Ophelia's back!

"So have you missed me?"

I’ve missed you. Without being able to sound off about the dire state of life, work, office politics and the latitudinal hang of the runner’s Calvin Kleins right here on my ickle blog, I’ve been lost.

I’ve bottled so much up recently I’m pissing volvic and the only thing I’ve managed to get off my chest was a sweaty-palmed commissioning editor I had been seeing.

Unfortunately everything I initially saw in him (Wit! Charm! Money! Exotic Holidays! Accidental Pregnancy followed by Life-Long Financial Security!) transmogrified into a pasty, red-faced egotist with occasional bad breath who’s idea of foreplay was letting me getting a word in edgeways (as long as the word was blow-job).

I just couldn’t do it. I’m afraid the wags and the wannabes and the endemol-blondes* will just have to keep their trophy-shagging badges. I tried and I failed. Once the first layer of polish started to flake off it was all downhill. (The first layer of polish, by the way, for any potential Mr Bottoms reading this, is the one that conceals farting in front of a lady)

Dinner at the Ivy with telly bigwigs and the occasional B-list presenter I could stomach: watching him pick out a rancid piece of pre-masticated spinach from between his molars, study it closely on the tip of a slightly grubby index finger, and then chow it down for a second time, was a bridge too far. Alas, I couldn’t bring myself to commit to a life with someone I didn’t really truly love.

Who’d have thought after so many years of shallowness that an overwhelming dose of self-respect would bring me crashing down at the final hurdle huh? If only that pesky desire for standing on my own two faux-Leboutins wouldn’t get in the way, I could be rich (by proxy, at least).

Ultimately however., shagging the comm. ed of a small cable channel that most people have never heard of, let alone subscribe to, was never going to make me truly happy, or keep me in coke and cocktails. As somebody more eloquent (and far-sighted) than I am once said – “you can only really ever shag your way to the middle-ground.”

So here I am – back among you, newly single and ready to lap-dance (if necessary) up that greasy old pole we euphemistically call a career in TV. Yay!

Ophelia “but you can shag your way to the” Bottom

*with the greatest of respect and apologies to those blondes working at endemol who are not giggling idiots with cerebral bypasses whose only functioning neurone causes them to giggle uncontrollably every time Charlie Brooker walks within ten feet.