiquitous clichés about life in general, and what one needs to do in order for it to be a fulfilling one – again, going by my personal experience – tend to impinge on one’s subconscious and fester during one’s twenties and thirties, bringing with them the four horsemen of the apocalypse: self-doubt, panic, insecurity and credulity. One knows when these have arrived because one finds oneself reading the Daily Mail website, Mail Online, and giving a toss about it.

But contrary to what a certain pirate claimed, one does not have to accept this, or insist that one is unaffected by them because to do otherwise would be a cop-out of some sort, and I swear I’m not trying to sell you anything. Well, other than this book and, seeing as you’re on the fourth page I’m assuming you’ve already bought it.

Instead, one needs to confront these stereotypes and assumptions and then one can see their stupidity clearly. Wait a minute, ‘one’? Who talks like that, other than David Starkey? As I am (spoiler alert) not David Starkey, I shall, briefly, stop hiding behind the presumptuous ‘you’ and coy ‘one’ – ‘I’. Ta da! There is not a single word in this book that is not directed at myself. All the lessons in this book are lessons I learned by falling flat on my Semitic-nosed face. This has been the way of my whole career. In the daylight hours – as opposed to the evening ones in which the majority of this book was written – I pretend to be a newspaper columnist and a fashion writer, and at a conservative estimate, at least 70 per cent of my fashion articles have been written when I’ve been wearing, at best, vaguely coordinated pyjamas, by which I mean a ‘Vote Obama 2008!’ T-shirt (customised with tea and Marmite stains), leggings and Ugg boots. It’s how Anna Wintour edits Vogue, you know. Those who cannot do, teach; those who cannot teach, teach gym; those who cannot teach gym, write bossy essays on the subjects at which they so consistently fail.

Few can understand why they believe or are doing something in the moment of believing or doing. That generally comes in the sentimentalised light of retrospect or – more brutally if more usefully – if someone else shines a shaming spotlight on it at the time. This brings me to the tale of what happened when Erinsborough withered under the pitiless gaze of Gallic scorn.

One afternoon when I was thirteen I signed up for the French exchange programme at my school, presumably having hit my head very hard in PE that morning. This brief act of insanity resulted in some random French kid coming to stay with me for two weeks and then I went to stay with her for another two weeks. We were paired together purely by our corresponding ages and, I strongly suspect, our shared religion, or maybe it was just a coincidence that our schools just happened to put together the only two Jewish girls in the programme. Contrary to what our teachers perhaps envisioned, this French girl, who I will call Fifi for no defensible reason, and I did not do renditions of dance routines from Fiddler on the Roof and debate the finer points of the Talmud while sitting round a campfire made of Chanukah candles. We hated one another as only two teenagers who don’t speak one another’s language and are forced to spend a solid month with one another can.

Yet while I returned from the experience with no greater understanding of the perfect and imperfect tenses than I had at the start, Fifi did teach me something else that had nothing to do with linguistics. On her first day, I brought Fifi to school with me and, afterwards, being an extremely cool and cutting-edge teenager, brought her directly home afterwards so as not to miss even the opening notes of the theme song for the essential daily viewing of Neighbours and Home and Away. As I sat there on the sofa, bowl of grated cheese in my lap (‘L’après école repas du choix,’ I explained to a nauseated-looking Fifi), mouth possibly a little slack with excitement at the gripping storylines involving someone not paying for a caravan in Summer Bay, and Madge and Harold going on a hot date in Lou’s Place, I felt what would soon be a familiar sensation: Fifi’s disapproving eyes upon my face.

‘What is this?’ she asked in an accent I’m just about resisting rendering phonetically.

‘Oh, they two are TV movies in Australia,’ is what I said in French. Speaking one another’s language badly was how Fifi and I communicated for the whole of the month, meaning that we were not only never speaking the same language, we were hardly ever speaking any language at all.

‘They are good?’

‘They super cool.’

‘They do not please me.’

‘OK. They please me.’

‘What stories they tell, please?’

‘Much stories. This one, two old people eat dinner in an expensive restaurant. Other, a person did not pay for a car.’

