My need to scribble down my thoughts comes and goes and as it happens, it sure well WENT for a while. But now, it’s back with a passion. I’m doing things, I’m going places, and rather than writing whimsically I’m writing because I have something to say.
2014 was an upheaval of a year, even if with hindsight I can recognise the stress as a cleansing kind of agony. I quit my job after being desperately unhappy for a good two years. I moved back the family homestead and there I stayed happily unemployed if grumpily poor for the best part of the year. I played carer and domestic assistant to an injured grandparent – giving me the quality time with a matriarch I’d not realised I’d desperately needed. I sold all my crap on eBay to pay the bills. I temped. I got sad when they couldn’t keep me on. I played housemaid, I rested, I took some joy in the simple pleasure of being able to walk the dog every morning. I paused.
The unrelenting search for a new job took its toll, but for the most part the horror of being on benefits was bearable compared to the misery of thoroughly hating my job.
Then Christmas came and went and I started 2015 with the realisation that this unemployment could drag on and I could be in serious trouble. And that’s when fate stopped pissing about and packed me off to an interview where I shone and six weeks later was rewarded with pay day, the likes of which I’d not seen for some time.
The new job has shocked my brain in to action, where it had laid dormant for some time. It’s come as quite a shock to realise just how incredibly stagnant I’d become, and how boredom and depression had rotted my (already lacklustre) confidence away to nothing. Finally being valued by an employer seemed to placate my pathetic self-esteem and it’s enabled me to start doing things I’d never thought I’d be capable of doing when I was in the absolute darkness. I’ll start talking about some of this later.
But for now, I’m happy and I’m happy about happy. It’s a novel experience and it’s time I wrote something about it.
I’m going back to NYC in May. I’m gleeful in anticipation of reubens, pancakes and peanut butter m&m’s.
I’ve not dropped by and written anything in quite a while. I’m blaming this on our new work internet restrictions which have blocked anything vaguely worth reading. Including anything WordPress or Blogger based. Ridic.
In the meantime, here’s picture of me and my new friend:
To anyone in the history of ever who has emailed me at work:
My first name is Elizabeth. It says so in my email address, it says so in my email signature. I’d have preferred if my company could have set all these things up under my preferred derivative, but not to worry. Elizabeth is my name, officially, so that ought to be it.
But NO. Every day, someone on this bloody planet will refer to me as Liz apropos of nothing. It drives me FUCKING MENTAL. Even if I reply two or three times, signing off each with my actual name, I will without fail receive a reply addressed to Liz. Sometimes, they will just call me something else entirely different, just to mess with my brain.
As you may have guessed, my preferred derivative is NOT Liz.
This daily constant struggle to get people to usual my proper name drives me apoplectic with rage. Not just because I’m pernickety and pedantic, but because of the simple fact it is JUST RUDE.
It shows that either:
a) you are arrogant enough to ASSUME my name. (RUDE)
b) you are arrogant enough to not read my email properly. (RUDE. I write good emails)
c) you are an idiot.
Please PLEASE for the love of God, could you just sort yourselves out, because you really will drive me to an early grave. Otherwise I will simply refuse to answer any emails address to Liz. She simply doesn’t exist in this here Library.
That’s right. You heard it. I got off my arse and did something.
When I say I got off my arse, I mean I actually put my usual daily sitting about to good use. In that I finally got round to writing up and sending off an application for my Masters course.
Despite my previous assertions that doing a Masters wasn’t as good as getting experience, I’ve spent 3 years working in Libraries, where experience is great, but having a professional qualification will earn you the money. So I devoured a huge slice of humble pie and promptly spent the last 2 years procrastinating about applying.
I needn’t have worried, as last Friday, Aberystwyth University have very kindly offered me a place on their distance-learning MScEc course 🙂
I’m going to be a student again. *drinks 10 gallons of snakebite and dies*
My silhouette would be considerably fatter and MUCH closer to the ground.
I’ve got a confession to make.
I’m nursing an unrelenting crush on a man older than my father.
That man is Alec Baldwin.
Whilst there is no denying he was pretty smoking hot when he was younger…
… it’s the older, greying and a little more rough round the edges Baldwin that’s been creeping into my dreams with his tiny eyes and silver fox glare.
I’m fully aware that this recent development is purely down the fact I’ve been overdosing on boxsets of 30 Rock. I’m sure I’ll find myself rapidly rationing episodes so that I can prolong my slightly mental love affair. But perhaps having a sex dream about him on a very early commuter train, and the subsequent worry of whether I made sex noises MIGHT be a reason to back of the Baldwin, however reluctantly.
Anyone who knows me in real life (or follows me on Twitter) is fully aware of my day-to-day battle with getting to work. Not only do I have to contend with the horror of actually getting out of bed and finding clothes, I then have to board the bucket ‘o’ bollocks buses provided by First Buses.
I won’t go into too much detail about my loathing for First otherwise I will come off like a rage-filled, foamy-mouthed, Daily Mail reader. I will however provide a short summary of my rage points:
- First’s inability to run buses that don’t stink/fall apart/breakdown. Everyday for three weeks last year, I managed to board a bus that would go on to break down .
- First’s bizarre recruitment policy which seems to exclude hiring drivers (with the exception of about 5) who have a concept of customer service.
- The inability to keep to a timetable. This has bugger all to do with traffic/accidents etc. I mean drivers loitering, smoking, eating and drinking rather than getting in their bloody vehicles.
I could go on.
Essentially I resent paying First £1200 a year for a service in which I’m only on time to work 2/5 days each working week. On a journey that takes upwards of 90 minutes each day, which would take a car 45 mins.
My commute drives me so completely round the bend that when I saw this poster last week, I nearly had a fucking aneurysm:
I’ve got to hand it to them. Whoever is in charge of First’s marketing department must be a really funny bastard.