In my desperate attempt to escape the Office, something remarkable happened: during a conversation with a recruiter, who literally screamed when she found out what my current salary is, she revealed she was trying to recruit someone to work with (drumroll please!) CHICKENS!
Is it my ideal job? Well, no – but it’s very close. Obviously I’d rather work with birds that eat the young of the chicken, but as proud possessor of a cockerel and stunning chicks, one of which I hatched myself (Jim – Jim is a girl, by the way, named after my grandad and horned – okay, hatched – on my Nan’s birthday), it’s pretty damn close to being my favourite thing ever. Add to that the company might just be interested in actually using my social media and marketing skills, and I am officially in heaven!
It turns out that pinning the MD down to get me that interview is proving difficult.
In the meantime, although determined to get that job, I went for an interview at a property company.
The chicken Gods were out to get me though.
Shirt No. 1 melted under the iron.
Shirt No. 2 fell victim to Rusty Iron Gunk.
The black trousers fell foul of the Cream-coloured Iron Gunk.
Jareth the Cockerel decided that he was going to try escaping from the run, which led to chosen attire being put straight in the wash and a valiant attempt at finding something else wear.
I’m guessing I didn’t get that job, which sort of sucks because it was five minutes from home, fantastic because the next day I received the news that all daughters dread: Mumm-Ra the Ever-Living started a conversation over the phone from her hospitable: “Now, I don’t want you to get upset but…”
How does she expect her daughter to react to the news that my mum has stage three ovarian cancer?
I cried, I looked it up, I can see what her five-year survival rate is.
Worse than that is the fact that I am perhaps coming across as some kind of unfeeling sociopath. You see, in my family I have a 100% death rate from cancer. Besides, we can sit there on our couches watching news about wars, diseases and death and nothing really affects us – put cancer in our back yard and we’re scared to death.
No matter what the type of cancer, it’s terminal for those of us whose loved ones get hit with that news.
Suddenly I feel guilty for my mum having two cancers right now when I have nothing but I smoke, I’ve openly smoked weed in my youth and I flat refuse to have a smear test in case I hear something that will scare me. Mumm-Ra has played this whole game to the book, never once breaking a law of legal or health proportions, yet despite this I could lose her within five years.
Add to that the fact that my other half is pressuring me to move out – and my current interpretation is this: “I’m depressed in my job and refusing Happy Pills because I would rather be sarcastic, my mum may possibly die within the next five years and you’re pressing me to move out because you want to move forward NOW because living in a one-bedroom flat and having a gaggle of disobedient, impolite, unruly kids is making you a little bit upset is not making my life better.”
Right now, I’m scared. I’m scared for me, I’m scared my mum won’t be here in five years’ time to see me become some of career writer with some kind of bird career I love on top of it, but I’m scared as well of leaving my dad alone. I don’t want him to have to be by himself.
I’m scared to move away because what if Mumm-Ra needs me?
In a lesser dose, I’m scared that I’ll be left as a shadow of something I might have been.
Life just can’t be easy, can it?