fortewinks

I am on my moped at the front of the traffic lights, pulling up to a silver executive saloon so I can tap tap on the driver’s window. He lowers it and looks at me with a mix of annoyance and enquiry.

Excuse me, I say with winning smile. It seems your indicators are not working. He checks them. Yes, they are working … he looks puzzled. Well next time, can you use them before you pull out into the road without looking and almost put someone like me in hospital? Thank you so much. I nod appreciatively and on the green light, leave him standing. Or sitting. Certainly, not quick off the mark at moving on.

This is The Riders Code of Etiquette; no shouting or swearing or unfeminine hand gestures. For I have learned over the years that this gets one into trouble.

Once upon a time, I was almost knocked off my bike when a driver changed his mind about turning right and without warning turned left. His car clipped my moped; I swore, made a rude hand gesture and hurled at him a name associated with onanism. The face of this rather muscular gentleman became impressively red; I rode on, only to find he had taken chase. I accelerated – not easy on a 50cc restricted to 30mph – escaping into a pedestrianised housing estate. Reader, I have changed my ways and now employ calm words to wage this particular war.

On my pushbike some years ago, an impressively well-upholstered lady driver pulled alongside, lowered her passenger window and issued a stream of loud, foul invective about bicycle riders generally – I had done nothing untoward. Somewhat affronted, I calmly pointed out very politely that if she did more of this she may not look so like that. Cruel, but when faced with such unprompted, insulting and unprepossessing behaviour … fair.

Another day, another set of lights. This time a car drew up behind and nudged my moped again and again, pushing me dangerously off-balance. I turned and raised my hands and eyebrows enquiringly. Another lowered window another stream of invective …  MOVE OVER! YOU’RE IN MY WAY!

Other encounters can be more entertaining … and how these are dealt with influences what happens next, for men can become threatening if advances are rudely rejected, however insulting their comment:

Lucky saddle! provoked a gale of laughter from me, leaving the gentleman concerned oddly disappointed.

You look great on that, darling. Would you like to ride me? I asked the (much younger) enquirer if he always hit on 60-year-old grandmothers. He apologised profusely, whilst bowing and backing away.

From a Pimlico Plumber: You look sexy on that moped, darling. If I wasn’t working, I’d ask you out for a drink. I smiled, if I wasn’t married, I might even accept. The look of confusion accompanied by the buzz of a rapidly closing window was most satisfying.

My favourite by a long way still makes me smile:

I do hope you’re behaving yourself,  from a deep and gravelly voice. I looked up at the lorry beside me to find the smiling face and crinkly eyes of Trucking World’s Robert Redford. I smiled back: now why would I want to do that? He laughed, I laughed and we both wended our happy way.

Lesson one: if fanning a fight, pick someone your own size.
Lesson two: the passive aggressive approach is profoundly persuasive
Lesson three: polite observation when alluding to another’s bad driving cannot be faulted
Lesson four: the receiving of abuse or sinister suggestion can be dealt with calmly
Lesson five: a bit of mild old-fashioned, polite flirting can lift one’s spirits.

Here’s to you, Robert Redford.

© Giovanna Forte 2024

Are you the Giovanna Forte who attended Lourdes Convent? Reading this message on LinkedIn, I hesitated. I recognised the sender – indeed, we were best friends back in the 60s and early 70s but we all know the risks around reuniting with a lost schoolfriend and this one went back 47 years. After some thought and with much trepidation I confirmed that I am indeed that Giovanna.

T and I exchanged messages on and off for around five years and just a few weeks ago the invitation to her 60^th beach party in Brighton landed for a Sunday afternoon and evening celebration. More hesitation; what if meeting her again is a disaster? The person who you last saw at 12 years old must have evolved into someone else at 60 … but who?

It so happened that the day of T’s celebrations coincided with a 50^th just outside Brighton. My risk assessment concluded that already being in the area, we should attend.

A little jaded after a late Saturday night, HH and I arrived at the West Beach Café, opposite my late father’s Ice Cream Parlour on the Kings Road, where I recalled poetically that Back In The Day T used to meet me for a Forte’s Knickerbocker Glory, the best ice cream in town.

