The list of jobs I have wanted to do in my life is extensive. Always a dancer, but if not that maybe a nurse? And when I got more ambitious and over-confident, a doctor. I had a tiny doctors kit and everything, cmplete with plastic stethoscope. Then there was the phase where I wanted to be an astronaut, but when I discovered I'd been beaten to the first woman in space by Valentina Tereshkova by thirty-something years, I lost interest.
When I settled on vet for a summer, my best friend and I phoned the RSPCA to ask if they could advise us on how to open a vetinary practice in the wendy house in her back garden. The man on the phone very patiently told the eight-year-old me that I'd have to qualify first and that he'd send me an information pack. I don't know that I ever received it.
Then there were possibilities of marine biology, ornithology, zoo keeper, speech therapy, occupational therapy, physiotherapy, midwife, teacher, lawyer, author, journalist, librarian, archaeologist, museum curator, actress, costume designer, and I forget...
The trouble is, I was one of those annoying children at school who was good at a lot. And was interested in a lot. So nothing stuck for long before I became focused on something else. Then I somehow ended up going to dance school at 17 and promptly forgot how to think. Sure we did some academic lessons there but dance on paper is the most horrendously dull subject. Maybe there were some glimmers of interest when we had to study the ballet Onegin, or when I discovered the link between Martha Graham and psychoanalysis, but really I was more interested in Pushkin and Jung than choreography.
So what to do?
Obviously my best bet is a lottery win. Then I can just indulge my curiousity in whatever shiny new idea pops into my head. But this is a tad unlikely, especially as I very rarely feel like wasting my money on a ticket.
Rich husband is also out. I'm very anti-relying on anybody.
So if anyone has any ideas, here's my ideal job description: I would like the option to work from home in my pyjamas or in some sunny office with brightly coloured wall where no one wears shoes. I don't want to see the general public, but I do want to be surrounded by creative, clever and/or funny people. I would like my job to involve travel, or be paid well enough (and have enough time off) to go on holiday a lot. I'd like to spend my time reading interesting things, writing whatever I desire, doodling, making small art. I don't like technology so I don't want too much to do with computers beyond Word and the internet. The less I have to talk on the phone the better. I do not want to lift anything except pens and pencils
So. Does this job exist? If so, let me know. I'm perfect for it.
Until then I'm off to study one thing or other until I alight on something that sticks. Maybe the Italian conditional next: vorrei un lavoro interessante per favore.
Friday, 30 March 2012
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Goodnight, sleep tight...
I do not and probably will never know where they came from. Before I only thought of them as something from a childhood rhyme, or something that didn't really exist in modern times. But alas: the bedbugs bit.
This may disgust some of you, or make you itchy, but as the get-rid-of-bedbug websites keep telling me: FIRST UNDERSTAND IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT YOU HAVE BEDBUGS.
Well, duh! I didn't go looking for them. I'm clean, I occasionally flip the mattress, I don't seek out pests to bring home. And yet here I find myself mid-fumigation. I already know it's not my fault, but thank you for the re-assurance. I feel better about the situation.
The more I hear, the more common this problem seems to be. Several friends have told me they've had them. And these are nice, clean, normal people. And then there's one of my ballet students, all three and a half years of her, who informed me of this problem whilst swinging from my arm. She's definitely on the suspect list.
But doesn't this show how easily they travel? Between children, from the person next to you on the bus, from next door. Now I don't mean to scare you but these little creeps are crafty.
Now, anyone who's read or watched The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy will know that mice are the most intelligent creatures on the planet. I reckon bedbugs are not far behind. They were my invisible room-mates for probably months without me knowing.
So here's the story.
I did start by noticing bites. Freakishly linear bites. I mean, I'd been bitten five times in a line a Roman road builder would have been proud of down the length of my arm. Then the next day, the same story on my leg.
It's a good job really that I'm constantly ill and at the doctors or it might have been ages before I thought to ask someone what it could be. What was massively wrong was her advice on how to get rid of them. Vacuming doesn't work. Yes I strip-searched my bed and entire room and sure enough I found a couple. I hoovered, emptied the bag and repeated every day. The bites stopped almost immediately so I assumed I'd been lucky and picked up a pair of males or something.