‘That sound not interesting. Why you watch?’

The reason I watched them was the reason I did pretty much anything when I was thirteen: because all my peers did. These shows were what everyone in class talked about at school; I don’t think I ever even considered whether I liked them any more than I’d ever considered whether I liked water: they were a vital part of my existence, a part of my survival. But at that moment, Fifi became the little boy pointing out the royal nudity, the Australian soaps were the naked emperor and I was the heretofore duped villager, and I saw them for what they were: ridiculous pantomimes with cardboard scenery that I spent five hours a week watching. As much as I’d like to say at this point that I promptly gave up watching the Australian soaps and never again bought a Neighbours Annual book, that would be a lie (come on – we’re talking social ostracism in the fourth form here). But I was at least now a little discomfited by it and it did make me become more self-aware and questioning about why I did things. So merci, Fifi. It almost makes up for the weekend you made me spend at Eurodisney.

This, in a sense, is what I’ve tried to do with this book: be like my French exchange and point out that some things do not need to be. And as for the things that do unavoidably need to be, I’ll suggest ways in which they can be rendered more bearable.

Now, before you dive off from the steps of this introduction and into the swimming pool of the book itself, I must warn you of something. There is a fair amount of sex talk in this book. Sorry, Mum and Dad/You’re welcome, everyone else! This was not exactly my intention when I set out to write this book, and, in fact, I didn’t even notice it until I reread the finished product and I’ll admit I was, if not clutching a white lace handkerchief to my lipsticked mouth, a touch surprised. My general attitude to sex is similar to the one I have to exotic travel: happy to experience it as an activity, somewhat less interested in reading about it.

But then, it was inevitable (maybe). My conscious intention in writing this book was to address some of the clichés and tropes that can, all too easily, shape one’s expectations of life and oneself, and Lord knows there are a lot of clichés about sex and how it should feature in a woman’s life. So what I’m saying is this: I’ve written the words ‘blow job’ a number of times here, but it’s purely for professional purposes. And just to clarify, I don’t mean that in a prostitutional way.

Seeing as I started this introduction with an eighties film quote, I’d like to end with one. It took Bill S. Preston esquire, Ted Theodore Logan and Abraham Lincoln a journey through time in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure to learn the lesson that one should ‘Be excellent to one another.’ It’s not a bad motto to live by, but I’d timorously like to suggest that there is something else that is arguably more important. I know a lot of women who are excellent to other people but feel less than excellent in themselves. Anyway, ‘excellent’ suggests, to me, perfection. Fuck that. Be strong, be confident, be good to yourself. Be awesome.

¹ Look, just see the movie, OK? Not only will the whole ‘Dread Pirate Roberts/Wesley’ thing make sense but your life will be immeasurably improved.

² A world in which any man prefers a limpid-eyed actress playing a jewellery-obsessed hooker in the dishonest (Truman Capote’s alter ego is, for some reason, rendered straight) and racist (Mickey Rooney plays a Japanese man – let us speak no more of it) to a flashing-eyed woman imperiously entrancing Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant is, by definition, disappointing.

³ ‘In Favour of Dirty Jokes and Risqué Remarks’, Katie Roiphe, New York Times, 12 November 2011.

⁴ ‘Is Feminism Dead?’, New Statesman, 27 November 2007 and ‘Is Feminism Relevant to 21st-Century Fiction’, Independent, 13 May 2011.

The office of magical thinking

Here are five of rules of thumb, should all the fingers on one of your hands turn into thumbs and you decide to rule them.

1 There is no day too dull, no problem too great that cannot be fixed with a couple of plays of ‘Rush Rush’ by Paula Abdul.

2 The amount of time it takes for you to get over him is exactly the same amount of time it will take for him to start missing you.

3 Talking about exercise burns exactly the same amount of calories as doing exercise.

4 ‘When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say YES!’

5 The office sucks.

Four of these are true. And one – is wrong! Damn wrong!

‘Yay, I’m in the office!’ is not a sentence one frequently hears, or at least not uncoated in the gloopy marinade of heavy sarcasm. ‘Yeah, I’m stuck in the office,’ is the more common phraseology.

