Why subs matter

Fairfax journos are striking over plans by management to outsource 66 subbing jobs from the regional group (41 from the Newcastle Herald alone) to a sub hub in New Zealand.
There are so many things offensive about this plan, it's hard to know where to start: maybe with some myths that management seems to have about journalists, and subs in particular.
myth 1) subs are cranky shits that get crankier as they get older, and can easily be replaced by 12-year-old graduates on clerical wages.
yes, subs are cranky shits who get crankier as they get older, just like everyone else charged with the responsibility of making sure things are correct, able to be understood by even the thickest readers, and legally unactionable by even the meanest litigants. Subs are like mothers telling teenagers to clean their rooms. Eventually they might clean their rooms. or not. But you can't stop nagging and you keep cleaning  the room anyway. And eventually you become an editor and hire a cleaner (sub) to do it for you.
myth 2) journalists are precious and up themselves
Some journalists are precious and up themselves, just like anyone else with the power to affect change through the written or spoken word. Mostly, the law (and the subs) keep their egos in check. Mostly, they use their powers for good.
myth 3) journalists are resistant to change.
Some journalists are resistant to change, especially when it has no basis in logic or commonsense. However, most journalists operate in an environment of constant change. That's what their stories are about. Change, how communities win or lose, how they cope or don't. Journalists have shown they are willing to learn new tasks, often without enough training, and work harder and faster than they ever have. Journalists everywhere are doing more, with less. And loving it (mostly).
myth 4) Journalists have no idea of the media's dire straits.
Dire Straits was a band around when we did our cadetships, wasn't it?
myth 5) Consultation means telling people what to do, five minutes before they need to do it.
Consultation actually means asking people what they ought to do, with a little bit of lead time.
Fairfax journalists know the state we're in; that's why we're all working faster and harder, and coming up with inventive ways to do more with less. In the Newcastle Herald newsroom, journalists have just been involved in a six-month process to create a New Newsroom, a fully-integrated multi-platform strategy that looks like something a consultant might have dreamed up.
Outsourcing subbing was never on the agenda. So yesterday. So done. So failed.
Maybe you'll hear more about our plan, see it in action even, reap the benefits and rewards of our foresight. Or maybe you'll just get your editing from across the Tasman. Dire strait indeed.

My broken-hearted girl

There's a boy out there who has broken my daughter's heart. I don't personally want to break his legs, but I can't vouch for the actions of her father. Haven't seen her cry so much since our cat died when she was five. This is life, I know, and they need to live it. But it hurts. And there's not much beyond strawberries and ice-cream, and hugs and kisses, that I can do.

Will the Fat Ladies sing?

Had been going okay on my all new and improved non-crap-eating routine, until this evening when I inadvertently ate two chocolate freddos while watching the mullets flying in the breeze on Brothers In Arms The Bikie Wars. Bloody netball fund-raisers (the chocolates, not the bikie wars, although netball ladies can be brutal). Fat-raisers, they should be called.
But, as they say at the Fat Ladies (aka Weight Watchers) "tomorrow, ladies, is another day". They also say "nothing tastes as good as being slim feels" but that is bollocks.
A friend (who does not need to go at all!) suggested I join her when she signs up to the Fat Ladies this week (I can pretend she is seeking moral support, when in actual fact she is telling me I am a lazy lard arse, but that's ok, because I am).
I do have fond memories of the Fat Ladies, and I may just take her up on the offer.
I have been three times (that is for three lengths of time), after each baby and then again a few years ago when my weight crept back up. I found it much harder to shift this last time (being over 40 and all) and imagine it will be nigh on impossible this time without some form of exercise (and I'd rather chew my arm off, quite frankly - good protein there). Singing is my exercise, and running up and down the stairs to the laundry.
Am I ready to do it again? Not sure. There's no point going before the commitment is there 100%, it's just too soul destroying to go and not see results.
Maybe I'll leave it another week. But, back on the straight and narrow tomorrow. No more chocolate. No more party food. Oh, but it's Wednesday, hump tea day. If there's Portugese tarts, I'm a gonner. And I'll only eat the sugar-free sausage rolls. Pure protein.

Do I stay or do I go now?

