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You’re not very bright. Perhaps don’t worry about a career. You should either get married or ask your Uncle for a job in one of his hotels, said my Careers Advisor at school, circa 1978.

When handed an UCCA Form to complete, I stared blankly. More study was not for me; I had spent too many maths lessons at the back of the classroom, tiny transistor radio earplugs pumping chart hits into my fluffy head.

Having run amok in the hockey pavilion one night after climbing out of a window with my friend H, I spent double French asleep. I was not a natural student; I didn’t see the point; I wanted to DO things, not study them. I see now that I could have achieved so much more at school and later in life had I bothered; I didn’t realise how lucky I was to enjoy an education funded by my father’s sweat and graft.

The UCCA form was duly left blank and on expressing a wish to read a practical and useful Business Studies course my father, citing my woeful educational record and the bearded socialist boyfriend my sister brought home from the same course, vetoed the plan. I attended the upscale Cambridge Marlborough Secretarial College … And thank heavens for that, for the incredible women who ran and taught at this establishment became the making of me.

You are not here to learn how to be ‘sekertries’, said Miss McCafferty, PA of 20 years to the Chairman of Fisons plc. You are here to learn how to be the sorts of women without whom businesses fold. Have I made myself clear?

A year later I left the Marlborough with top marks at absolutely everything – including Secretarial Duties, during which we learned how to design an office, respect and protect our Boss’s work, private lives and secrets (the word being the core of the job title) and even how to sit on a desk to take shorthand without showing too much leg in order not to encourage him. I thought then – and think now – how stupid must men be to think an appendage between their legs gives them the authority to be encouraged by the glimpse of a woman’s body and for women to actively have to discourage them, … all of which reminds me of the old joke:

Boy (pointing at his groin): I’ve got one of these, which makes me important and powerful
Girl (pointing at her groin): Yes, but with one of these, I can have as many of those as I like …

The role of Secretary, PA or Executive Assistant is often maligned in the world of work and those who dismiss the PA as a junior, unimportant team member must re-appraise their view.  A resourceful PA absorbs the work undertaken for the Boss and can in many cases do it for them with one hand tied behind their back. They know where the skeletons are kept, see through lies, keep secrets from those who would profit from their exposure or manoever against the Boss; they help advance the Boss’s career often moving with them. The PA is also gatekeeper to many and varied company affairs (of all kinds) and winning their respect is wise. A good PA grasps the tools of the trade or profession and is ultimately perfectly placed to run their own businesses, as I have done since the age of 26.

British National Insurance: PA to Director of Finance and Director of PR
The Director of Finance at British National interviewed me with his feet on the desk. Not appreciating that the Dutch have a relaxed attitude to most things I was unimpressed. When offered the job by the agency, I turned it down on the basis he had not shown me respect. They were horrified.

But this is your first job out of college! That may have been so, but my parents had instilled in me the right to be respected. The outcome of this exchange was a second interview, an apology and appointment. The episode did indeed engender respct on both sides; we got along like a house on fire.

It was here in 1982 that I encountered the first Exxon Intelligent Typewriter which, when conjoined to an Accoustic Coupler and telephone delivered the very first Electronic Mail. When logged in, one typed a password and on arrival of a message, A4 paper was fed into the typewriter whilst the dancing keys created a brand new missive from afar, entirely unaided. This first email seemed like magic.

Temping in London
I was soon bored with commuting from Hove to Haywards Heath and moved to London to temp in the world of Advertising, firstly for the the affable and funny Rick Sheldon, Media Buying Director at KMP to whose 40th birthday party I was invited on my last day. What happened there I cannot divulge but upon leaving, catching sight of an unconcious, naked contemporary of my boss I decided that the older man was not for me.

I also learned from fellow Temps the important carrier bag method; a waste paper bin overflowing with mistakes always gives the game away so such errors were whipped out of the typwriter into the bag and taken home.

After many hit-and-miss temping jobs I was lucky enough to land a job as Secretary to Muir Sutherland, Director of Programmes at Thames Television, working to Caroline, his more senior Personal Assistant.

