This time last year I was working in a dismal television production office, working silly hours for a couple of ridiculous bosses. I had just moved from my tiny but perfect central london pad to the unfashionable arse end of North London. In short, I was pretty miserable with the way life was turning out.
As I have a habit of doing, I quit my job and decided I was never going to put myself in that soul destroying situation again. Weeks of signing on later I still didnt have a clue which direction to take. So late one night out of boredom and desperation, I browsed a few charity websites and applied to a few jobs ads thinking nothing of it. So I got the shock of my life when I got a phone call a short while later inviting me to an interview.
Four months later, I have no complaints about my job. I dare say that sometimes I even love it. Even on the worst of days when I'm staring at a blocked drain full of doggy poop and squeaky toys surrounded by old boys that call me Guvnor, I still love it. A world of 9-5, tea breaks, no egos and...normality! I don't care who got a Christmas card full of cocaine, who is having an affair with their assistant, what pretentious habits so and so demanded- in fact, at what point in your life do you become a prick that will only drink coffee ground from the beans shat out of a monkey's arse?
I have a new Kitchenaid mixer- the ferrari of all kitchen gadgets. Not the retro red one I was lusting after, but a sensible white one. More Barefoot Contessa than Nigella, but I
love this machine. I could have sliced potatoes with it last night until my fingers bled. Afer the little lamb hot pot I whipped up, I also baked an apple pie. I envision myself in 10 years covered with tattoos and a pink apron, teaching my little punk rock child how to bake a moist carrot cake.
