Life has hit an all time low. I tapped on a pic yesterday to bring up more info and sat there, tutting, for a minute or two ’til I realised the terrible truth: the pic I’d clicked was in a magazine. A proper one, with pages to turn and a tea-stain on the front.
I fear for my sanity sometimes. Perhaps it’s the bite marks left after three months of daily b*llockings in a law firm earlier this year? (Directed at everyone, I hasten to add. How thoroughly enjoyable!)
‘I just don’t think I’m a [insert name of bastard law firm] sort of girl,’ I bravely emailed the HR lady before flouncing out, going home and having another cry. Good grief.
Had my brain disintegrated after a year of street food-ing? Was there flour in the nooks and crannies of my thinking department? Perhaps the hormones had taken over the asylum and I was over the hill; a menopausal maniac who shouldn’t be let out unsupervised?
My children – and even the dog – would say all of the above is true but they are horrid and not to be trusted.
I run a successful foodie business. I’ve just started working a few days a week in another law firm where there’s cake, not confrontation. There’s a new secret project on the go… no wonder my brain works more slowly? It’s not broken, it’s just got a lot of tabs open.
A ten-year life plan seems hellishly long when you’re hot flushing, have creaky knees and can’t find the car keys but the plan would work more effectively if this bloody magazine picture would just hurry up and load…