Indeed, ‘an office job’ is often held up as precisely the opposite of human aspiration. ‘Pen-pusher’, ‘office lackey’, ‘wage slave’: the derogatory terms for a person devoted to the office life are many. The only positive one, really, is ‘boss’, and even that’s only a good thing if it’s you that has the title.

Oh sure, there is the whole ‘trapped sitting at the same desk every day, year upon year, watching your life go by as you work in this soul-crushing, dehumanising place doing a wholly pointless job’ element. Then there’s what Joshua Ferris described in his office-based novel, Then We Came to the End: ‘sitting all morning next to someone you deliberately cross the road to avoid at lunchtime’. (Although as true office devotees know, you don’t go out to eat your lunch: you eat at your desk while surfing the internet, thereby reducing your daily movement to a level one can only describe as ‘paraplegic’.)

But in the main, antipathy towards the office is merely a hangover from the teenage mentality that dominates so much of adult life. An example of this is the frisson that exists around alcohol twenty years after one is allowed to drink it legally, expressed in the faux-shamefaced boasting about how hilariously wasted one was the night before. You know, only really COOL people are allowed to buy alcohol.

But the most obvious manifestation of this mentality is in regard to the office. To work in an office is the adult equivalent of studying for an English test and giving the answers that you know will get you a decent grade as opposed to riffing off on your own torturously thought-out theories to express your individuality (working in the creative arts); crossing your fingers and hoping for the best (freelancing); or cheating (living off someone else). It’s the coward’s way, in other words, the approach that is boring and safe, in which the reliability of the outcome is in no way worth the monotony of the process.

But like telling the teacher what they want to hear in order to get on with your life as quickly and painlessly as possible, the office is deeply underrated. Far from being the place where your soul goes to die, it is the ideal environment for the human being, providing occupation, companionship, identity, shelter, food and water; in other words, all anyone needs to survive physically and emotionally. It is the Serengeti to your inner pinstriped tiger. And, of course, it also has that most basic of human requirements, too, the one God gifted to Moses on the Mount: free internet access.

In order to appreciate this, you have to leave the Office of Conditioned Responses and transfer yourself to the Office of Magical Thinking, and to help facilitate this, all your concerns will now be dealt with by HR, point by point. Tea and coffee will be available. Well, they are wherever you are reading this, presumably. And if they’re not, then this book is insulted that you are reading it in such a poor environment. No wonder you have trouble in the office, you anti-social weirdo.

1. ‘Office life is so predictable and always the same!’

Along with Manhattan and Paris, the office is one of only three places on earth that looks EXACTLY how it is portrayed in the movies. The Apartment, Working Girl, Being John Malkovich, Wall Street, Office Space, Lost in America, The Secret of my Success: all these movies are not just set in offices but are pretty much predicated on the fascinating dynamics thereof. Not always in a positive manner, admittedly, but still. Do you know how hard it is to break into the movies?

The filmmakers do not prettify or uglify the offices as they do to, say, London, but rather keep them looking wholly realistic and utterly recognisable, meaning, ergo and thusly, that the office is inherently perfect. Any of those offices could be your office, if your office had people in it who look like Harrison Ford and with the comic timing of Jack Lemmon.

But whereas the synchronicity between the cinematic and the reality is seen as proof of Manhattan and Paris’s miraculous aesthetics, with skyscrapers that twinkle in the night like promises and elegant cobbled streets lit by Beaux Arts street lamps, it is seen in a somewhat less affirmative light in regard to the office, with its aisles of filing cabinets bedecked with three-month-old Styrofoam coffee cups with odd semicircle chunks ripped out along the rims.

Whenever a location scores a long-term gig to appear onscreen, this is generally considered an enormous compliment to the venue. So great, even, that it may become something of an annoyance to those who dwell there in real life, judging from the sign outside the house in New York that was used as the setting for Carrie’s apartment in Sex and the City. Across the beautiful high steps that front this elegant brownstone house is a long thick chain and on which a sign hangs that snarls, pit bull-like: ‘Tourists: FUCK OFF.’ I paraphrase, but only slightly.

