The Last Chicken

A large part of my job was ensuring that students didn't escape during the day without permission, so it was kind of ironic that on my final day I couldn't get off campus.  Having said many goodbyes over the last week, in my final hour I was pretty much alone.  The odd IT person (not a slur) was wandering about and the support staff, but apart from that, there was nobody there but this chicken.

As I was carrying quite a bit of stuff (I haven't plundered all the stationery, it was just my own shit) I thought I'd get a taxi home the last day, leaving like someone in Eastenders.  But there was nobody in the Chateau to order one for me.  I walked down the hill and - because I no longer had my security badge - was unable to open the electric gates.  Neither was there a guard on the gate.  Neither was the intercom working.  Swearing quietly but effectively to myself, I called them on my mobile and was advised to wait. So I waited.  I waited.  Finally my favourite guard came to let me out and that was me gone.

I then called a taxi and he sang to me all the way home, mainly Prince and Bob Marley. 

Dive Dive Dive

I am beginning, imperceptibly, to get into the tuck position necessary for my spectacular dive.  What that actually means is: desultorily packing the odd box, drinking too much wine, and feeling the edge of coming terror.

Friday was the work picnic, which was mainly Prosecco.  We had it on the all-weather track-and-field field and it was startlingly hot.  That shouldn't be a surprise, but it had been pissing down cold hard rain most of the week.  There were small children splashing and drinking the rainwater in the tarpaulin over the long-jump.  Dogs likewise.  I think I managed to get drunk and not offend anyone, which is always good.

After that I took round to my colleague her laptop, as she's been sick for some days.  Due to her neighbouring-proximity we have become sort of friends.  Perhaps if I'd stayed we would have become good chums.  She was much perkier and we shared a bottle of wine in her startlingly hot garden.  I attacked kalamata olives with gusto while she told me unrepeatable stories.  I know there is probably an elegant way to eat olives, but I nibble all the flesh off, because I'm common.

Having spotted a job I really want, in the place I really want, I'm now getting the fear.  What if I get it?  What if I don't?  What if I don't even get an interview?  What if I'm actually shit?  Last night I had a nightmare about the one essential part of the job in which I have no experience. 

There is something about condensing your entire work experience into something punchy, sexy, and marketable that makes me want to remove my spleen with a spoon.

Bearing Up

So, we had our own Writers' Retreat. 

S, L and I went east to Limburg province and had a wonderful weekend at the home of S's lovely parents.  We drank wine way too early, were probably way too loud, and wrote very little.  I did find it amusing that around midnight one night we were all drinking water, given that we were apparently such a dreadfully bad lot.  Even reprobates need water occasionally.  (I should not really include L in our bad-lottery.  She has only been tainted by association).

Today is 49 days until I leave.  All the sevens. 

It's far less until I leave work - just over two weeks.  I keep telling my colleagues I'm leaving and they don't seem to believe it.  It will only be when I remove the three stuffed bears, the tampons, the cutlery, and the large lump of patafix from my desk that they might really get it.  In the meantime I'm still putting out small fires and preventing others from starting by peeing on them.  The fires, not my colleagues.

Every time someone asks me if I have a job to go to, I get this slightly hysterical bubble in my stomach.  I think part of me is actually enjoying this walking off into apparent oblivion. 

A Bit of a Spot

I hate to add another layer to how much I feel like a failure but: circumstance has brought to a head a suppurating pimple that I didn't even know existed.

I have been quite happily a part of a lovely writing group for more than three years.  I had signed up for the fourth Writer's Retreat and was looking forward to it.  I thought that these people were friends, and that they were the group of people in Belgium with whom I felt most sympathy.  I felt valued and liked.   I had never had reason to think otherwise.  Every weekly meeting, every event, every social event outside of that, every Writers' Retreat only served to prove that these were my people.

Having registered and paid up for the Retreat this year, I noticed that a message was posted publicly to those who were attending.  'Last year we had the situation that people felt very uncomfortable and also offended by behaviour of members who drank too much.'  

My friend S and I had taken boxes of wine to last year's Retreat, to share with others, as we always did.  We enjoy a drink and enjoy sharing.  I do not remember any offence, or discomfort, or any "behaviour" being mentioned.  People had a drink and a laugh and went to bed.  S and I probably drank more than others.  If this was a problem, the organisers had a year to talk to us about it, and ideally before we paid up for this year.  They did not do this. 

