I disappeared a month ago, into the daily life of an office, and the back and forth of commuting, making sandwiches, trying to do all home admin in the gaps around a working day, and thus my blog disappeared too. I thought I’d make an effort to come back though, by telling you about the good and the bad.
The good is I should be in Germany right now, having an interview with the UN. I applied for a job back in Feb, did a 10-page editing test in March and then, on April 1st I was told I had an interview. I have been ridiculously excited ever since, though the small matter of an Icelandic volcano and trying to buy a suit in spring have rather dampened my enthusiasm. Ashgate has meant I can’t fly and the interview has been postponed; Suitgate almost meant I had nothing to wear. After ten years in publishing, my smartest outfits involve posh jeans and some nice boots, but nothing that would pass muster beyond the literati. And last week, after two nights of trying on everything in Covent Garden and on Regent’s Street I was starting to wonder if I’d be wearing my jeans to Bonn after all. Then Bloomsbury saved me. Tucked away in the Brunswick Centre is a branch of Hobbs, a shop I abandoned when I lost weight and stopped wearing matching jackets and trousers but a shop that still, unlike so many others, realises that women need to buy suits in the sunshine (someone in Esprit asked me ‘why are you buying a suit at this time of year?’). And, what’s more, it was empty and instead of fighting to try on clothes in a space too small for a battery hen, and screaming down the corridor for help, I had a changing room and an assistant all to myself. £400 and 40 minutes later, I was in proud possession of a suitably black and demure suit and heels. I was feeling very smug and ready for the trip until the ash continued spreading.
It will still happen, just not yet. And it feels like the perfect job: editing in a multilingual public service organisation. Fingers and beautifully shod toes crossed.
The bad is I started decorating my bedroom (ripped out carpet, blind and all comforts) and then had to spend two days in the aforementioned and now somewhat cell-like room, nursing a rotten cold in bed. It was Easter, I ate no chocolate, had no lamb and, since my laptop had just died and was refusing resurrection, I couldn’t even surf to my heart’s content in bed. Not the best way to spend a four-day holiday. What’s more, since I’m now at work full-time, and have spent the last two weeks swotting up for my job, I’m still sleeping in the rather monastic bedroom until I get a chance to finish off the painting. Perhaps DIM needs to become PSE (pay someone else).
Finally, I went to a selection day to become a Samaritan and was refused, mainly because I’m too proactive. Oh and apparently, since I take anti-depressants, I’m in recovery. Recovery? From what? My genes? Life? But now I’m rather glad that they’re not taking me; I don’t think they have the Samaritans in Bonn…