Yet even though the office setting has appeared in more films than desert islands, no one ever stands in the middle of an office, arms akimbo, digital camera at the ready and says, ‘Wow, it’s just like being in a movie!’

So the office slogs on. It is the location equivalent of one of those great character actors who everyone dimly recognises but no one appreciates, who gets steady work but never a good table at Spago’s. Really, what does a location have to do to get some validation in this town?

This outrageous double standard is a tragedy, not just because it has blinded that ultimate peddler of visual clichés, Woody Allen, to the obvious idea of making an office-based movie;⁵ it also means millions, nay, BILLIONS of people fail to realise, daily, that, far from throwing their lives down the plughole of monotony, they are living the Hollywood dream. Mia Farrow in Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo had to wait for an invitation from Jeff Daniels before she could step into the world of cinema. You, on the other hand, get to do it effortlessly five days a week, every week, until the day you die. Isn’t that awesome?⁶

2. ‘The office keeps me from pursuing my dreams!’

As anyone who works from home can tell you, unless your dreams are sitting at home, watching Loose Women and masturbating all day, the office is not keeping you from anything (and if you are ever tempted to do both of those activities at the same time, then it probably would be best if you stayed at home and out of society’s way).

No doubt images of working to your own inner timetable instead of doing the 9–5 are dancing in your head: days that are peppered with spontaneous trips to museum exhibitions and mid-afternoon yoga classes in which you actually have space to do a warrior position, unlike in the overcrowded 6.30 p.m. classes in which all moves are accompanied by two slaps in the face and a kick in the butt from the people packed in next to you. Maybe you could even get on with writing that novel you’ve been thinking about for eight years but were prevented from starting by the office, yes, even on weekends, vacations and other days when you were not, literally speaking, in the office. It is still the office’s fault that the world has not been gifted with your creative talents.

But such potential bonuses are the buttercream icing on your carrot cake, the occasional brilliant guest appearance on Saturday Night Live: insufficient compensation for a dreary base. Working from home requires relying on one’s own self-discipline to work from somewhere that probably has many more distractions than an average office does as well as that cruel bitch of a siren, that battery-powered heroin: the TV remote.

If you should ever feel like maybe your home is getting a bit dull, then stay home to work one day and you will marvel at how you have been living in a veritable Disney World all these years without even noticing. Look at all these old copies of magazines you could spend the morning reading! And music playlists that need making! And old photos that require organising! (But don’t stay home two days in a row because at that point your home will start to feel more like a prison and you’ll probably have to move.)

Although the internet has now made shopping from the office possible, the threat of your boss walking up behind you generally acts as a dissuasion from clicking on net-a-porter and topshop.com more than twice an hour. The office is a similarly excellent preventative against obesity and food poisoning, if only because it is physically separating you from your fridge which, unlike the office canteen, is open for business allllll dayyyyyy lonnnnng. And, Jesus Christ, free! Free food – all day! How have you not noticed this before about your home? You would not believe how delicious that three-days-out-of-date pot of hummus will look when you have a deadline.

The downside to the free food, though, is that working from home will turn you feral. Never mind that old saw about not getting dressed until 2 p.m. if you work from home – try having to test your toothbrush for residues of wetness before opening the door for a delivery at 5 p.m. because you can’t remember if you brushed your teeth today yet or not. That’s when you know you have gone fully homeworker feral and you will probably never be fit to be socialised ever again.

In short, the office is daycare for adults. And do you know how much daycare for kids costs these days? And you’re getting this daycare, not just for free, but for minus free in that they’re paying you to be there! How totally baller is that?⁷

3. ‘I hate my job!’

I’m not here to help you love your job. I’m here to help you love the office. Next!

4. ‘Everyone in my office drives me insane!’

You don’t need to be a screenwriter for The Office, either the original UK or the far superior (whoa, controversial!) US version to know that there are little glimpses of joy to be found in the world of office dynamics. But you also don’t need to have worked in an office for three decades to know that ‘little glimpses of joy’ means ‘long stretches of intense irritation’.