Stepping over the threshold, a voice called out Giovanna Forte! I looked around so see a grown-up version of T’s lovely sister … You haven’t changed! she exclaimed giving me a warm embrace before steering me outside to see T and Mum. Those in the know, know that my emotions are less than 1mm below the surface and on seeing the grown-up T and Mum yes, tears were shed. There was No Change To See Here, for T is simply a taller version of the 12 year-old I last saw back in 1976 and her Mum, an 88-year-old Fairy Tinkerbell … the nostalgia was overwhelming.

Tinkerbell is as lively, funny and charming as ever. In awe of her glamour I remember her as all big hair, frills, tight skirts and high heels. Now the heels are gone, but not the glamour or the chutzpah … she even did some impromptu DJ-ing and danced with the best of them. Our fellow welcoming and friendly guests were a lively mix of folk from as far afield as Dubai, Scotland, Italy, Switzerland, France not to mention of course … Hackney.

The indefatigable T and I had much to discuss and plan to meet for a proper chin-wag as soon as we can; she has not changed an iota and apparently neither have I. Our short snatches of conversation involved memories and much hilarity, certainly to be explored in-depth over a G&T or two.

Suffice to say, gentle reader, that when someone from your dim and distant past catches up with you a new, fresh and revived friendship can follow bringing warmth and yes, security in the knowledge that in the kindest way, life sometimes takes you full circle.

Happy Birthday Tricia!

© Giovanna Forte 2023

HH (Handsome Husband) announced some time ago that we had been invited to the annual PartyFest hosted by dear friends whose company is rare given the distance between our homes; our joint commitments were carefully unpicked as we procrastinated over the decision.

I confess however, to some reticence; sleeping in Eric, our darling but ancient VW Camper and dressing up in garb other than my normal wear isn’t really my thing … and this one presented a Gold theme. Hmm. And Hmmmm again.

Last week was (another) tough one and by Friday I was shouty, tearful, belligerent and utterly fed up, so when our Hostess called to check our attendance, I capitulated: It’s not Hackney … and I just have to get out of here! I cried and despite our last-minute acceptance of a kind invitation, we were welcomed with open arms into an event that was JoyFest pure and simple.

Eric chugged gently towards Coventry arriving at our deep-country destination early afternoon; we set ourselves down amongst fellow glampers and venturing to the house found a rich landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see taking in myriad fields, trees, sheep and a beautiful lake. Hosts and old friends of HH welcomed us into the fold, drinks were served and gentle music lapped around us as we relaxed into our new surroundings. After a delicious lunch I retreated into Eric for a deep two-hours sleep until murmurings of music beyond woke me and I prepared for the evening’s shenanigans.

Despite the last-minute decision to attend, HH had overnight attended to the dress code: T-Shirts bore large gold hearts and our sprayed trainers shone brightly … we were ready.

Those with more time to prepare had gone all-out; sparkling cloaks, crazy headgear and sequined skirts, slacks and frocks abounded together with lighted headgear and more; within these outré outfits were some of the most interesting, kind and friendly folk with whom I am now happily acquainted.

Our first conversation with a young newlywed couple was joyful; these two were clearly made for each other, sparkling with love and life. Conversation number two evolved with a gentleman who opened with a tale of his first visit to the Torture Garden where, having been advised to wear ‘uniform’ he dressed as a butler. A German lady announced that he might make a splendid slave and ordered him to find a leash and collar, which were duly attached to him.

Hmm, as I considered revised expectation … I didn’t know it was this kind of a party …. Gentle reader, it was not and my as new friend moved on to other more salubrious tales of here and there I found him to be engaging and funny.

Things rolled along beautifully; this set of HH’s friends I have met only a few times given they are spread across the country and it was good to get to know them better. Everyone was camping one way or another and whilst my past experiences of muddy fields and filthy loos turned me off the whole festival experience, this was a Whole Different Thing, civilised, organised and just fine by me.

