Saturday, 21 September 2019

Working Girl

I've not written anything much in the last month except lists of things that need sorting out.

After about 12 or 13 interviews I was offered a three-month booking in a large urban university just south of the river.  This was such a relief I did not stop to think that it might actually be a really shit job and, let's face it, I really needed the money.  Not for the best part of 40 years have I had a boss who looks at me with such blank-faced contempt.  He laughs and jokes with others and can barely take the time of day to answer my questions.  Any information he gives seems to be totally arbitrary, so I cannot take it as read that it will apply next time. 

If I were a lesser person, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  My questions are treated as annoyances, my abilities and my experience are challenged, my very words are undermined as I speak them.  This man is an utter cunting tosser.  But it's three months, and I can do it.

The question is, what happens after that.  Permanent work is needed and apparently the reliable winning streak I had for getting jobs has ended.  It has to be faced: I am old, and younger candidates with their still-wet degrees and their poor grammar and tendency to sit and use their phones all the fucking time are a better bet than me, it seems.

But I'm not bitter.  I'm just really angry.  Angry old women are dangerous.



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