It was only when they made their presence known to my flatmates much later that we called in the Ghost Busters. And guess whose room the bugs liked the best. Yep. It was the girl who was no longer ever bitten. Moi. Apparently, unlike my immune system, my skin is pretty resistant. Boom.
So now the flat looks like a refugee camp. All our stuff is in bin bags, awaiting a thorough tumbledry (60 degrees for 20-40 mins for your information). I have no bed, but I sleep safe in the knowledge that certainly 90% of my former bedfellows are gone with it.
You know, after seeing hide nor hair of them since the initial spring clean, as soon as the pest control guy confirmed their existence (in a FREE assessment), I kept seeing them strutting all over the place. They may as well have been flashing me the Vs. Brazen.
Then when we picked a date for battle, they started biting back. It would have been a touching final stand if it wasn't aimed against me.
You see what I mean about their intelligence. They were definitely aware of what was going on. It's a conspiracy I tell you!
I'm happy to tell you that I have not noticed them since the first fumigation, so I have high hopes that the second one will ensure complete success and I can sleep soundly from now on. I have my fingers crossed.
This is more of a warning than a moral tale this week. I hope I have armed you with some crucial facts, readers. Be alert, be suspicious, freeze delicate clothing. It could be you next.
And on an obvious but fitting finish: Don't let the bedbugs bite.
This may disgust some of you, or make you itchy, but as the get-rid-of-bedbug websites keep telling me: FIRST UNDERSTAND IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT YOU HAVE BEDBUGS.
Well, duh! I didn't go looking for them. I'm clean, I occasionally flip the mattress, I don't seek out pests to bring home. And yet here I find myself mid-fumigation. I already know it's not my fault, but thank you for the re-assurance. I feel better about the situation.
The more I hear, the more common this problem seems to be. Several friends have told me they've had them. And these are nice, clean, normal people. And then there's one of my ballet students, all three and a half years of her, who informed me of this problem whilst swinging from my arm. She's definitely on the suspect list.
But doesn't this show how easily they travel? Between children, from the person next to you on the bus, from next door. Now I don't mean to scare you but these little creeps are crafty.
Now, anyone who's read or watched The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy will know that mice are the most intelligent creatures on the planet. I reckon bedbugs are not far behind. They were my invisible room-mates for probably months without me knowing.
So here's the story.
I did start by noticing bites. Freakishly linear bites. I mean, I'd been bitten five times in a line a Roman road builder would have been proud of down the length of my arm. Then the next day, the same story on my leg.
It's a good job really that I'm constantly ill and at the doctors or it might have been ages before I thought to ask someone what it could be. What was massively wrong was her advice on how to get rid of them. Vacuming doesn't work. Yes I strip-searched my bed and entire room and sure enough I found a couple. I hoovered, emptied the bag and repeated every day. The bites stopped almost immediately so I assumed I'd been lucky and picked up a pair of males or something.
It was only when they made their presence known to my flatmates much later that we called in the Ghost Busters. And guess whose room the bugs liked the best. Yep. It was the girl who was no longer ever bitten. Moi. Apparently, unlike my immune system, my skin is pretty resistant. Boom.
So now the flat looks like a refugee camp. All our stuff is in bin bags, awaiting a thorough tumbledry (60 degrees for 20-40 mins for your information). I have no bed, but I sleep safe in the knowledge that certainly 90% of my former bedfellows are gone with it.
You know, after seeing hide nor hair of them since the initial spring clean, as soon as the pest control guy confirmed their existence (in a FREE assessment), I kept seeing them strutting all over the place. They may as well have been flashing me the Vs. Brazen.
Then when we picked a date for battle, they started biting back. It would have been a touching final stand if it wasn't aimed against me.
You see what I mean about their intelligence. They were definitely aware of what was going on. It's a conspiracy I tell you!
I'm happy to tell you that I have not noticed them since the first fumigation, so I have high hopes that the second one will ensure complete success and I can sleep soundly from now on. I have my fingers crossed.
This is more of a warning than a moral tale this week. I hope I have armed you with some crucial facts, readers. Be alert, be suspicious, freeze delicate clothing. It could be you next.
And on an obvious but fitting finish: Don't let the bedbugs bite.