The work was light but interesting; I undertook most of the shorthand and typing, welcomed and made tea and coffee for guests arriving for meetings. These included other Heads of ITV including Michael Grade, John Birt and Jeremy Isaacs as well as celebrities. Des O’Connor always remembered who took milk or sugar in their tea and coffee and amused us by making and serving it with hilarious running commentary. Michael Bentine made us laugh, Janet Street Porter swore heartily if made to wait. Alistair Burnett was usually the worse for wear; rumour had it that he kept an ever present bottle of whisky under his live broadcast news desk.

Two amusing Muir episodes have stayed with me; the first when I arrived at work wearing a vintage beaver lamb coat, heavy with rain that had drenched me betwixt Warren Street and the office. I hung the wet fur in Muir’s wardrobe. By the end of the day the sun shone and I forgot all about it … until several months later a scream emanated from Muir who on opening the wardrobe found a stinking, mouldy, half rotten animal hanging there. I did my best to look as astonished and quizzical as everyone else … and Security was called to remove it. Reader, from 1983 to this day I have breathed not a word.

The arrival into the fashion arena of lacy tights heralded blushes, too. After slipping into a newly purchased pair bought in lunch break and hearing what I thought was my colleague Caroline in Muir’s office, I threw one full leg around the door, swung it up and down a la Folies Bergère and asked in husky tones So what do you think of this, then? Pause. Very nice Giovanna, cried Muir. My guests will be here soon, can you put the kettle on?

Not fifteen minutes later, the above stellar cast of ITV Directors were assembled around Muir’s coffee table. What do you think of Giovanna’s new tights? asked Muir. She was keen for my opinion earlier. Blushing, I sped from the room, locked myself in a loo … and cried.

Happily, more cerebral highlights included typing the Pilot script for The Bill and Reilly, Ace of Spies, meeting writers and editors, learning how new programmes were commissioned and funded.

Two more years at Thames were spent as PA to the Reporters of TV Eye, current affairs news programme. On my first day, each of the five reporters to whom I was secretary gave me a briefing on what they expected. Three encouraged my opinion on scripts, welcomed suggestions as I typed them up; did I want to learn how the editing process happened and what was my specific interest in being there? Would I like to see what happened in the cutting room? You bet I did. The remaining two were at pains for me to understand which of the women who might telephone for them were Mistress or Wife and provided clues to avoid any mix-up, hence the Secret part of Secretary foreshadowed by the Marlborough arose without much dignity.

After 18 months or so I was appointed Secretary to the kind, late Terry Kellegher, Editor of local news magazine programme Reporting London. Terry was a fantastic boss and encouraged me to think ahead: You are too clever to stay a secretary, he said. My efforts to move on led to a Blonde Glass Ceiling as my application to become Trainee Researcher in the Children’s Department was denied on the basis that my postion as just a secretary disqualified me for the opportunity. This rejection was delivered by a woman whom it transpired had been Terry’s secretary three years earlier. Hmm. And hmm again.

The world of exhibitions
Rejected from the Thames corporate ladder, I joined a powerful but petite trade events business led by a man widely acknowledged to be the Godfather of the Exhibition Industry. Richard Copley-Smith was a supremely clever, impressive, vibrant man. His routine was to read mail, dictate replies, deliver instructions, ask questions, demand explanations … educate. Within a week I was briefed on the science, purpose and tone of voice attached to a successful Direct Mail campaign.  I was given to understand the logic behind an exhibition floorplan, organization and promotion and told in emphatic terms what Exhibitors were paying for and how Visitors should be seduced into attending.

Richard was the first to encourage my writing, asking me to draft Editorial for regular Exhibitor Updates. My work wasn’t quite up to the mark, but he didn’t criticize, he pointed out how it could be improved and employed a fully-fledged journalist to complete the task and explain to me the science behind her craft.

Richard also made sure that I got freelance jobs when FirstBorn arrived in 1990 and I set up my first business, an Exhibition Support Service designing and arranging direct mail campaigns, creating show features and so on. Highlights came by way of being asked to chat with famous guests; my clients often thought their male celebrities would prefer to chat to an young articulate “lovely” over one of my hairy male colleagues. I minded not for these encounters were more than memorable.

The first landed when Richard and I launched the first Exhibition Industry Awards at the Cafe Royale; once Barry Cryer had finished handing out the gongs I sat with him, consuming between us three bottles of red wine. Laughter? I cried and cried … but what was said? I have absolutely no idea.

