I think I might have magic powers. Apparently if I complain about something enough, its remedy suddenly pops up. I once had an Amazon Prime package that hadn’t been delivered on time, and as soon as I opened up one of those ridiculous online chat help window things and began my outraged customer spiel, the doorbell rang. Mildly awkward conversation ensued whilst I tried to thank my online helper for as yet doing nothing without fessing up to the arrival of my 9″ round cake boards (Mum uses my Prime occasionally and as a consequence my recommended items are often bizarre looking kitchen implements).
Further proof of my magical complaining trigger – last week I wrote about how stressful job interviews are and how much I was beginning to despise unemployment and hey presto, the next day someone rang me and gave me a job. Yup, I’m employed again! I start tomorrow, with high levels of excitement, low but persistent levels of nerves and a tiny bit of utter dismay that I have to be leaving the house at 6.40am every day because I will now be commuting to London. Those who know me will attest that I am categorically not a morning person and generally shouldn’t be approached before about 10am. My current sleep schedule is approximately 1am-11am. 6am starts are going to hurt.
London. The thing I’ve always said I’ll never do, live and work in a big city. And yet here we are, breaking the one rule in pursuit of an exciting job opportunity in an industry I’m very keen on (publishing, for those interested, but that’s all the specifics that I’ll go into on a public platform!) and the chance to no longer sit and trawl through endless job sites promoting the same ten jobs that won’t suit me, pretending I’m interested in Netflix while also scrolling through Instagram and Twitter and flicking through books and rearranging my wardrobe about seven times. Turns out all the stuff that’s fun to do at weekends when you can enjoy having no responsibility is not as fun when it’s available to you 24/7.
In a few months, barring any hideous disasters that I really hope my karma isn’t bad enough to cause, I’ll fully break my rule and be moving to London too. The commute isn’t awful, but it promises to be slightly uncomfortable at best and squished-into-the-too-busy-train, breathing-other-people’s-sweat, being-constantly-elbowed-by-that-dude-who-keeps-trying-to-read-his-newspaper unpleasant at worst. My current feeling towards it is that the sooner I can stop doing it, the better. I’ve got some podcasts loaded on my phone to try to preserve my sanity (recommendations welcome!) and I’ve been sharpening my own elbows and practicing my balance – I’m aiming for the ability to stand on a moving train/tube without needing to hold onto anything at any point. Tube surfing, if you will.
Because I’m me, I’ve been panic-preparing all day even though this shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s not even an interview, I already have the job, but I’m still terrified that somehow they’ll decide they’ve made a mistake and I’ll be back to squinting at LinkedIn when it emails me Prison Guard job openings. Algorithm, you okay hun? So it’s currently 8.40pm. I made my lunch for tomorrow at midday, I packed and repacked my bag by about 2pm, I’ve laid out my outfit and subsequently fretted that it’s not suitable (everyone who interviewed me was wearing jeans. Do I therefore feel comfortable enough to wear jeans tomorrow? Nope). I’ve tripled checked train times – on that note, whilst season tickets are undoubtedly a good saving in the long, paying for them initially is a brutal blow to the bank account. I’m so ready for tomorrow that I’d probably get an award for it. All I need to do now is calm my overhyped brain enough that I can sleep well, because oversleeping, missing my train and being late on my first day is in my top three worst nightmares. Best crack out the sleep tea and the lavender oil!
Until next time, K.