Okay, I have a confession to make and the only reason that I am coming clean is that it is now oh-one-hundred-hours and I have nobody else to talk to. Yep, you’re it. So now, globally, a good five people are going to know of my private night terrors.
My erratic summer, spent in the murky world of the professional temp, was due to the unique and very surprising holding pattern nature of my 2010 career plans.
In June of this year I was offered a coveted place on a course in journalism (and a full bursary, check me!), beginning in September, which in June, seemed about as imminent as the preparations for my 40th birthday party did on the day of my 21st.
In the true spirit of why worry today about something that can be worried about a bit later, I simply circled the date on the calendar and tried not to dwell on the disturbing vision of me attempting to be taken seriously as professional wordsmith on an actual newspaper.
It was a worryingly bad omen (and is hopefully not an indication of my very best investigative, I’m gonna blow this thing wide open, reporter skills) when, sometime around lunchtime on Sunday just gone, I uncovered the fact that it is in fact, September and that my course begins on Saturday of this very week.
I subsequently, officially entered panic somewhere around tea time.
The washing up is piled on the work surfaces, the beds have gone unmade and my cooking has merely involved piercing film but just because, in terms of housework, it’s business as usual doesn’t mean that all is well.
I couldn’t be more terrified if I had just received an invitation to one of Keyser Soze’s boat parties. I haven’t slept for two days; I am staring off into space a lot and have not been eating any of my Birds Eye dinners but have been half heartedly stabbing at them and pushing rice around with my fork.
With true kid perception and intuitiveness, The Teenager and Annabelle immediately clocked that all was not well and strategically implemented the infamous she’s-not-listening-anyway-so-ask-her-quickly ploy and have been gleefully hitting me up for money on Ebay, Bin Weevils (it’s an internet game), Moshy Monsters (ditto), box office movies and anything else they can purchase both electronically and quickly before the sun and by extension the hay making, stops.
In the immortal words of Beetlejuice; it’s showtime.
It’ll be fine (she shrieked) what’s the worst that can happen?