sobering thoughts

I’m sitting on my sofa with a hangover to beat the band. My kidneys ache, my skin is in rag order and my head is pulsating.

I wasn’t in the pub last night, I wasn’t in a club. I was at dinner in boyfriend’s parents house. Genial hosts that they are, the evening included good food and lots and lots of wine.

We outstayed our welcome until 4 am. I can’t remember leaving, I can’t remember the taxi journey home and I can’t remember going to bed. I can’t even remember phoning four of my friends at 4. 40am but apparently I did and had to put up with their recriminations today.

I am ashamed and know this is not the behaviour of a mature together 31 year old.

I’m not actually a big drinker. I never drink during the week and I don’t go out that much at weekends. It’s my dislike of going out when I do go out which makes me drink. To enjoy sitting in a pub, which I find terribly boring, I do tend to go overboard and get drunk. I don’t like this, it scares me and I think of all the damage I am doing to my body.

Enough is enough, I have decided to stop, go cold turkey and what better way to do it than starting with the Christmas period.

Ah, Christmas. There are all the parties, dinners and even my birthday to get through and I know the next few weeks are probably going to be hellish. But I am game.

A sober Christmas, something I haven’t done since I was about fourteen. It’s going to be interesting.

Interviews and ting

So one part of job-seeking is of course doing the dreaded interview. I have been applying for jobs, not just sitting on my arse and most of the jobs I have applied to have been in London.

Of course I didn't actually think about what I would do if I did actually get called for an interview and last week one of the biggest and respected trade magzines in the UK did make that call.

With only 3 days notice, checking the price of the airfares, I balked at the cost (€200) and made my excuses, asking for a later interview in the hope that Ryanair's price may be a little more reasonable. No was the answer, I was to go over to the interview then or not at all. Left hating the thought of not knowing what may have happened if I missed out on the opportunity, I booked the flights and headed over yesterday.

The magazine as I said was a trade mag, hardly the most glamourous of assignments. The office happened to be in a delightful industrial estate outside Gatwick, again not the most glamourous of locations.

Now I hate interviews, I really can't bear them. I get blanks, I act like a small child or a dumb bimbo. On this particular occasion, the editor interviewing me was actually a rather genial guy, in a London media-type kind of way. I mean, he called his kid after a mythical Greek demigod for God's sake. That kid has a lot to live up to.

So the first part of the interview went pretty well. I adopted my cheeky but intelligent persona and we got on like a house on fire. I was sure I pretty much had it wrapped up at this stage. He was even asking me where I was planning on living and talking about salaries and then after a short writing test, I was introduced to whom I thought would be my new editor. This interviewing lark is a blast!

Then things took a turn for the worst.

He offered me a lift to Gatwick and informed me we would continue on with the interview over a pint at the airport. In Frankie and bloody Bennies. Drinks & crisps bought, it was here amongst the screaming kids and chavvy holiday makers scoffing a last greasy burger before boarding their flight to Benidorm that he decided to give me a maths test.

I can do sums, sure I can... if left alone to do them on my own, in my own good time. However, sitting in the middle of England's finest after a gin and tonic, Benny Hill music blaring in the background and Mr Editor staring at me intently as I desperately tried to work out simple little percentages, well let's just say it didn't go well. The sweat started to pour, I began to go redder and redder and the whole room started to spin. Yes my ditzy persona had arrived and I wasn't so swaggeringly cocksure after all. Is 25/60th's 260%? I think we all know it's not. I know it isn't, I knew the moment I suggested it, that it wasn't. I just didn't have anything else to offer.

Things went rapidly downhill from there. Asked what my most favourite scoop I had seen in the papers recently was, again my mind went blank. All I could remember was Kerry Katona!! Kerry BLOODY Katona. Who?! I had really outdone myself by this time. The poor editor, yes he was giving me a total grilling but I could see he was thinking "sweet mother of God and to think I thought she was alright at the beginning and worth spending nearly four hours of my time on."