Being appointed to a similar role with Antonio Carluccio I learned his secret addition to his Tiramisu recipe I already used regularly. He asked about my children; to an enquiry if he had any of his own, his deep, signature Italian voice replied… Not to my knowledge …

Enough anecdotes; it is time to come full circle to the purpose of this blog. A talented PA is indeed the sort of person without whom businesses fold. If anyone reading this is at a crossroads, or at a loss as to how to train or even retrain, take my advice: the world of the secretarial PA can be a rich tapestry of experience, real-world business studies, a whole lot of fun and the foundation for a solid future.

I have run my own businesses since the age of 26 but could not have done so without the knowledge, expertise, business methodology and chutzpah shared by and instilled into me by the generous professionals who helped drive my Secretarial Journey.

© Giovanna Forte 2023

“I can tell you that if there’s nothing wrong with you except fat, it is easy to get thin. You eat and drink the same as always, except half.

If you are handed a plate of food, leave half. If you have to help yourself, take half.”

Muriel Spark: A Far Cry From Kensington

Ten years ago, my mother passed away and to ameliorate my grief and langour I landed on the doorstep of Moss Pilates where Lisa Stredwick pushed and pulled me through my paces. Over a few short weeks, my painful knees mended, my back straightened, my walk walked taller, my abs were abbier. Alas, my office moved and being fundamentally lazy, I didn’t make the effort to cross a quarter of London to continue classes. More fool me.

I did attend the gym however, but as business became busier, this too fell by the wayside, a situation compounded by the diagnosis and removal of bowel cancer and inability to exercise for some weeks.

As mid-fifties brought Porky Forte into being, my wardrobe crept into the universe of elasticated skirts and yes dear reader, I became unhappy with myself. Attending to hair, nails and other superficial aspects of My Look didn’t solve anything; an additional painful root cause of inactivity came from issues with scar tissue around my old bowel surgery, rendering me unable to either move or leave the house on many a day.

The last five years have seen attempts at low fat, low carb, low alcohol, high protein, high fibre … and indeed anything to reduce bowel pain and weight; a few pounds were shed, but nothing of note. Many subscriptions were made to various plans and apps, all of which compounded guilt and frenzy to ensure data was input and daily food diaries completed. None of it really helped.

Last year, I tracked down the indefatigable Lisa, who welcomed me with open arms and collaborated on improving my sorry body with her unique brand of Pilates. Meantime, a good friend offered to assist with the cost of a private colonoscopy, during which a golf-ball sized blockage was removed from my bowel, relieving excrutiating daily pain and regular house-boundness (very ouch).

Recovering from the procedure, I re-read Muriel whose Protagonist’s Mantra Of Half became a glittering light at the end of the tunnel; as well as adopting her practice, I maintain a lively metabolism with cardiovascular exercise at the gym and attend the excellent, only-five-minutes-away Victoria Park Pilates twice a week for much improved mobility and strength; a variety of Mat and Tower pilates keeps me on my toes (and everything else). I have also returned to Lisa for an occasional one-to-one on the Reformer … When it comes to ageing, I am not going down without a fight.

It has come to pass dear reader, that this Half-with-Exercise regime has shed three inches from my waist, representing the Cherry on a slimmed down Bodily Cake. A Cake that once again wears dresses unworn for at least five years, proving that the New Year has revived the Old Me.

Happily, I can confirm …  Sixty is the New Forte.

© Giovanna Forte 2023

Forget lunch in Shepherds Bush, said my new Lady Architect friend. Come with me to Romford where you’ll see something different. Although I have lived in East London for over 20 years, I have never been to Romford and so: Yes, I thought, I’ll see something different.

With domestic challenges delaying her journey from Acton, LA was half an hour late so I waited in the large reception area of the venue to witness and absorb the profound meaning given by see something different.

The hall was accordingly decorated – and possessed of beautiful women wearing saris of every myriad shade and every colour of every jewel. The sight was dazzling and graceful.

LA arrived resplendent in darker sari adorned with sparkling jewellery and glitterling brooch. She explained that this day was part of the Bengali celebration of Durga Puja a festival of and for women and one of which I was ignorant; the men cooked and served. I was the only secular woman in the room, several kindly men asked gently and politely if I was alright, did I need more food? Did I want anything at all?

The great room was bedecked for Durga Puja, which marks the victory of Goddess Durga over the mythological demon Mahishasura and is observed according to the Hindu solar calendar, between the 1^st and 5^th October, this week.

