Home thoughts from a broad

I had forgotten how hard work is. It’s been over ten years since I toiled in a hectic television newsroom and, while my new job as a producer/researcher on a TV show is nothing like as stressful, the hours are bloody long.

Up at seven every morning and not home until 9.30pm sometimes. One night, I asked out loud: “Haven’t you people got homes to go to?” To which Jason, the VT editor, replied: “Well you certainly haven’t.” It’s funny because it’s true.

I made the mistake of telling my co-worker that Colin and I have sub-let our apartment, and moved in with friends to re-group financially. But things are looking up as 2010 continues to bring good fortune.

Not least the fact that our Green Cards have arrived, and Colin and I are now proud permanent residents of the United States of America. Everyone is thrilled for us, apart from my mum who thinks this means I am no longer British and she will never see me again.

Colin has started saying elevator, ’erb and sidewalk, and can’t stop smiling. That may be because I have a proper job with pay. And he was offered three writing commissions yesterday. There has definitely been a cosmic shift. In a good way.

My boss said I could work from home for a few days, which made me very happy indeed. The downside is that I don’t get to hang around the water cooler with my colleagues and miss gems like this:

Jason: “I had a great time filming in New Orleans, went to a gay club…”
Tia: “Why did you go to a gay club?”
Jason: “A couple of reasons… one being I’M GAY!”
Tia: “Oh, I had no idea. Well, of course, that’s fine.”
Claire: “Are you in a relationship?”
Jason: ‘No, unfortunately.”
Claire: “What sort of guy are you attracted to? So I can keep my eyes and ears open.”
Jason: “I really fancy that guy in Prison Break.”
Tia: “He’s not gay, he’s British.”

I have a gift for saying the wrong thing myself. Our roomies were hosting a dinner party and I was busy chatting to a guest and her African-American (it’s relevant) boyfriend. I told them Colin and I were about to move to another friend’s fabulous place at the beach as he is away for a while, and how lucky we’ve been to have access to some incredible places rent-free. She suggested we carry on like this as long as possible. I said: “No, we want our own place again as soon as possible. I don’t want people to think we’re liggers.”

She was outraged and mortified and sidled up to comfort her boyfriend, convinced I had dropped the N-bomb. I managed to stop her putting on her coat and collecting her purse by apologizing profusely and explaining (stuttering) that, in England, a ligger is someone who sponges off other people.

Part of me is wishing I was in London so I could go and see the fabulous singer-songwriter Judith Owen at the Purcell Room on the South Bank on Friday, Feb 26th at 7.45pm. Special guests: Claire Martin, Ian Shaw, Harry Shearer and Danny Thompson. For tickets and more info www.southbankcentre.co.uk

My head is and always will be in England, because I know the proper way to spell color is colour, while theater and center should be spelled theatre and centre. And butter is not pronounced “budder.”