Sunday, 18 March 2012
I'm pouring you wine...why don't you like me?
Last week I almost blogged about how awful customers are. This was mainly because I'd just worked at a wedding where to bride was cold, the groom was on cocaine and the majority of the rest of the guests were rude and classless. It is on days like that that I discover I really don't like the dense mass of the general public.
Yesterday though I worked at another wedding, and nicer people you couldn't hope for. They were charming, polite and sang silly songs to a guitar. I got a couple high fives, a fist bump and a hug from one guy who told me I was the woman of the night. I'm sure the bride might have something to say about that, but after all, I was the one delivering the beer and cigarettes.
And this gets me thinking about other groups. The angriest I've ever been whilst working (I won't go into the reason) was not actually anything to do with the customers. In fact they were lovely. Vets. Or veterinary marketers, whatever that is. It was the only time I've worked when I didn't want to see any of my colleagues because the guests made me calmer.
I stand by my belief that I'm not a natural with customers but I can fake it well. I try to be helpful, flirt a little, and am generally pretty patient with other people's stupidity. Which is what it's about, no? But some groups make that easy and some...
But this is not about those people. And it's not about my (dubious) prowess as a waitress. It's about a point of view.
After this wedding, I was on the bus on the way home. Bear in mine this is St Patrick's night so I was the only sober person in what seemed the whole of London. And I quite liked them. The woman who sang 'Don't Rain on my Parade' at full belt from the back seat, complete with pseudo-American twang; the guy who stood half in half out the bus so his twin could get on too; the girl who, when an grumpy old bastard called her friend a cow for not having oyster card money, she calmly asked how dare he when he doesn't know her? Quite right. A point that makes me feel I should retract the bastard remark. He probably had a hard day.
Probably the reason yesterday's wedding party were so great was because they were clearly very much in love. Not just the bride and groom but as a group of friends.
The week before, maybe the bride was unfriendly because she was marrying a coke addict. Or the groom was on drugs because he was marrying a cold woman. Perhaps it was all wedding stress, or that they just never learnt how to treat people well. Or maybe they were just a bunch of unpleasant people who had found each other and, unfortunately, us.
But forget them. Despite my occcasional struggle with the public, I think they're alright really. But I would suggest that those who are happy share it with everyone, not just people they know. And congratulations to the happy couples. You truly deserve each other.
Yesterday though I worked at another wedding, and nicer people you couldn't hope for. They were charming, polite and sang silly songs to a guitar. I got a couple high fives, a fist bump and a hug from one guy who told me I was the woman of the night. I'm sure the bride might have something to say about that, but after all, I was the one delivering the beer and cigarettes.
And this gets me thinking about other groups. The angriest I've ever been whilst working (I won't go into the reason) was not actually anything to do with the customers. In fact they were lovely. Vets. Or veterinary marketers, whatever that is. It was the only time I've worked when I didn't want to see any of my colleagues because the guests made me calmer.
I stand by my belief that I'm not a natural with customers but I can fake it well. I try to be helpful, flirt a little, and am generally pretty patient with other people's stupidity. Which is what it's about, no? But some groups make that easy and some...
But this is not about those people. And it's not about my (dubious) prowess as a waitress. It's about a point of view.
After this wedding, I was on the bus on the way home. Bear in mine this is St Patrick's night so I was the only sober person in what seemed the whole of London. And I quite liked them. The woman who sang 'Don't Rain on my Parade' at full belt from the back seat, complete with pseudo-American twang; the guy who stood half in half out the bus so his twin could get on too; the girl who, when an grumpy old bastard called her friend a cow for not having oyster card money, she calmly asked how dare he when he doesn't know her? Quite right. A point that makes me feel I should retract the bastard remark. He probably had a hard day.
Probably the reason yesterday's wedding party were so great was because they were clearly very much in love. Not just the bride and groom but as a group of friends.
The week before, maybe the bride was unfriendly because she was marrying a coke addict. Or the groom was on drugs because he was marrying a cold woman. Perhaps it was all wedding stress, or that they just never learnt how to treat people well. Or maybe they were just a bunch of unpleasant people who had found each other and, unfortunately, us.