Here in Romford I saw a glittering tableau representing Durga, her daughters and sons including Ganesh, the only icon I recognised with his distinctive elephant head. LA explained that this tableau depicts good over evil; Durga wields weapons in each of her ten arms having triumphed over the Buffalo demon. A daughter by each side is in turn flanked by a brother. The four children represent love, learning, the overcoming of obstacles and wealth.

So now I understood the reason I had been brought here … for of love I have more than my fair share and to learn is something to which I aspire each day. My world of work however, has for many years presented more obstacles than I can begin to list … and wealth in its financial form continues to elude me. Perhaps I shouldn’t aspire to possess great wealth for as I remind myself often, when eventually I leave this mortal coil I can’t take it with me. But fewer obstacles and a little money right now would be nice.

Whilst these acknowlegements – and I suppose prayers – absorbed the mind my eyes feasted on the melee of beauty threading and lacing around the room, men’s drumbeats seeming to power their movement. The energy in that room was graceful, resolute, slow and strong: a remarkable and tangible femininity.

LA explained that at this particular festival, each icon is brought out every year. In West Bengal they are made afresh from clay annually and when the festival ends transported to the river for immersion. Not so practical here in Romford, so the community celebrates this ancient and coveted tradition in its own way; it means no less. Would that women were so extoled in other realms and aspects of life.

Reader, today I came to something unexpected and new, and loved every second of seeing and being, in ways never before encountered in my limited, white, collapsed Catholic life.

Thank you, LA for not telling me more about your gentle invitation; my routine-led and narrow sightlines, obsessed as they are with the daily grind may have discouraged the adventure.  As it is, I end this Tuesday with a new experience, a broader view and a happier heart.

Isn’t life grand?

© Giovanna Forte 2022

By Linda Wilkinson at the Union Theatre, Southwark, 21 Sep – 8 Oct 2022

Ghosts on a Wire charts the activity and acceptance of a bright new force: electricity. This power is founded on a site that requires the devastation of an established community South of the Thames, at Bankside.

Disbelief and cynicism are rife amongst the people of Bankside, doubting the value of this new power: I imagine Sir, that apart from enabling us to unwittingly run around like rabbits, you are going to tell us that this electricity will power mills and factories.

Ghosts on a Wire bring the past to the present through savvy storytelling. Mary Shelly’s prophetic Frankenstein introduces the concept of electricity whilst William Blake haunts Octavia Hill, the much-lauded founding mother of social housing, whom he advises, cajoles and warns of injustice to come. Meanwhile, Michael Faraday and his cohorts drive their plans for power through objections, doubt and concerns for social justice with little care for the community that will be forcibly dispersed when the bulldozers move in … does this sound familiar?

Linda Wilkinson has cleverly articulated how the rise of our first power station Bankside displaced an established community and while electricity brought power in many ways to many people and to many facets of life, sacrifices were made by those unable to fight corrupt, richer forces. The dialogue is appropriately bright and often brilliant, the characterisations sassy and smart, the flow of the play seamless.

This is social commentary in story form; it is about how power, whether leadership or energy works in the world. It is a sharp, witty, compelling and utterly contemporary tale of who wins, and who loses.

The set designers deserve applause here too; simplicity is all and poetic, creative use of light delivers all the visual power needed for the Ghosts to play their part.

This is not a play about yesterday … it is a play about today. Go and see it.

Ghosts on a Wire

© Giovanna Forte 2022

How did you do it all, Mum? This question is posed more frequently now by my thirty-something progeny as one balances business with motherhood, the other a thriving Patisserie owner whose work entails long, long hours.

When I became a mother in my 20s, I expected to be a stay-at-home Mum, a home-maker, creator of noisy Italianeque round-the-table family meals and just be there for my children. Alas, the 1990’s recession combined with some unfortunate decision making on the part of the family Hunter-Gatherer put paid to such bucolic dreams. I set up in business when FirstBorn was about a month old; by the time YoungestOfAll came along, business was flourishing.

