I got home from work last Thursday morning feeling as if a rat had crawled in my mouth and died. I had pulled over into a service station as I was too sleepy to make the drive home and woke up in the mid-morning sun feeling not much better. As I pulled off my stinking scrubs and socks and dumped it in the laundry basket, I realised, "This is it. I am officially unemployed." Technically speaking of course, I was officially unemployed on Wednesday morning since that was when my contract ended, but this one locum job had been planned for a few weeks so I felt that there was some sort of .... well, order to my life still. Plus, I was on shift with my fancy man, The Chain-smoking Man, so it was something to look forward to. Only he wasn't much joy, being grumpy and out smoking most of the night.
It probably would not be so worrying if there wasn't the whole visa thing as well. No work means no visa. So after nine years in this country, I have to uproot my entire life and go home. Do you know how many duvets I've collected in my time here? (I lived in student digs with no central heating.) I guess I don't have it as rough as some. Others have mortgages, car loans, kids in school and longer years of training gone to waste.
I had a moment of panic when I got home. The house was empty. My housemate was at work. One friend had upped sticks and moved to Plymouth. Another had moved to Manchester. One had gone to Australia. I was....... nowhere.
When I'm at a loss, I tend to stick my head in the sand. Alright, in a book. It has been my defence mechanism since childhood. Which is why in the past two months I have gotten through more novels than I have in the entire year. Which doesn't help of course, because the longer I put things off, the bigger my problems become.
I am chicken shit, I know.
My friend said that it sounds like I'm running away from reality. Fucking smug smart arse. I'll come and do a Zidane on you.
Bah! I'm going to go wash the kitchen towels.
It probably would not be so worrying if there wasn't the whole visa thing as well. No work means no visa. So after nine years in this country, I have to uproot my entire life and go home. Do you know how many duvets I've collected in my time here? (I lived in student digs with no central heating.) I guess I don't have it as rough as some. Others have mortgages, car loans, kids in school and longer years of training gone to waste.
I had a moment of panic when I got home. The house was empty. My housemate was at work. One friend had upped sticks and moved to Plymouth. Another had moved to Manchester. One had gone to Australia. I was....... nowhere.
When I'm at a loss, I tend to stick my head in the sand. Alright, in a book. It has been my defence mechanism since childhood. Which is why in the past two months I have gotten through more novels than I have in the entire year. Which doesn't help of course, because the longer I put things off, the bigger my problems become.
I am chicken shit, I know.
My friend said that it sounds like I'm running away from reality. Fucking smug smart arse. I'll come and do a Zidane on you.
Bah! I'm going to go wash the kitchen towels.
Comments
Chocolate?
Thank you. Come again.