Blonde's Eye View: 10 years a Wharf slave
COMMENTBy Angela Clarke
I'm so organised I keep each of my Wharf columns for posterity. However, I'm so disorganised I only file them once a year.
For 11 months and 29 days of the year, my home office is dominated by a teetering totem pole of papers, which threatens to collapse over anyone that strays close.
It's a newspaper guard dog warding off visitors, and the Hoover.
I'm fond of my towering health and safety risk. I like to think that one day my body will be discovered lying under a slew of newspapers, entombed forever in my own words and the property pages.
Recently, like an Indiana Jones of office admin, I bravely fought off paper cuts and dug deep into that ink for the great annual file.
And I, a raider of the lost Clarke, unearthed a great discovery. In September 2013 I'd officially been writing for The Wharf for 10 years.
I'm so organised I know I've been at The Wharf for a decade. I'm so disorganised I missed this monumental anniversary by four months.
It would have made a charming column. A commemoration of whinging. A historical record of changes locally, and with my hair. A brilliant birthday blow-out of a piece.
If I wasn't a third of a year too late. Technically this is my 10 year and four month Whanniversary. Which reminds me of two dating kids celebrating the random event of their nine-day anniversary, because that feels unbelievably long if you're 11.
The Wharf and I have been "going out" for 3,775 days. Almost a third of my life. My relationship with the paper's lasted longer than any of my boyfriends.
I've spent a decade writing, living, and drinking in Canary Wharf. Ten years a slave. I need to get out more.
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