I’ve had two job offers. On paper, I’m brilliant. In real life, not so much.
Managed to lock myself out of the house last night, while the city was being lashed with the wash of Cyclone Debbie. Sheer brilliance. By luck, because it was lashing down, I’d dumped my bag in the laundry while I faffed about, so I had my phone and my book, and my old fold out chair from when I used to sit on the back deck before the Bad Neighbours. And it was dry and solid because the laundry used to be the outdoor loo, there’s even a light to read by.
Unfortunately before I chilled and settled I sent off a testy IM to Himself about being stuck in the laundry so he made a big announcement, left whatever fancy art wine and cheese do he was at and caught a taxi home to rescue me. It was sweet, but I’m never living it down and I’m basically his bitch for the rest of the year.
Still, being dry and inside watching the Legion finale was better than trying to read my Buchan in a howling gale in the laundry - the gap under the door was letting in some water and a bitey draft, must fix that.
Legion was, well, I just really like it. It has no plot to speak of, so I shouldn’t, but it picks up the insanity of the Prisoner, the nuttiness of all those ITC shows I loved (Avengers, Department S, etc.) and the bent reality of Life on Mars (they keep citing cable shows, but Life on Mars was doing this over ten years ago, people) and the general UFO aesthetic. And Dan Stevens, who manages to walk a fine line between campy and menacing.
Oh, and I also picked up two Dan Stevens glossy mags today, which made me happy. Not that I ever get to scan my stash these days, and definitely not in a leaking lounge room, but hey, it’s the small things. It keeps my mind off my rotting carpets and uncertain job sitch.
At least I’m not the only one suffering bad 70s reno syndrome. I know several folks in the same actual boat, brothers and sisters in buckets and bailing. I think, I know, we’re all so over it we’d happily round up all surviving purveyors of badly done 70s renovations (certification my arse) and drive them over The Gap with pitchforks. Not too harsh at all for the intergenerational misery and economic hardship they’ve caused with their carelessness. Not to mention actual safety issues (me sloshing about in a swill of lead and asbestos, for starters). Bastards.
Meanwhile, there’s been an explanation, of sorts for the boy’s extreme haircut (I’ve copied several news reports to my blog). It’s pretty much he’s just a mad bastard, thanks for asking.
I’m not sure I entirely buy the ‘just bored’ excuse though, as it was the perfect hair to wear when flying about in fighter planes like he was the other day (the life of a celebrity, eh), so I’m kind of hoping something is up, but either way, he’s letting his freak flag fly and I’m happy if he’s happy. I do miss the Jack Lord look he was rocking though, that was a fave.
I’m just envious, I guess, because what’s charming eccentricity for the blessed, is certifiable deficiency and deviance for the rest of us. But it was ever thus. There are always two rules for everything.
Even for infanticide, as it’s always a medical condition for rich folks and murder if you’re poor. I know, a bit heavy, but nowhere is the dollars for diagnosis so stark as in cases of infanticide (and I saw enough in my time as a coroner’s clerk).
I know, I need to lighten up. At least I know now I’m not the only one bumbling about like a lunatic. This latest restructure has us all shook, like dropping things, forgetting things, walking into walls, doors and buses. They’re targeting folks for termination, which is, I’ve learnt, way worse than the arbitrary red crosses on a floor plan that I was hit with last time. Really, last time it was so very ‘those six desks there, sacked, those two desks, keep, those six desks, gone, those two, stay’, and so on. Except I know the two keepers are gone now because, oh man, so not the shoulders you would have wanted to load the work of a half dozen ex-employees onto.
So last time it was so damn arbitrary I knew there was nothing I could have done better. This, though, being picked off like characters in a horror film. It’s awful.
So I should take those job offers, and yet, and yet, I have eggs. I got another box of eggs from the farmers market that is our office kitchen. I think I might cling on until I’m prised off. Because despite a few bad apples, I like most of what I do, and the people I do it with. And, hey, at least the CV is working. I should be able to get a temp position with an agency when the crosshairs fall on me. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s all so uncertain and awful.
Which may explain why I spent hours last night in the laundry. Or I’m just a lunatic. Whatever.