Finally get access and time enough to blog. Feel as though there is little point relating anything but the tragic story of how my simple dream of a new job and a new home fell apart. The story of why I am now living in a garden shed. The story of how I was attacked by a nine inch high canine on my quest for a toilet break.
The story plays out like this; its Monday the 5th of November, and I'm starting my new job. It's on the other side of the country to my home town, and the short notice has meant I'm staying in a basic hotel, breakfast not included. I had arrived into the town on the previous night to a cascade of fireworks for bonfire night, which somewhat alleviated the stress of carrying my own bodyweight in clothes along the two-mile hike from the train station. Somewhat.
My first day goes well. My boss is nice, as is her boss and her boss's boss. The team I'm set to work in are all friendly. I sit in a state of constant terror, natch, frozen in front of reams of text I can barely comprehend. Constant assurances are hurled at me that I'll "pick it up soon". They're probably right. Evening came and morning came; the first day.
Second day is a easier. Find out where the toilets are, strike up (albeit stilted) dialogue with who I guess I should refer to as 'my colleagues'. Crack the odd joke. No-one seems to notice; this is probably a good thing. The hotel is depressing, but I am buoyed by the fact that on Friday I will be moving into my own brand spanking new flat, furnished and lovely. Evening came and morning came; the second day.
Third day, fourth day, fifth day - all fairly similar. I'm beginning to understand how this real world thing works. Only problem being my housing plans have fallen through. So three more weeks in a hotel, oh the ecstatic joy you can imagine I felt!
To save a bit of money, I stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Unfortunately, the only room I found was in the garden shed. Bathroom facilities are in the house, it's below freezing outside (and possibly in here) and whenever I stick my head outside a troop of tiny yapping dogs go crazy for my (albeit delectable) ankles.
Epilogue
I spend three weeks in the hotel. I finally move into my flat at the start of December. It takes all of that month to get a phoneline installed (possible upcoming rant post about the hideous evil that is British Telecom call centres I hear you say?). It takes most of the next month to get a broadband line installed in my flat, and I take another six weeks off from blogging just for good measure (read: fear).
Anyway, I'm back now.
The story plays out like this; its Monday the 5th of November, and I'm starting my new job. It's on the other side of the country to my home town, and the short notice has meant I'm staying in a basic hotel, breakfast not included. I had arrived into the town on the previous night to a cascade of fireworks for bonfire night, which somewhat alleviated the stress of carrying my own bodyweight in clothes along the two-mile hike from the train station. Somewhat.
My first day goes well. My boss is nice, as is her boss and her boss's boss. The team I'm set to work in are all friendly. I sit in a state of constant terror, natch, frozen in front of reams of text I can barely comprehend. Constant assurances are hurled at me that I'll "pick it up soon". They're probably right. Evening came and morning came; the first day.
Second day is a easier. Find out where the toilets are, strike up (albeit stilted) dialogue with who I guess I should refer to as 'my colleagues'. Crack the odd joke. No-one seems to notice; this is probably a good thing. The hotel is depressing, but I am buoyed by the fact that on Friday I will be moving into my own brand spanking new flat, furnished and lovely. Evening came and morning came; the second day.
Third day, fourth day, fifth day - all fairly similar. I'm beginning to understand how this real world thing works. Only problem being my housing plans have fallen through. So three more weeks in a hotel, oh the ecstatic joy you can imagine I felt!
To save a bit of money, I stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Unfortunately, the only room I found was in the garden shed. Bathroom facilities are in the house, it's below freezing outside (and possibly in here) and whenever I stick my head outside a troop of tiny yapping dogs go crazy for my (albeit delectable) ankles.
Epilogue
I spend three weeks in the hotel. I finally move into my flat at the start of December. It takes all of that month to get a phoneline installed (possible upcoming rant post about the hideous evil that is British Telecom call centres I hear you say?). It takes most of the next month to get a broadband line installed in my flat, and I take another six weeks off from blogging just for good measure (read: fear).
Anyway, I'm back now.
3 comments:
Oh no! I hate cliff-hangers. . .
Consider yourself carefully pulled up from the precipice, only to find it was a six foot drop into marshmallows.
i just re-read this post and the bit about the "troop" of dogs just made me guffaw out loud at work. xx
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