Apparently, the issue of alcohol has been much discussed since last Retreat.  But nothing was communicated to us, apart from the admonition to be "reasonable".  I always think I'm reasonable.  I think taking some booze and snacks to a four day event for people to share is reasonable.  I think letting other people do their own thing is reasonable.  I think discussing issues like this before people pay 150 fucking Euros is reasonable.

I responded to the message and was met with what could only be described as a vomit of anger from one of the organisers.

We have not had our money refunded, but I'm working on it.

Whatever happens, this is not a nice way to leave.  These are not fond memories.

Seven Swans A-Swimming

There is an eerie calm here which, to the untrained eye, might be mistaken for a lack of arsedness.

Beneath this thin veneer of calm, swan-feet are churning. 

On my way home from work I stopped for a good few minutes to watch the swans on the lake with their seven beautiful fluffy babies.  They were protective and nonchalant in elegant swan-style, and gently but firmly saw off some curious mallards.  I imagine cygnets have quite a high survival rate because frankly, who is going to mess with a fucking swan?

But I'm not really like that.  I'm more Maria from the Abbey spluttering "SEVEN CHILDREN?"  Mind you she did get to marry Christopher Plummer, which must have eased the horror, somewhat.

Tomorrow, my friend and colleague J (one and the same person) will come to meet my landlord.  Presumably to see if he's suitable and not a serial-killer.  I don't think he's a serial-killer.  He's kept it quiet if he is.  If he passes the serial-killer test, he can have the apartment.  And whatever furniture he wants.  Frankly at this point I would give away all my worldly goods, bar a few items of clothing.

I have a longing to be in England, but I suspect it's an England that doesn't exist any more.  England is mainly the amphibian Nigel Farage at the moment, with a sprinkling of Boris, and a chaser of Rees-Mogg.  Cunts, the lot of them.  Still, I really need to go home.

Catatonic

I've been having a bit of a funny few days.  Re-homing Luna broke me a tiny bit and I went into suspension.  This was unexpected.  Most change is met with, if not resilience, then a sort of vague greyish resignation.  Letting go of a cat I was never particularly fond of has been surprisingly hard.  I have dreamed, maybe hoped, that she would walk back the 8km from Uccle and we could have a syrupy Disney reunion. 

This would actually not be ideal, as I'd then have to work out what to do with her again.  But I really fucking miss her.  She was loud, often a bit psychopathic, but she was my spiky little companion these last four years.  Often she would lay along my side, with her face as close to mine as possible, purring.  We spoke to each other.  I have no idea what she was saying.  "Take me to Uccle, you bitch," possibly.

Her new slave has sent me a photo of her curled up asleep on his lap, so I know she's fine. 

Today I am preparing to get ready for Prom for the first and likely only time in my life.  I have a sort of Grecian goddess dress in cobalt blue which nicely skims over the fat bits, and I'll wear a sparkly necklace.  Talking of dresses, has everyone got much taller suddenly?  I have to cut four inches off the bottom of this frock in order not to go arse over tit while walking.  A bunch of us are going as chaperones to the seniors but, I suspect, we are just going to eat a lot and get riotously pissed.  That's English pissed, not American. 

I will attempt to leave before midnight, not because of the risk of turning back into a scullery-maid, but because some of the late trains terminate at Delta.  Which isn't a sorority house, but a station far too far from which to stagger in evening wear.

Sheer Lunacy

Yesterday, the vet came round to give Luna a long (like 12 years) overdue  immunisation and the idea was to give her a general check-up, prior to her rehoming.  At first Luna did her appealing, slightly-slutty-with-visitors routine and even sat on the vet's lap.  You would think he might know better than to trust this.  When he tried to look at her teeth or examine her, she turned into a large,very sharp eel.

We still had to give her the shot.  I say we.  It was more him really.  After Luna drew blood from the vet (he really should have known better), I volunteered my gardening gloves.  With one glove apiece, and a large towel, we got the squirming muscular mass of claws in a corner and in two attempts, gave her about three-quarters of the shot.  "Well, as you see, she's very strong for her age," I said, after apologising for the bloodshed.

She is currently having her last troll in the garden and I'm washing out her litter tray.  If all goes to plan (all being a rather sinister drugging and then shoving her in the basket), we'll be on the move before 7pm.  As with most things at the moment, I won't believe it till it happens.  She's got about half an hour until I trick her with some cream and a cat tranquiliser.  I have my gardening gloves at the ready.  I'm going to miss her.