He was embarrassed, I was embarrassed, the whole thing had turned into one big farce. He was almost apologetic....my total humiliation was rapidly turning to tears and we were both glad when the time came to say goodbye. In fact I have never seen two people look so relieved at the end of an interview.

When he left and I headed off to get my flight, I began to laugh. I laughed so hard at the thought of what I had been through, how out of depth I was and how I had paid €200 for the pleasure.

I am sure I had provided Mr Editor some kind of amusement, or rather bemusement and I guess it was most definitely a learning curve for me too.

And did I get the job??? Well let's just say I am still waiting for the call.....

beginning to lack motivation

Day 7 (I'm not counting weekends) of unemployment. As I see my bank balance dropping, my panic is rising. I am officially scared. I'm not really getting anywhere on the job front.

On a positive note I am going swimming every morning which is great and I am getting to listen to Radio 4 all day! I may just end up more intelligent and fitter than ever.

I am also running a logo contest for my freelance writing company and so once I have the website set up I will feel better.

A depressing post, sorry!

parents

Ks parent's came over yesterday. They are so different to mine. I spent 12 hours in total preparing the food. They arrived and proceeded to tell us how wasted they got the night before. She sprinkled the parmesan I had put out for the main course all over the lovely starter which definitely did NOT require parmesan. I spent the time cringing, whenever I see them I try and imagine them meeting my parents and just can't. My parents like to talk about philosophy, greek and latin over supper. They like to talk about booze and x-factor. Is there a future here? Am not sure but at 31 I need to make some decisions. K is a lovely guy but not sure I am IN love with him. I feel bored and trapped by his niceness. The whole episode just depressed me today.

Today I went swimming then proceeded to hoover up a whole massive big bag of maltesers. Oh well. This unemployment lark is starting to get scary.

achy head

Sitting on the sofa after a good night out. Went to Y's bday party in a small Italian restaurant in Ranelagh which her Italian friends run. It was good fun and a lot of wine was consumed. We didn't go for the meal but when we arrived as they were about to have their main courses, fourteen bottles of wine had been drunk between twelve of them. Does Ireland have a drink problem? I really think so. So it was fun anyway, catching up with everyone...today am slightly ill and I only had 4 glasses of vino... I am fit for nothing but lying on the sofa eating carbs and watching crappy tv. K is playing xbox which I think is completely and utterly chavvy. He doesn't see what is chavvy about it and we often have the same argument every time he switches it on.

I intend to spend the rest of the day chilling out and eating K's parmesan and sun-dried tomato Italian loaf, freshly baked today - yum.

busy little bee

I have been so busy all week I haven't had a chance to update! Well, when I say busy, I mean my kind of busy. Which is more like lazy than busy. I did work on Tuesday and Wednesday - got a couple of sub-editing gigs in one of the tabloids. Sub-editing should be my perfect job. I love nothing more than pointing out to family and friends the spelling mistakes they have made. They really love that about me. However, with real life subbing, one has to remember so many little rules and regulations which one must adhere to. One couldn't write like this for example. ANyway, so the hours are pretty crazy too...3.30pm until 11.30 pm. So I get home, have dinner at midnight and by the time I get to bed it is 1.ooam. No chance of a lie-in the next morning, so spend the day in a zombie-like daze dreading 3.30pm rolling around because you know you have hours and hours ahead of you in work. Still, it is a relentlessly busy job once there and so the shifts do tend to fly by. I was also sitting next to a couple of very pleasant guys who were up for a laugh. To reward myself for my 2 days of hard slog, yesterday I pretty much took the day off - went into town shopping, started a writing test which I had to do for a web content writer's position and bought a cake tin. Following on from yesterday's events, today I made a cake. That tin won't go to waste, oh no sir-ree. A pistachio and orange cake with an orange blossom syrup to be exact. Sounds good doesn't it?

