I’m almost done with this lovely driving job, although I still have to do some Heathrow runs. Mostly I’m finished though. It’s been delightful. I’m good at this sort of work, which is simultaneously delightful and bullshit. Validation is how they get you. “You’re so good at taking out the bin bags, so much better than I am, baby.” But I’m genuinely good at this. Even if I might not action it.

In my entire life I reckon I’ve covered 4 weeks in an office – tops. I hate the fucking places. 3 weeks receptionist for Ambassadors Theatre Group Turnstyle, back when I was auditioning for drama school. I stayed there long because Lorna was kind. I didn’t hate that job but I left it immediately I was accepted to Guildhall. Before that, I detested 1 week temping for Babtie Finance in Reading. I was supervised by an idiot, micromanaged by another one and realised extremely quickly when I suggested a better use of their software and found my thoughts ignored because they weren’t fed up the chain properly that I had no desire to hurtle my young life towards these catastrophic oubliettes, no matter how widely they yawned at me. I could’ve been fired up by positivity, but in these places all it takes is one person who doesn’t love you, and an office can become poison.

Blah. I watched a football match tonight. I went to the only proper boozer in Chelsea. The Royal Oak. It’s a rarety, in that it’s one of the last bastions of old Chelsea. I hung out with people from all round the world. There was a couple in Colombian strip. An old millionaire with his grandchildren. All sorts of people. I got to hang out with Tristan, but in terms of long thoughts I’m done. I’m even more knackered than I was last night.

Hooray win etc. Early bed. Short blog. Too tired.




Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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