Most humans like companionship but most humans would also like to choose who their companions are and not have to spend most of their waking hours with people they barely know and like less every day, for years and years and years on end. Arranged marriage is illegal in western countries yet at least in an arranged marriage you can get out of the house and away from your non-chosen one; there is no such escape in an office environment. In order to be able to do crazy things like eat and pay your rent, you need to spend long swathes of time with your assigned companions.⁸ Irritation in these instances is inevitable, but not for the seemingly obvious reason.

The truth is, the natural human condition can be summed up as, ‘increasingly irritated and resentfully unsatisfied’. This irritation comes from the gaseous formation, Irritationium, which resides behind everyone’s eyeballs and when a human begins to roll their eyes, this is like turning a doorknob and opening the door to release the Irritationium. The first thing Irritationium does is seek out its opposite force, dopamine. When dopamine floods the brain, making you happy, Irritationium immediately follows it, dulling down your happiness receptors and sensitising the parts of your brain that make you aware of being bored, grumpy and in the line that is moving slowest. This is why, by the third day of being on the holiday of your dreams, the initial appreciation of the idyllic white sandy beaches and abject self-indulgence will have faded and all you’ll be able to see is how that fat guy from room 202 always gets the best beach chair and that the waiter with the glasses never serves you first.

But Irritationium doesn’t need dopamine to work. It is just as effective with black holes or, as you know them, wasted moments of boredom that you won’t even remember at the end of the day, let alone at the end of your life. Nature abhors a vacuum and so Irritationium swiftly fills it with questions about why you ALWAYS get stuck behind the tall guy at the cinema.

Human beings need something on which to focus their irritation like they need toilets for their waste products: office colleagues are the receptacles for irritation that your entire being is constantly defecating. Thus, if one removes the colleagues from the equation, the irritation will not disappear; rather, it will merely require another receptacle and if one is working on one’s own that receptacle will be you.

Why can’t you ever focus for more than two seconds before flicking over to some stupid internet blog? God, where is that file – why are you always so freaking disorganised? You haven’t changed since you were sixteen when you would lose your bike key every other day. Jesus, it’s 11.15 – why in God’s name are you eating lunch now?

These are just some of the delightful conversations you will have with yourself – your irritating, useless self – should you work alone and out of the office. The seemingly obvious solution is to become a TWITLO, or one of Those Who Insist on Taking their Laptop Out, inevitably to a chain coffee house, Apple Mac and Starbucks mug coordinated ever so zeitgeistly. But you will find that it takes on average 7.2 seconds for the Irritationium to arrive and you will become consumed with hatred for every single other person in the café, even more so than you ever were for your office colleagues. Thereon, you will spend at least four hours of every day wandering from café to café, on the impossible quest of a café that does not possess any patrons who annoy you, but enough patrons so you don’t feel self-conscious working in the café. This is the Xanadu of the freelancer.

Just as working from home will begin to make you hate your increasingly prison-like home, so working on your own will make you hate yourself. Work in an office and your flat will be a soothing oasis, work with colleagues and you will be the only sensible one in a building full of crazies, morons and knuckle-crackers. As it is written in the Bible: ‘The path to a happy life is strewn with obsessive hatred of others and a constant mental cloud of confusion about why your obviously superior skills and insight remain unappreciated.’ All office workers know that. Right?⁹

⁵ An interchangeable leading actor, doing his best Woody Allen impression, is stammering and tugging his hair as he tries to work the photocopier; an inappropriately young actress sorts it out for him, but notwithstanding her technological wizardry, her personal life is a mess and she is prone to inexplicable displays of over-emotion; even though he fails to hold any obvious attractions – physically, emotionally, intellectually, personally – all the women in the office are just crazy for this self-obsessed stammerer, and he valiantly battles them away, except for the implausibly predatory teenage office intern who he is pretty much forced to sleep with; the women who are his age who want to sleep with him, on the other hand, are uniformly depicted as crazy, embarrassing and damaged (but not in a sexy way); at the office Christmas party the over-emotional woman turns up with her husband but after a conversation with the stammering man during which he repeatedly puts her down and mocks her ignorance of boring subjects like jazz and films about the Holocaust, she realises that he is the one for her; there is a showdown between the husband and the stammering man in the office, in which they run around the banks of desks and throw pencils at one another; everybody ends up exactly as they began and the stammerer continues to sleep with the teenage intern, raising the question what the point of this whole movie was anyway; the end.

