I’ve just started a new job (as I may have mentioned once or twice or fifteen times to you already). The strangest part, by miles, is going from knowing everyone in the office to knowing nobody at all.
One of the really lovely things about my new place is that there’s a break out space where lots of people sit to have their lunch. But oh my goodness how overwhelming. I’m starting to get a bit better at knowing who people are, but for the first few days I wished more than anything for Janice from Mean Girls to appear with a map to explain the tribes to me. (I’m not sure what the professional equivalent of Sexually Active Band Geeks is, but I bet there is one).
A few months ago, JoJo and I had the most hipster night of our lives, when we went to watch Beyond Clueless, a documentary about teen movies, at a “Pillow Cinema” screening in a disused tube station in Shoreditch. It is a wonder that we did not spontaneously sprout trendy facial hair just by being there.
The film, made by the precociously talented Charlie Lyne, is a dreamy wander through a decade of high school movies, “from Clueless to Mean Girls”. Watching it, I realised how much of the lexicon of those films has seeped into my bloodstream – especially, for some reason, Mean Girls.
I routinely tell people that my hair is full of secrets. I am filled with quiet glee when I have occasion to say that it’s October 3rd. At last year’s Christmas party, Jo and I were baffled at the appearance of a mystery dapper man: he doesn’t even go here! I have celebrated news of babies, weddings, promotions and new houses with excited text messages: YOU GO, GLEN COCO!
Get out of my brain, Tina Fey.
All this to say: naturally, I must have Jingle Bell Rock in my Christmas tunes rotation. For the playlist, pick your favourite version. For now, it has to be – has to be – Cady.