Difficult decision time. My bank told me my house was worth $600,000. I assumed this was undervalued, as that's what banks do. The valuation was thorough (not just a book one) so I placed faith in it. I'm not cross with the bank, just the stupid real estate market. I bought out my husband, taking out a mortgage to give him $300,000. Now, buyers are telling me my house is only worth $570,000. Maybe. If they are feeling generous. And my agent wants $15,000 of that.
So, if I sell for $570,000, and pay my agent $15,000, then I will get $555,000.
My share of the house then drops to $255,000. His stays at $300,000. I am $45,000 out of pocket (theoretically).
I'm not sure I can cop that. Or is that being bloody-minded? Maybe he'll give me $22,500 back? (kind husband, are you reading? xx)
Should I just cut my losses and move on? (Can I face moving anyway?)
I can buy a house down the road for $391,000. With stamp duty of $13,500, the cost of the house is $404,500.
So, I get $555,000 for mine and pay out $405,000 say. I clear $150,000. If I give all that to the bank, my mortgage (now at $310,000, borrowed extra for legals etc) drops to $160,000. But I need to spend about $20,000 on the new house, relevelling, fixing garage, repainting, maybe getting new kitchen in aubergine So, if I give the bank $130,000 (instead of $150,000), my mortgage drops to $180,000.
Repayments drop by $200 a week (over 30 years, mind! How can I have a mortgage at 75? what bank in their right mind lent me this money?) Still, that sounds very appealing, repayments at 20% of income rather than 33%. Especially given Fairfax job security considerations.
But wait, there's more. My second 30-day term (I signed a contract to buy new house conditional on the sale of my old house, no penalty) runs out on May 28. I have one buyer a little bit interested, but they need to sell too. I really just want a quiet life. Would someone please buy my lovely house.
As you can see, I'm not afraid to share my financials. I'd appreciate anyone willing to share advice. Someone might even check the maths :)
Or do I just say f*** it, I'm staying put. Get myself a pool boy and a gardener, send the children down the saltmines and the pets to do TV commercials? Take in ironing. Give up my shoe fetish. Buy home brand. Shop at Aldi. And continue to enjoy the thrill of mortgage stress like everyone else?

A white towel moment

Day one of being Drew Barrymore and there's a Drew Barrymore movie on telly! Music and Lyrics, with Hugh Grant. Love him too!
So, resisted the urge to devour chocolate in solid form today, opting instead for a skinny hot chocolate with an early lunch. I think this is asseptable on day one.
Otherwise my only treats were dates, and I had three.
Lovely noodle dish for dinner (although its preparation did involve what henceforth will be known as a Lap Chong moment). I had to buy the Chinese sausage for the noodles, and on finding it in the Asian isle at Coles, did an impression of my husband's impression of a cleaver-wielding Asian chef, shouting Lap Chong! Lap Chong! Of course, I had a meltdown (henceforth, as aforementioned, to be known as a Lap Chong moment) where a flood of memories involving the sweet and fatty pork sausage overwhelmed me. "Mum, you can't cry in Coles!" said Fairy Mary, but not in the tone of voice that might have said "Jesus, mum, like get it together, we are like in public!"
Her voice was tender, her hug enveloping and her sentiment was genuine.
Lap Chong moment passed.
On a cheerier note, I'm having at the moment what a dear friend has coined a "white towel moment", the kind of moment you can have because there are no men, children or animals within cooee and it would be safe to bathe with a white towel. (not entirely true, there is a cat on the bad, but she is on her best behaviour)
I am tucked up in my bed, fresh clean purple sheets smelling like the sunshine; gardenia and sandlewood candle burning, and no one to tell me to turn out the light.
I don't even trust myself with white towels, but this moment captures the sentiment.

Being Drew Barrymore

I had a dream that I went to the hairdresser's and came out Drew Barrymore.
And I think the hairdresser might have been Gok Wan, who isn't even a hairdresser, but does take scissors to unsightly baggy clothes.
I wonder if I want to be Drew Barrymore. Wild child redeemed? (I'm hoping my wildest years are still ahead of me). The ability to wear red lipstick (yes, I would like that).
Maybe I just need a makeover (hence the appearance of style queen the Fairy Gok Mother?)
Yes, coupled with the fact that my size 14 jeans are tight, and I stopped at the servo to get a Crunchie on the way home last night, the dream is sending me a clear message.
Get off your lard arse.
Ok, Fairy Gok Mother/Drew Barrymore apparition, I hear you, and will obey.