⁶ Rhetorical.

⁷ Rhetorical.

⁸ It is, in fact, a little like being a kept man or woman. If you want to make office life really exciting, pretend you’re Vivian in Pretty Woman and someone is paying you to spend time with them all day, albeit without the sex, the ‘big mistake’ shopping excursions or the rich partner who looks exactly like Richard Gere, which is the only kind of man who picks up hookers in LA. That’s a useful career tip, girls!

⁹ Rhetorical.

A day in your life in Daily Mail headlines

‘Not so glam now! Hadley dares to leave the house at 9 a.m. without any make-up.’ ‘Hadley enjoys the sun in a denim miniskirt – but how old is TOO OLD to flaunt one’s legs? Our top writers discuss.’ ‘Shadow or cellulite? Hadley flashes some unfortunate mottling as she gets on the bus.’ ‘Hadley wolfs down a croissant on the bus. Doesn’t she know all that sugar and fat cause cancer?’ ‘Tea for two? No, just one, actually: sad Hadley cuts a lonely figure as she buys just one cup of tea in the office canteen.’ ‘Hadley flaunts her bombshell curves as she walks to her desk.’ ‘As Hadley’s clothes struggle to contain her expanding figure we ask, why ARE rates of obesity for women rising?’ ‘Fashion faux pas! Hadley wears her favourite blue shoes for the THIRD day in a row. Doesn’t she know she should be supporting young British designers?’ ‘Lady in red! As Hadley dons a new red top studies show that women are TWICE as likely to go into debt from compulsive shopping than men.’ ‘As Hadley spends another morning in the office, a top vicar writes: “Feminism has forced women to deny their natural maternal desires and pushed them into the workplace with disastrous consequences for our society.”’

‘Hadley and mysterious friend eat their sandwiches outside – but is there more to this friendship than meets the eye?’ ‘Maybe choose a salad next time! This unflattering photo shows that Hadley would do better cutting down on the carbohydrates for a while.’ ‘Lunch or baby bump? That is quite a tummy bulge – will there be a little Hadley soon?’ ‘Hadley and male colleague talk about “work” at Hadley’s desk. Our resident body language expert analyses what their looks REALLY say.’ ‘Brain drain: Hadley has spent a total of seven hours in front of her laptop which, one doctor says, will “definitely” give her a brain tumour.’

‘Eating the pain away: Hadley turns to her favourite chocolate bar to help her get through another lonely afternoon.’ ‘What a difference two decades make! The summer sun shows how much Hadley’s skin has changed since this photo was taken twenty years ago.’ ‘Oh dear! Hadley changes into a pair of unflattering flat shoes for the commute home. Our style expert says a pair of four-inch nude heels would suit her heavy legs better.’ ‘Wash your hands! As Hadley gets the bus home, our tests prove that she will encounter over 10,000 germs on public transport, all of which can cause cancer.’ ‘House price horror: a top estate agent claims, “Single women like Hadley hogging flats that families need has had a crippling effect on the value of properties in neighbourhoods across Britain.”’ ‘As Hadley tries to drink her cares away with friends after work we ask, why ARE women reaching for the bottle so much these days?’ ‘Worse for wear, Hadley stumbles home after ANOTHER night out. But, warns a former self-described feminist, these not-so-young women will regret their selfish, irresponsible behaviour.’ ‘As unlucky in love Hadley goes to bed alone again, a top scientist estimates how many fertile years she has left – and you’ll be SHOCKED by the answer.’ ‘Lullabye baby? Hadley sleeps soundly which, one nurse says, is a common sign of the early stages of pregnancy.’

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