But forget them. Despite my occcasional struggle with the public, I think they're alright really. But I would suggest that those who are happy share it with everyone, not just people they know. And congratulations to the happy couples. You truly deserve each other.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Inspired and jealous.
Helen Skelton is a Blue Peter presenter who is currently on her way to Antarctica for Sport relief. Well I guess she is already there, or back. But on my TV right now she can see the South Pole. And she's cycling to the finish to some epic Coldplay style music. And damn, I don't even know her, but I'm a little bit proud of her. And massively jealous.
Because as one of the Blue Peter generation, that is the kind of person I want to be. Risking pneumonia for a good cause, and still jumping up and down in excitement to see something spectacular and snowy. And then knowing I can go home and craft a penguin out of a toilet roll, some cotton wool and a glue gun (please get your parents to help you here).
And now this amazing programme is reduced to once a week and confined to CBBC channel. I'm not sure I'm OK with that. I suppose I have no say as I no longer watch it. No longer look forward to seeing where these golden and bubbly people go on their summer holiday, or learn to bake a cake or plant a tree. And of course I don't have any children that I want to instill this love in just yet. But still.
Now I have no idea what is happening in the world of children's TV now but we are all nostalgic for what we grew up with. Mine was a world of The Really Wild Show, How, Wizadora, The Smurfs and Wacky Races. But Blue Peter is number one.
Maybe I like it because I was born curious, with a huge wanderlust, and a desire to be creative. Or maybe it gave me a glimpse of a huge world that I wanted to be a part of, and made me this way.
But anyway, so far I have not yet hiked across the Himalayas or rowed down the Amazon. I haven't adopted and trained a dog for the blind. I haven't even hosted a Bring and Buy sale since primary school. They're on my To-Do list though. Right after I've finished making my own jumper and learnt to juggle.
Because now I'm a twenty something, who has no problem admitting I am a little bit selfish. I'm single, live away from home, have a job I care very little about and have friends who are in much the same position. And life is pretty good you know. If I want to swan off to Italy for the weekend, why not? If I want to write a blog about Blue Peter and Facebook, who can tell me I can't. So maybe, one day, I can do what I really want to do: take a leaf out of Helen Skelton's book and yes, do something that I will benefit from, that will make me feel good, but have that thing be something amazing for someone else, be it someone who benefits from money raised, or someone who might be a little bit inspired to channel their freedom into doing something amazing.
So long live Blue Peter. And long live adventure. I'm off to continue knitting. Got to get this jumper finished.
Because as one of the Blue Peter generation, that is the kind of person I want to be. Risking pneumonia for a good cause, and still jumping up and down in excitement to see something spectacular and snowy. And then knowing I can go home and craft a penguin out of a toilet roll, some cotton wool and a glue gun (please get your parents to help you here).
And now this amazing programme is reduced to once a week and confined to CBBC channel. I'm not sure I'm OK with that. I suppose I have no say as I no longer watch it. No longer look forward to seeing where these golden and bubbly people go on their summer holiday, or learn to bake a cake or plant a tree. And of course I don't have any children that I want to instill this love in just yet. But still.
Now I have no idea what is happening in the world of children's TV now but we are all nostalgic for what we grew up with. Mine was a world of The Really Wild Show, How, Wizadora, The Smurfs and Wacky Races. But Blue Peter is number one.
Maybe I like it because I was born curious, with a huge wanderlust, and a desire to be creative. Or maybe it gave me a glimpse of a huge world that I wanted to be a part of, and made me this way.
But anyway, so far I have not yet hiked across the Himalayas or rowed down the Amazon. I haven't adopted and trained a dog for the blind. I haven't even hosted a Bring and Buy sale since primary school. They're on my To-Do list though. Right after I've finished making my own jumper and learnt to juggle.
Because now I'm a twenty something, who has no problem admitting I am a little bit selfish. I'm single, live away from home, have a job I care very little about and have friends who are in much the same position. And life is pretty good you know. If I want to swan off to Italy for the weekend, why not? If I want to write a blog about Blue Peter and Facebook, who can tell me I can't. So maybe, one day, I can do what I really want to do: take a leaf out of Helen Skelton's book and yes, do something that I will benefit from, that will make me feel good, but have that thing be something amazing for someone else, be it someone who benefits from money raised, or someone who might be a little bit inspired to channel their freedom into doing something amazing.