Cut me and I will bleed

This separation thing is a tricky business. The what-if thoughts are never far away.
Yesterday, in the middle of the mall, I decided I did not want to be separated any more; that I wanted to be with my estranged husband. That's it and that's all. So I rang him. Stupid. But fortunately, rather than saying: That's it, please come back, I really want to try again, I managed to say, um, I've bought Fairy Mary a birthday card and I'll write your name on it too.
I had a little cry, a little sit in the sun, and went about my day.
I know I didn't mean it, well, I thought I knew I didn't mean it. It's just that the dryer's busted and the heat lamp in the ensuite is busted and our firstborn is 16 and it's cold at night.
And I'm a touch pathetic.
But, tonight, actually having him to dinner with his family for the birthday celebrations, helped me get back on the straight and narrow. I don't want to be married to him anymore. I don't want to live with him anymore. I love him, and always will. But it's the idea of our marriage that holds the appeal, not the actual marriage.
The dagger through the heart was my complimenting him on his choice of up to the minute jewellery for his daughter. How did you know it was so cool, I asked, knowing instantly I didn't want to hear the answer. He couldn't take credit for the selection, he said. He'd had help. Of course he had. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But cut me and I will bleed.

My little girl is 16

My firstborn, Lydia, is 16 tomorrow, and, as usual, I'm having my birthday eve reminiscences.
The second child is not nearly as lifechanging as the first, although the arrival of little Gabe three and a half years later would certainly shake things up a bit.
But when you have your firstborn, you go from single (even if you are married, I think) to family.
The shared act of going through labour, birth, and the early days in hospital, and then bringing home a newborn are indelibly printed on my brain. Such a special time. Cocooned as you are against the outside world, your sole focus this new family unit and the love (and challenges) it brings.
This tiny baby, so amazingly beautiful (even though she was wonky and lopsided, we thought she was divine).
We brought her home to Wickham, where we would also later bring Gabe, to our home that used to be a maternity hospital, run by Nurse Bundoch. There was a ghost, a friendly ghost, mother or midwife, who would walk up the hall and check on the baby from the doorway. Chills me still, but not in a bad way. I don't think Lydi could see her (neither could I, only sense her) but Gabe definitely could. He would crane his neck to see around me from his change table to look to the door where she would appear. He wasn't afraid, just curious.
And now Lydi is 16, or will be when she wakes. And the darling little brother she so cared for and protected is 12. How lovely and smart and beautiful she is. How thoughtful and kind (and quite the opposite some times!) We've got her a bundle of purple goodies she'll open first thing, then head off to school, where no doubt there will be balloons and lollies and well wishes galore, then we'll go to get her learner's permit (good grief) and come home to enjoy one of her favourite dinners, lamb roast with rosemary potatoes, with the family.
I'm so proud of my big girl, who will always be my little girl. And so full of love for both my babies.

My mother's day

What a lovely mother's day! Lovely gifts, lovely food, lovely company. Can't remember enjoying a mother's day more. Plenty of food for thought, though. Had dinner with two lovely friends, one of whom I hadn't seen for 15 years, last night. They are about my age (give or take), neither is married, neither has children, although one is contemplating both,  she's not sure in what order. The other wonders if it has all passed her by. She said she woke up on a birthday recently with the dawning revelation: how did she not get married and have children?
It certainly wasn't a deliberate decision. It was not a matter of choosing career or travel or adventure over marriage and children, and there had been relationships. Just not the right one.
She asked me, as I droned on about the adventure that is being a parent of teens, whether I had actually enjoyed motherhood along the way (she remembers me being quite ambivalent to both marriage and children in the early days). I had to stop and think. Had I enjoyed motherhood?
I said once to another friend (who managed to write it down despite the amount of wine we had consumed) who also is unmarried and without children, again because of circumstance rather than choice, that children open your eyes and break your heart. It is a wild ride. But I can't imagine an alternative. My children are 12 and 16, and what amazing young people they are. Spirited, smart, gorgeous, independent, yet still very much my babies. As if scripted, Lydia found some old photos this morning of a time when we lived at a previous house (when I was thin and blond - there are bikini shots!) when they had wide smiles filled with baby teeth. There were beach holidays with cousins, Lydi's first day of school, with great big hat and great big bag and great big smile. Gabe in his Bob the Builder overalls with his collection of tools. He wore his safety goggles for days on end, his little ears turning over under the straps. We had lunch with my mum, and afternoon tea with Stefan's mum. Plus our extended families. It was a lovely day, when the really important things take priority. On some mother's days I've almost begrudged having to traipse around after others, wishing instead I could stay home and spend my mother's day I pleased. But pleased I was today, travelling to see the people that are nearest and dearest. I quote my friend, the one contemplating marriage and babies. (Her partner is keener on the second than the first). So why does he want a baby? I asked her. After the slightest pause, she said: Because that's what life is about.

