Cold Feet

Months done at new job: 1
Free coffees from Waitrose: 5
Hair fallen out: far more than normal
Mixed netball matches played: 1
Parking tickets accrued: 1
Letters written to try to get off parking fine: 1
Length of time it took to realise work Mini has heated seats: 4
Letter of concern from the GP surgery about my alcohol intake: 1

Well, I've survived my first month at the job.  It's gone pretty smoothly, not too many lumps and bumps. There have been busy days; good days. But, on the whole, I have to admit that I am bored. It's just incredibly quiet, not very many enquiries at all, and so what am I supposed to do all day? Sitting at my computer with the boss behind me, while I desperately try to find something work-related to do, is exhausting and pretty soul-destroying. I arrive back at my Mon-Fri home at around 8pm; frustrated, poor, and wondering whether I made the right decision to up-sticks and work in London.  There are times when I sit on my bed and cannot help but cry, for cumulative reasons, but then other times I remind myself that as a graduate I'm lucky to have a job, especially in the sector I wanted, and a roof over my head. It's all very up-and-down.

My office is, shall we say, interesting.  My boss is Spanish, and it's often difficult to understand what he's trying to say as he mutters something incomprehensible whilst wildly gesticulating at the computer screen.  I asked him if it's usually this quiet at work, whereupon he throws his hands in the air, proclaiming, 'it's a disaster!' I can't deny I house a small fear about being made redundant so soon into my career.  His kind side comes out with a little Lindor milk chocolate ball deposit on each of our desks, or the odd Ferrero Rocher.  He's been on holiday this week, and it's been rather nice to be able to relax a little in between phone calls, without the fear of him checking my computer screen. Then there's the Property Manager, a beautiful South African woman, who complains about her 'Heathrow Injection' and never- ending stomach problems.  She has OCD tendencies towards hygiene and an awkward habit of over-sharing, 'I just can't crap!' I smiled sympathetically at her and offered her a dried apricot. She has a tale to tell to do with just about everything, the worst being her dating saga and the tricks men have played to try to get her into bed.
Finally, there's the man in Sales.  I'd like to say he's fairly normal, but for the fact that he believes all microwaves should be destroyed, and that the Queen and Royal Family are all lizards. It's all to do with some kind of reptilian conspiracy theory (pretty sure it started in America - no surprises there). It's incredulous that an otherwise sensible 43 year old man actually believes this. The other day he pretended to mug me as I crossed the road back to the office.  He crept up behind me and growled, 'give me your bag!' And then, I did what I swore I'd never do if I were to be mugged: shrieked and swung my handbag at him, like a little old lady, before realising it was him.  This was broad daylight in Kensington. I felt embarrassed, but then thought how weird a thing it was for him to do. I rather feel I'm working in an office full of nutters.

My first game of mixed netball was better than expected.  I joined a league just to try to get some more exercise and have a bit of a social life.  Surprisingly, netball's quite a big thing for men in Oz and NZ, as well as Jamaica, and the speed and strength of these guys completely changed the game.  The umpire laughed along with us and the the rules were slightly less strict compared to what I was used to under England Netball rules, but I wasn't phased and was pretty proud to be awarded Man of the Match. Looks like it could be a fun few weeks, especially with a drink and a bite to eat after the games.

Absolutely zilch to report on the dating side of life.  Gorgeous Carpenter didn't even reply to my friendly 'how are you' text, so that's over for good, and London's dating pond is ridiculously huge.  I honestly had far, far better luck in Hampshire. Of the couple of men I've sought out on Plenty of Fish, none of them have replied, which never happened back home.  Then there's this new Tinder dating app, which I eventually downloaded upon the insistence of friends.  In a nutshell, I don't like Tinder.  Unlike with POF, you know nothing about them, so it's hard to strike up a conversation about mutual interests.  Friends of mine have had success, others have just found people to sleep with.  It's just not really my thing, and has made me feel even more anti about technology dating.   I don't feel I'm looking great anyway, with my lack of exercise and fresh air, growing squishy tummy and bottom and city-living shiny greasy spotty skin.  Goodness, I know how to advertise myself... but it all makes me want to dash back to the countryside.  So I think I'm going to give up with men, and hope that someone lovely comes along in a few months in the old-fashioned way, rather than through a screen.