Sometimes You’ve Got to Steal a Tin Opener…

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The sharp-eyed amongst you may have noticed that I’ve been a little quiet lately. Whether this prolonged silence has put you in particularly good spirits, or left you with a painful me-sized hole in your social media perusals, I’m back now, so suck it up.

I’ll start with an explanation. My failure to keep up with the pressing demands of rambling on about miscellaneous topics of my choosing for approximately 900 words once a week has been precipitated by two things:

1) My hitherto absent fiancé has returned from New Zealand and yes, he does still want to marry me.

2) Despite attending the previously mentioned job interview with no eyelashes (a bit like Tilda Swinton, but without the striking resemblance to David Bowie), they only bloody gave me the job.

(N.B. Blogging about how you can’t afford mascara is a great way to get your mother to buy you mascara, along with beans and Linda McCartney sausages, in case you ever need any of the above.)

As you can imagine, both of these things take a considerable amount of my time, and whilst I’m thrilled not to be planning a wedding to someone it had started to feel like I was making up anymore, having a job sucks balls.

I’m sorry. I know I should be thrilled. There’s lots of people out there who can’t get any kind of job so perhaps it’s a bit insensitive of me to complain that somebody wants to employ me, but if I’m perfectly honest, thrilled I am not.

I shared an article on Facebook a day or so ago about getting sucked into the nine-to-five and not having time anymore to do the things you love. The piece argued that as a consequence of this, we’re all spending our increasingly precious free time spaffing all of the suddenly not-so-precious money we’ve started making in a vain attempt to try and have the fun we were having before we had the stupid job. Or one that took up so much of our time, anyway.

Bloody hell, deep breath, stay with me.

I found the piece particularly struck a chord with me because it eloquently put into words something that I’ve felt for some time, something that could in fact be the driving force behind my hightailing it the minute I come close to actually getting any kind of significant job. And no, it’s not just because I’m lazy.

I suppose a few examples are in order, so for today’s trip down memory lane I’m going to take you back to a time not-so-long ago when I nearly got a grownup job in London Town.

It started out well. The job was copywriting for an Internet marketing company (much like the one that I currently do the odd bit for) but full-time, and in London. Or so I thought. Technically it was in London, but not London London, you know, that place where Spencer Matthews twats around in his wankmobile (GOOD LORD, I JUST GOOGLED HIM AND THE MOTHER FUCKER WROTE A BOOK!), where Noel Fielding drinks craft beer in Kentish Town with the ghost of Amy Winehouse, and Boris Johnson goes joy riding on the Circle Line, not that London London. It wasn’t there.

The office was kind of in one of those containers where they kept the hockey sticks in school, in a car park behind a pub in Lewisham. I suppose that should have been the first sign. But I digress.

I suppose I’m over-exaggerating a little. It did have windows, which was nice, but the loo was pretty much in a cupboard in the corner so everyone (all three of the other staff) would most certainly know if you had to do a hangover poo in there at all ever, because that happens to everyone in work sooner or later.

Anyway. I probably could have gotten over the shitty offices. Maybe even the fact that the company’s website was full of typos, but what I couldn’t handle was the fact that their main source of income was marketing for hospitals in Mexico that performed unregulated operations on people with MS. Oh, did I mention that these operations cost tens of thousands of dollars?

FUCK!

So yes, I ran away. And although no job since has been quite as morally repugnant, I still find it extremely difficult to stay still and get on with shimmying up the career ladder in a job that I don’t really like.

The crap thing is, though, that having a job of some description is necessary. Mainly because it is frowned upon in some circles to steal back the tin opener that you left at your sisters before you went on your travels instead of buying a new one (the good ones are like £4.99, I needed one to open the beans that my mother brought me).

So no, I’m not jizzing myself because I’ve got a new job. Thirty seven hours a week getting intimately acquainted with spreadsheets is not my idea of a good time. But no, no I don’t have the balls to do a J.K. and stay on the dole until I produce something fantastic.

So what should I do? Work part-time and steal more kitchen utensils from my sister? Or stick with the spreadsheets then come home and type away til the small hours whilst occasionally grunting at my recently returned fiancé?

I’ll be buggered if I know. So, like they used to say on Live and Kicking (before Twitter an all that), answers on a postcard, please?

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