Has Offspring jumped the shark?

I needed to wait a day before making the claim, because I was in a pretty bad mood last night, but I do believe Offspring has jumped the shark.
The neurotic Nina and her dysfunctional crew have been faves since the word go, but this week, I think the writers overdid it.
Nina seemed to totally unravel, but not in the way we know and love. And the hyper-anxious Gary McDonald just gave me the jitters.
Billie was just too bumbling, Mick just too maudlin, and I'm over the sulking Darcy and what's her name. Jimmy was just too stupid, Tara just too much of a bitch, and that other midwife giving the antenatal lecture just plain boring in her boredom.
And I almost forgot the pathetic Patrick. Lordy, being back the gorgeous Havel.
I don't even know if I can give it one more episode.
I think if I hear Nina's phone again (although it did drown at the Chinese restaurant) I will hurl myself off the deck.
Phew. And goodnight.

we've all gone soft

I think it's a measure of how old we three are that I have a cat and a dog on my bed.
Me, showing my age, because I swore I would not even let the dog in the house, let alone on the pillow where he is now!
Him, because until very recently (when his pancreatitis and arthritis took hold) he would have chased, harrassed and bitten the cat until I came to her rescue.
Her, because until very recently (when she learned to stand up for herself and rake him on the nose) she would have dropped a lung and run for her life.
But here they are, both snoring their muffled little snores, on my bed.
Normally, she would stay in and he would go out. Cat in, dog out, like the kids book.
But tonight, I might just let him stay where he is.
All hell could break loose if he hears a burglar/possum/pin drop in the house next door.
But, baby, it's cold outside.
We've all gone soft.

ink stink: young travellers regret tatts

And from the NO SHIT SHERLOCK files: The Press Association reports from London that two-thirds of young tourists who get tattoos on holidays regret them when they get home.
The startling finding is based on 1800 respondents aged 18 to 25 to a sunshine.co.uk survey, 19% of whom got a tattoo on holiday. Of those 65% were women. Popular designs were stars, a motto or phrase, and a heart. But those who regretted it most were the folks who thought they were getting a Chinese symbol for "warrior" on their arse that actually read "wanker". (Okay, the last sentence is not true).

will men follow dinosaurs

Isn't this a lovely story?  A new study (by David Wilkinson of Liverpool John Moores University in England, published in Current Biology) suggests dinosaur flatulence and belching 200 million years ago may have helped overheat the earth.
Imagine farting yourself out of existence. I wonder if men will do the same.

By popular demand: an earring lost and found

 I have readers! I may not have too many followers, but thank you to the lovely folk who email and FB message and tweet in response to what I write. I love you both ;)
A few folk have asked me what became of that lost earring that sent me into meltdown at the hockey, and although I did post a comment to my piece, it deserves a proper postscript.
It was found!
When it wasn't in my car, or bag, or underclothes, I had given up hope by the time I got to work the next morning that the delicate rose gold and garnet drop, given to me by my husband before he was my husband, would ever be seen again.
I put a message on our  intranet and asked the GM's PA to send out an all points, in the hope someone had found it.
And behold, before she even saw the message, the lovely Eve Nesmith discovered the earring in the ladies loo! Saying to herself "this looks like Aly" she returned it to me, and had no idea why I sobbed and squeezed the life out of her until she got back to her desk and read the intranet message and my  blog.
Just as the loss of the earring was symbolic of the loss of my marriage, so its recovery by Eve was symbolic of our friendship. Frequently coming to each other's rescue, we share a special bond forged over pub lunches and strolls in the mall. We take it in turns to be soothing sage and cackling mad woman. We laugh and cry and bitch and moan and eat gozleme and buy flowers. I'm lucky to have her.
And a postscript to the postscript: the poor girl who got whacked in the mouth at hockey (thereby diverting attention from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her empty earlobe) is fine, but has had two teeth dislodged and will require a retrofit of her braces. Still, she's beautiful and nearly 16, like my own lovely, and has made it through another hockey game intact. She copped a ball in the neck, but I don't think her nervous mother saw.