How to manage childcare then? Initially we employed a nanny, a cost that justified itself when balanced with the fees for two children at nursery. Eventually, with both Girls at school we were able to settle for an Au Pair. We provided full board and lodging, £50/week and help with learning English, in return for about three or four hours a day childcare

O was our first – and for the children and Husband one of the best. She was proactive, homely and adored the children and Husband. With our marriage by this time not in the best of shape, my working hours were judged by O to be unsuitable, a view that became all-too-apparent when returning home for a wedding anniversary dinner that I hoped would go some way towards ameliorating the deteriorating situation, Hunter-Gatherer announced there was No Dinner.

It was explained to me in hurtful tones that he was aware I had “enjoyed” a business lunch that day and suspected an affair was in progress. I sat at the balefully empty dining table astonished and baffled … but the best was yet to come. With impeccable timing, O approached with a decorated cake presented to Husband: this for anniversary, she said with a beaming smile, turned her back on me and left the room. She left the house soon after.

Turkish L arrived next; the agency having assured me of her excellent English had lied. She could barely speak a word. Building up to the grand finale of her first and only week she looked shabby and tired; she did little, and simply stared at The Girls as though they were aliens. I returned home necessarily early every day that week to find her sitting on the sofa in dejected fashion until asking when husband home? My reply would propel her to her bedroom, from whence she returned made up to the nines, with pendulous cleavage and barely-there skirt, thighs bursting forth with promise for anyone so compelled to take advantage of their certain solace.

E was our next Au Pair and this time we struck gold; interviewing her however, was no mean feat, for the family for whom she worked (employed would be too generous a term) locked her in her room when not on duty, forbade her from using the phone and withheld payment if they deemed her to have done anything outside of her remit. 

On the date of her first interview, Husband had taken the Girls to see his family in the North; I raced home to meet her, waited … and waited … and waited. Eventually the phone rang and I struggled to hear the whisper: they are out but I am locked  … please forgive, I must leave this place, please help me, please.

We agreed that she would come up with an escape plan and we would work together. A couple of days later beautiful E arrived on my doorstep with a small case and tears; a neighbour had been persuaded to watch the house and at an appropriate moment provide a ladder against the wall to her bedroom … and so E escaped to my house. I wanted to report this family to the police but she was too scared – Father was apparently a lawyer and she worried she would end up in a worse place. We chatted and I loved her immediately; she had an underlying strength, humour and warmth. E stayed with me through the break-up of my marriage, cared for The Girls as if they were her own; she was loyal, kind and now with children of her own remains to this day a friend with whom I keep in touch. Thank you, E for those warm and funny years.

The sitcom of Au Pairs that followed created much entertainment; The Girls being by now older and able to look after themselves to a greater degree, the Au Pair was needed mainly to ensure homework and piano practice was at least begun before Mama got home.

With chaotic H, roles were reversed and The Girls looked after her; she seemed to have no idea how to cook, what timekeeping meant or now to navigate the world … she returned home for a flying visit to Poland but lost her passport there. My 40^th birthday weekend was disrupted by numerous phone calls from Polish customs to verify her identity and Au Pair status, she and her parents begging me to visit Poland to fetch her … suffice to say, her employment ended there and then. A debacle!

M was more entertaining. Keen to learn English she worked hard with the Girls at their homework and spent time conversing with neighbours … she had a few boyfriends and it was not unusual for me to return home of an evening to find the sitting room door shut and deep lowing sounds coming from within.

I was subsequently reliably informed that she was a great comfort to a man in our road whose wife was in hospital dying of cancer. The wife duly passed away and M spent increasing hours comforting my neighbour … I was given to understand this comfort received financial compensation although I don’t know the veracity of that intelligence… before too long she announced she could afford a flight home. Bye-bye, M!

Our last but by no means least engaging Au Pair was L, diligent, lively, fun, energetic, always busy away from the house during her time off. L joined an expensive gym, was out every night, bought clothes in the height of fashion and seemed extremely happy. She was great with the Girls, cooked well and we had no complaints. Eventually she decided it was time to return home at which point I asked: I pay you the standard £50 a week … how do you afford your incredible lifestyle? 

L laughed …. Sex phone! she announced. I make Czech voice husky. I make much money. You should try  – your life difficult. It would help a lot. 

Reader, tempting though it has, from time to time, been I have survived without embarking on a sex-line career (is it ever too late?!) I confess however, that all my hats are raised to bright and entrepreneurial L and hope her financial status has continued to flourish in whatever way she deems appropriate and safe.

Enterprise should after all, be celebrated in whatever form it takes.

…….

What are My Girls doing now?

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