Far from a scene of contented domestic bliss though, if anyone had entered into my kitchen between the hours of 2pm and 5pm, they would have happened upon a chaotic horrible awful mess. Firstly, my food processor gave up the ghost and so I had to personally pulp oranges by hand - surely that is something no person should have to put up with - and then I had to clean all the bits of the food processor that got dirty even though it wasn't working and I didn't use it in the end anyway - and then bits of the processor kept falling on the floor (my kitchen is the size of postage stamp) and so then I had to keep mopping egg and sugar mix off the tiles. This is between shelling and chopping huge handfuls of pistachios, mint and making syrup. I have two work surfaces in my kitchen, one is taken up by my boyfriend K's new bread maker and the other is taken up by my boyfriend's food processor. As well as having no surfaces on which to prepare food, I also kept tripping over the box the bread maker came in which he has left sitting on the kitchen floor, for two weeks now "in case it breaks and we have to send it back". In light of processor-gate maybe it isn't such a bad idea. I guess we don't actually need any surfaces to actually prepare food anyway, with all K's culinary machines. He still wouldn't let me get an ice-cream maker though.

Day 1, post exertion

Phew what a day. Am exhausted. Headed into town to the local social welfare office to sign on. At least, I tried to sign on. Spent ages before leaving the house getting all the required documents together, filling in all the forms etc. It took me an hour to find my birth certificate. So I headed in and stood in the queue. When it finally got to my turn, they made an appointment for me at 9.50 am ON THE 25TH OF BLOODY AUGUST! Today it is the 10th. So they take no forms, no nothing, just tell me to come back in fifteen days. It is crazy, but at least I have some some form of savings to get me through, I am not sure how other less fortunate people manage.

Walking home at around 3pm, I really noticed a whole different breed of people had taken over the streets. A total dearth of suits and sensible work shoes. Instead, men in tracksuits, young men most of whom had beards (I guess it really does indicate a lack of job), junkies, jobless couples pushing prams...and me! I felt as scruffy as everyone else and another thing I noticed - chip shops are open for business all day. Who knew? I could really degenerate into a fat chip scoffing layabout if I wanted to. Instead I walked past the chip shop and headed into my local library to join up. It was in here all the umemployed respectable people seem to hang out - well dressed, intelligent looking people making full use of their time. Boring. However must try and hang out here and apply for jobs, (not read Jilly Coopers). Off to clean out my drawers now!

Day 1 as an unemployed bum

Well I managed to get up out of bed, at 8am, which is a good thing right? So far I have checked my e-mail 10 times, checked facebook an equal number of times, read the Daily Mail (I know, it's my secret shame), finished and submitted a freelance article (see, it is getting better) and IMd a past classmate for tips on how to survive the day. It seems I am already thirsting for human contact, which is surprising seeing as I would normally consider myself to be someone quite independent. Maybe it is just the thought that there is nobody to talk to which is creating these weird feelings of loneliness. All my friends & family are in work, going about their usual daily business....

I now intend to have a shower, fill in my social welfare forms and go and sign on which should be an experience. I then intend to clean at least one room in the house. Will revert later on in the afternoon with a thrilling update!

Resigning myself to a happier future....

I’ll admit my timing has never been that good. Last week, in the midst of the recession and spiralling unemployment, I handed in my notice.

At a time where people are scared to breathe for fear of being let go, I prayed for redundancy every night and when it became clear there were none on the table, I wrote the letter I had been composing in myhead for the last seven years, handed it in to HR and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

The reaction of my friends and family when I told them I had given up a secure job in the IFSC, with health insurance, a pension and €55K a year, to join the benefits queue, was mixed to say the least. My father called me a fool and many colleagues said “you are so brave!”when I could see that what they really meant was “how stupid you are!'’

On the other hand, I have had a lot of positive messages. My mother applauded me for finally making the move and one old rogue in the office sent me a really rather touching e-mail wishing me all the best, saying how pleased he was for me and although a brave move, how admirable it was to be following my dreams. Only one friend told me how reckless I was, the rest were all extremely positive and happy for me. Of course this may be more to do with the fact they no longer have to listen to me moaning about the job but I’d like to think it’s more to do with their genuine concern for my welfare.