agent for orange

I love it that orange is making a comeback this season.
I bought three new tops today, and at least two should come with a volume control.
The brighter the better, come winter, I say.
I've always loved orange.
As a little girl I had orange curtains in my room (although they were not of my choosing) and the material made swooshy noises when you rubbed it between your fingers. It was most glamorous.
My first car was orange, a 1979 Escort, and I rue the day I sold it to an ungrateful acquaintance who quickly traded it in. He didn't love it nearly enough.
My favourite lipstick was orange, and tasted and smelled as good as it looked.
It was a Nutrimetics product, now long gone. Jasmine, I think it was called.
My favourite scarf is orange, a hippy thing with some tie-dyed pink and yellow was well.
And my new tops, well, of course they, along with my new tribal earrings in guess what colour, are already faves.
Sorry, colleagues and acquaintances, if it burns your retinas.
I need a little (alright, a lot) of colour in my life.

My melting moments

I'm quite proud of how I've tidied up my act a bit since I've been in "open house" mode.
Dishes don't get left on the sink overnight, nor clothes and towels on the floor, nor dog poo on the ground. Everything in its place. I've even taken to cleaning. Windex is my middle name. The ironing basket is empty (except for six odd socks). The kitty litter is fresh.
I'll never become one of those perplexing people who irons sheets and undies, but I am pleased that I've overcome my slovenly ways, or at least overcome the slovenly ways of the people I live/d with.
The keeping up appearances has even extended to my own self (most days), when I've taken a bit more care with accessories and lippy. My eyebrows have definition. I've stopped biting my nails. I have a swagger.
But I let the team down tonight. And had to eat four Melting Moments as a result.
My own personal melting moment happened at Coles (which I still call B-Lo) at Elermore Vale. Out-of-towners can get a mental image based on its proximity to, and shared patronaged with, the Shaft Tavern. All class.
 I'd come home from netball, had a cuppa, and needed to restock the larder. Feeling the chill in the air, I swapped my free-flowing leopard print overshirt for a purple tracky top, and my caramel wedges for caramel uggs. The jeans were the same, but didn't look it. My hair was a bit on the tired side, and I had panda eyes. But, it's only Bi-Lo, right?
Well, I pulled up, and began my saunter in (its hard to saunter in uggs) when next to me appeared a vision in black and white.
Tall, slender, sunnies a la alex perry, she wore a white woolen trench, cinched ever so at the waist (she had a waist!), black skinny jeans (the stylish kind, jodhpurs almost) and black riding boots. She carried a white leather bag, just right for ducking to the shops, and an iPhone in a zebra striped case. There was the right amount of bling, the right amount of blush, and a hint of gloss to the pout.
She was not young, but she was beautiful.
She turned heads.
I did not.
I dragged my uggs through the isles, bought the Melting Moments, forgot the teabags, and fled for home. The first three Moments didn't hit the sides. The fourth made me feel sick.
Note to self: tomorrow, try harder.

Farewell Margaret Goumas

Have just heard the sad news that Newcastle cinema doyenne Margaret Goumas has passed away.
So many in Newcastle, and in the wider cinema community, will be shocked and saddened today.
My thoughts go out to Theo, who despite being called "a difficult man" on more than one occasion by Margaret, loved and needed his wife.
Who can forget Margaret holding court at the Showcase, dog Carmella as support act. Welcoming, knowledgable, opinionated, the height of a style and fashion all her own.
The battle, ultimately lost, to keep her valuable and vibrant city cinema open. And then her presence, often, at the Greater Union, where so many sought her out for her conversation and her movie critique.
Who can forget her time in local government, the objection to those uneven pavers in the mall (they ruined your heels) and her objection to breastfeeding in the cinema foyer.
The tumultous time that she and Theo split and the AVOs that made the front page.
And the reunion; living together again in a city apartment, seeing movies, going to dinner, walking along the waterfront.
The last time I saw Margaret was at Margin Call. Gorgeous as ever. I told her I had separated from my husband (she knew him well too) and she patted my arm and said "Look at you, you're strong and beautiful, you will be fine.We'll both be fine."
I was talking about her yesterday, suggesting we do a profile on her for a new women's website that is being launched, and recounting her response when I asked her to be the subject of a profile for Weekender last year.
"Oh, yes, there are stories, Alysson," she said, smiling. And without a hint of malice: "But many will have to wait until Theo is dead."
And now Margaret is. Farewell.