So long live Blue Peter. And long live adventure. I'm off to continue knitting. Got to get this jumper finished.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
A first attempt.
I'm not really sure why I'm writing a blog. As far as I'm aware I have a distinct lack of opinion...about anything. Maybe I'm hoping that the process of writing will generate some inspirational thought. That, or it will improve my generally low standard of spelling.
Everyone has a blog though, don't they? So really it's irrelevant whether this turns out to be worth reading or not. I once habitally read the dullest blog in the world (a friend's chronicle of his time in London) even though I had pretty much forgotten what I'd actually read by the time I reached the end. Which made it sort of, unintentionally funny. Maybe.
But 'Status Updates.' We all do them. We all hope we are clever or witty or moving but mostly, we just aren't.
I have long been of the opinion that Facebook, Twitter and the rest should be reserved for mild sarcasm, mild annoyance and possibly (as we are British) commentary on the weather. Anything else is, admit it, too much information.
And I'm talking about PDA here. The same way I don't want to see people kissing on the bus, I also have no desire to see your constant updates about how much you love/miss/are constantly amazed by your other half. And enough with the <3
Because the point of sharing things online is to either entertain or get other people's opinions. The 'like' button is the social networking equivalent or an approving nod, or an agreeing laugh. So how are you supposed to react to kissing photos? I wouldn't go up to my couple friends mid kiss and pat them on the back. It's just weird.
I have a friend who got married last year. Every post on her wall is her husband (who presumably lives with her). "I miss you so much. Was great spooning you this morning. Can't wait for more snuggles. xxxxx"
Mini vom. That deserves a text surely.
Hang on...I think that was an opinion I displayed there. Well done me. This is clearly working.
Now actually I'm a romantic. I have a (not so secret) love of Hugh Grant films. But that's true romance isn't it? Where Hugh constantly argues with Sandra Bullock. Beautiful. I mean, they see so much wrong with each other and say it. The kind of true love when you very publicly roll your eyes at someone. But only you are allowed to do so.
Or, if it's really true love it's so deeply ingrained on your life, you don't need to mention it. Cathy said her love for Heathcliff "resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary." And that's what it should be. Minus the running around on the moors.
Ok, enough for a first attempt. Over and out.
Everyone has a blog though, don't they? So really it's irrelevant whether this turns out to be worth reading or not. I once habitally read the dullest blog in the world (a friend's chronicle of his time in London) even though I had pretty much forgotten what I'd actually read by the time I reached the end. Which made it sort of, unintentionally funny. Maybe.
But 'Status Updates.' We all do them. We all hope we are clever or witty or moving but mostly, we just aren't.
I have long been of the opinion that Facebook, Twitter and the rest should be reserved for mild sarcasm, mild annoyance and possibly (as we are British) commentary on the weather. Anything else is, admit it, too much information.
And I'm talking about PDA here. The same way I don't want to see people kissing on the bus, I also have no desire to see your constant updates about how much you love/miss/are constantly amazed by your other half. And enough with the <3
Because the point of sharing things online is to either entertain or get other people's opinions. The 'like' button is the social networking equivalent or an approving nod, or an agreeing laugh. So how are you supposed to react to kissing photos? I wouldn't go up to my couple friends mid kiss and pat them on the back. It's just weird.
I have a friend who got married last year. Every post on her wall is her husband (who presumably lives with her). "I miss you so much. Was great spooning you this morning. Can't wait for more snuggles. xxxxx"
Mini vom. That deserves a text surely.
Hang on...I think that was an opinion I displayed there. Well done me. This is clearly working.
Now actually I'm a romantic. I have a (not so secret) love of Hugh Grant films. But that's true romance isn't it? Where Hugh constantly argues with Sandra Bullock. Beautiful. I mean, they see so much wrong with each other and say it. The kind of true love when you very publicly roll your eyes at someone. But only you are allowed to do so.
Or, if it's really true love it's so deeply ingrained on your life, you don't need to mention it. Cathy said her love for Heathcliff "resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary." And that's what it should be. Minus the running around on the moors.
Ok, enough for a first attempt. Over and out.
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