The night progressed, we danced, we chatted; a Veterinary Surgeon and his Primatologist wife were bedecked in spangles, sequins and silk, she with an impressive gold feathered headdress. These two were super-fun and we spoke extensively over the course of the night, our conversations punctuated with the meeting of minds of others, all interesting to a fault. A key party player was affable and charming Dr D; in golden military jacket he cut a fine figure and seemed to be everywhere all at once.

Deciding that this time I would mind my intake, I added a full glass of water to a shot of whisky declaring to an interested party that over the course of a night water can be so effing dull … the upshot of this diluted cocktail imbibed throughout is … no hangover.

As I weaved my way back and forth to Eric to top up my whisky-water, I witnessed much and many goings on; the most compelling was the vision through opaque canvas of a lighted headdress moving up and down in an interestingly slow, measured way … so tempted was I to see who emerged it took a will of iron to move along and allow those inside their privacy. Thereon, I studied everyone with such headgear wondering … was it you? Who were you with?

Another amusing episode as I occupied the most hygienic Portaloo ever, was a ruckus coming from two doors down – it sounded busy in there and as I emerged from mine, five people tipped out of another tiny cubicle … I mean, crikey, five? They were in jolly good spirits, amused by something I wish I knew more about.

As the night wore on and a chill pierced the air, the gathering slowly ebbed and flowed into The Barn where DJs blasted great tunes across the dancefloor, a beautifully organised bar served cocktails to the increasingly lively and very happy guests. Outside a fire was lit, encircled by folk perched on tree stumps whilst murmured conversations filtered from one to another, a beautiful girl almost melted into the tree against which she leant, staring sleepily into the flames.

Mum and Dad PartyFest were present throughout; this being their home they have hosted the party for many years, now handing the baton to the next generation, hence our presence there. These two were equally bedecked in fabulous gear, she in sequined loon pants and he in a flowing golden gown they were the life and soul partying late into the night, celebrating 50 years of marriage.

It was also an event of more general celebration; to a Birthday Guest was presented an opulent and beautifully decorated cake commissioned from a Bake-Off contestant and the recent history of which I was told had to be kept from her, for it had fallen not once but twice. Perfectly reconstructed, set on a gently spinning platter and bedecked with sparklers, the confection seemed no worse for its adventures.

Sometime before the sun set, a party photo was organised with around 100 golden guests gleefully responding to the patient photographer. An interesting piece of social commentary would be to see this image taken again with everyone in their civvies and workwear for, given the sheer variety of professions, skills and careers of those present it would be another Whole Different Thing.

As we alternated between Barn and Fire, the sun set and a full Strawberry Moon rose into the night sky, a thing of great beauty. The fall of darkness meant HH could embark on a spot of fire-spinning, which preceded a fabulous firework display, both sparkly performances eliciting Ooohs and Ahhhs from those present. There followed a gracious delivery of thanks from Next Generation Host to her predecessors – very moving and absolutely right.

For HH and me, the night drew to a close and in the early hours we slipped away to Eric, donning layers and layers of protection from the very chill air, sinking into our soft feather pillows and under a big fluffy duvet drifted into peaceful slumber.

The morning arrived clear, sunny and very warm; a Burrito Breakfast* was the best I have had in years, enhanced by the company of The Sussex Two, whose own bash we attended last year.

Breakfast and goodbyes over, we embarked on our return journey with happy hearts and despite the lack of hangover by the time we arrived back I craved something more to pop me back into shape. Within half an hour Gigi’s Reboot Salad* was on our plates providing the energy and impetus for this blog, which I write to confess my original reticence and how very misplaced it really was.

To the lovely man who shared his menthol filters with me, thank you.
To Blue and co-DJs who spun the most excellent tunes, thank you.
To those who cooked, served and ameliorated everything, thank you.
To the fine and lovely folk who made me feel so welcome, thank you.
Most of all, to our Hosts of generations both, thank you.

• Both recipes here

© Giovanna Forte 2023

Below: This Is Not Hackney

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