Going commando, and other underwear choices

My post on Facebook tonight that I love Commando, and subsequent discussion, got me thinking about underwear.
The Commando I was referring to was the gorgeous tank, inked creature on The Biggest Loser, who started out as the pseudo-military trainer from hell, hidden behind dark glasses, but is now, with baby blues revealed, the losers' best friend. And he's a delectable yet calorie-controlled treat of eye candy for the viewing public to boot.
But one Facebooker assumed the commando I was referring to was the practice of, how did she put it, wearing one's shorts without undies. Also known by the male part of my household as freeballing.
Now, I'm as liberal as the next tertiary-educated, recently separated, feminist, middle-aged working mother, but I do like my undies. And, sad to say, the bigger the better.
Not quite Bridget Jones mummy pants, but, when there are acres to cover, you won't do it with anal floss.
I have been known to "go commando" on occasions; skirt-wearing occasions where a visible panty line would be too horrific, or some serious action was anticipated (and I can hardly remember those days!! perhaps I'm making them up?) but mostly I do keep my knickers on.
And it would be unseemly to freeball wearing anything with a seam, surely?
Even the G-string is surely a contraption of torture.
I suspect it, and not merciless hunger, is the reason for the misery exhibited by Posh, and her supermodel ilk.
They really need to hoik out their undies, but someone's always watching.
To live life with a wedgie, truly perverse.

Number one in sex ed

We had a meltdown of the scholastic kind in the year 7 camp tonight, prompted by deadlines looming and past. Past is the deadline for returning the accelerometer that only got worn during war games on Playstation.
Looming are the speech on road safety (that almost got eaten by the dishwasher), the performance in a group of four of the original 64-bar drum composition (that may as well be performed by the dishwasher) and the graphic presentation of rules in the textile room (do not stick pins in your arms, or in other students arms etc).
Plus there are decimals coming out our decimals.
But there is one subject I'm not behind in, says Gabe, grinning. PE theory. Which in the old days was called sex education.
Ohh (nervous laughter from mother).
Today we talked about periods, and the girls were nervous so Dale and I read the whole section out.
Ohh (more nervous laughter from mother).
When I first tried to put a tampon in it only got halfway and got stuck, so I ...
Ohh (nervous interjection from mother) It must be because you have older sisters that you and Dale are so knowledgeable.
Yes, and we had to list the points for and against pads and tampons, and the girls only got three and Dale and I got 17.
Ohh (slighter braver mother, never show you're afraid). And what were some of them?
You know, you can't see them and you can go swimming and stuff.
And (before mother can even blush), we had to write these definitions and for "genitals" Dale wrote "smelly nut sacks" and (mother gagging now) there was this crossword and the only word we spelt wrong was masterbate (sic) (mother giggling now), and we didn't get 20 across which was "noctural emission". (mother puzzled now). Derrr, it was wet dream. And then the girls read out this passage: "I woke up and my sheets were all sticky...:
Mother, near faint, sighs with relief. If there's a gap in the knowledge, it probably means the experience is not yet first hand.
Why don't we watch some telly, little one.

Why I don't change banks

On the day the Reserve Bank delivers good news to home owners, my bank delivers quite the opposite.
My mortgage will increase from May 30, albeit only $3 a week.
I wonder if by the time that increase takes effect, I'll have another letter saying a decrease is about to take effect. I live in hope.
So why don't I change banks, I hear you ask?
Well, it's not that it's too difficult to change banks (well, it is a bit, but not impossible and easier than it used to be), it's just that it's too easy not to.
Inertia is a powerful force. So is kindness.
I had the same bank manager for 25 years, who I could call or email 24/7. Rod used to share a house with a friend of a friend and married another friend of that friend. And he is a nice guy, and now a lovely family man. Recently, because he was on leave and I needed help immediately, he pointed me in the direction of Brenda, who is equally obliging, and, in fact, going through a similar seismic shift in life circumstance to me. I fell in love.
Financial adviser, counsellor and member of the sisterhood rolled into one. We'd become besties, but that would be unprofessional.
Try as they will, call centre workers interracting with you as a customer reference number can't come close to that.