Seven years is, I agree, a long time to spend in a job I abhorred but getting caught up in the Celtic Tiger boom years meant I ended up relying on the money. Not such a sum that I was able to spend everynight in Shanahans but plenty to allow me to live the life of a typical South Dublin girl in her twenties. I rented a plush apartment on Grand Canal Dock, shopped in Brown Thomas on a weekly basis and bought all my food in Marks and Spencer, neatly packaged in its plastic containers.

To make up for the total lack of interest in my weekday job, I was living for the weekends. I loved them and spent then as hedonistically as I could. A typical Saturday involved spending hundred of Euros on Grafton Street before heading out for dinner and drinks in town, then to a club and afterwards to all-night party which typically ended up in a seedy early house in Smithfield on Sunday morning. The rest of Sunday was for bed, then an evening take-away and a bottle of wine before the dreaded Sunday night depression kicked in and thus began the working week again - the excesses of the weekend being erased in thrice-weekly gym sessions and a carb-free diet.

By the end of the month I was as broke as the next person and my life had become a meaningless predictable treadmill of more of the same. I had to stay in my IFSC job to fund my lifestyle and pay my debts, only belatedly coming to the realisation that I was only living like this to cheer myself up simply because I was in a job I couldn’t bear.Walking to work each morning induced a spiral of depression that lasted until 5.30pm and when I did get home I was ready for nothing but watching meaningless drivel on the television. A once voracious appetite for books, galleries and the theatre had long since subsided and life had really become meaningless.

I could see only one way out; further education. Two years ago I embarked on a postgraduate evening course in Griffith College. As a mature student, things were rather different than my previous times spent in educational institutions. Not the best student when I was in college, suddenly I became a head girl type – always early for class,never missing a deadline and even studying for exams weeks in advance. I was officially the class swot as opposed to the rebel who had previously been expelled from not one but two secondary schools and who had somehow cruised through an Arts degree in UCD.

I put this down to the fact that finally I was studying something I was passionate about and I was now mature enough to realise that at the age of 30, it was the last throw of the dice. Looking around the office, the thought that I was morphing into my institutionalised colleagues who had spent years sitting on the same chair, doing the same mundane paper shuffling job their whole lives, who still complained yet were too afraid to do anything about it, scared the hell out of me. I knew if I didn’t do something about it now, not only would I regret it, I would hate myself forever.

Having lectures to go to three evenings a week and essays to write at weekends should have been a chore but I absolutely thrived on it. My swotting and general sucking-up to the lecturers was rewarded with a first class honours and now I know it may just be possible to earn a living through what I enjoy. The thought of having little or no money rolling in at first isn’t scary anymore. As long as I am motivated, I shouldn’t have to be on job seekers allowance for long and if I am on it for more than a month or two, I am going to play it like a game, enjoying seeing how far my money will stretch.

I realise that by writing this, I am at risk of incurring the wrath of the many people in Ireland who have lost their jobs involuntarily and I wholeheartedly sympathise with them. Yet I am at the stage where my own happiness is now more important to me than money. I guess the point I am trying to make is that people whoare unhappy in their jobs should not be scared by the recession into staying where they are. They shouldn’t be scared into keeping up a certain style of living, afraid of what might happen if they do followtheir dreams and in the process won’t be able to afford the fancy face-cream, the designer clothes or dinner out twice a week.

Without these things, life will still go on. Don’t be scared by the countless media stories concerning job losses, recession, and repossessions. If you are unhappy, take the plunge: life really is too short to waste.

As for the future, well I am feeling exhilarated. I finish up in three weeks time and look forward to the challenge. I’m excited about having to buy my clothes in charity shops, I’m excited about the supermarket price wars and I’m excited about meal planning and rationing, as opposed to popping to the shops to buy whatever the hell I want at that particular moment in time.

Whatever happens, it is a move that will certainly turn my life upside down and after seven years in a grey office looking out at the same concrete view, that can’t be bad.