As ever, I am preparing to prepare to move. My life over the past nine years has mainly consisted of packing up my stuff. There is something of happiness about it, as if one is going on a long trip. A bit like Dracula with all his boxes of earth going to Whitby.
I'm not sure yet where I'm going. There are many options open and yet seemingly closed. I have applied for a lot of jobs and not got a single interview. While this could be for a number of reasons, I'm fairly sure it's my age. There is no getting away from or around this. However excellent my skills and experience, I suspect employers see someone who left school before they were born as not the right fit. A lot of equal opportunity policies don't even include reference to age, and I suspect there is unconscious as well as conscious bias.
But I'm not discouraged, and will keep applying for things. In the meantime, I do need somewhere to live that is more than a prettily padded cell, particularly as this working at home lark seems likely to continue. The most sensible thing would be to put everything in storage and go back into a house-share, until I know what I'm doing.
One would think at nearly 59 I should know what I'm doing. Recently, before we entered the current stringent lockdown, I had a lovely walk with some old schoolfriends. Refreshing very old friendships has been one of the nicest things about coming back to the UK. And a tiny, almost inaudible voice said this is where you are supposed to be. Now, one should always be wary of little voices telling you things but this one seems to know something I don't.
Perhaps I should just stop pushing against the current, and be still for a while. Maybe that is what to do.
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