Monday, 18 July 2011

I am the least excited I have ever been about anything. Fact. True story. Totally couldn't care less.

If this year has taught me anything, it's "try not to get too excited about good fings wot happen, because the minute you do, they'll probably go tits up".

Granted, it's not the most positive lesson to impart on a Monday afternoon. But in a year that has so far seen a failed move into central London, coupled (no pun intended) with the sudden demise of a relationship; it's one I've had to reluctantly embrace.

The last seven months have been a rollercoaster inspired cliché; as well as sporadic attempts to find new housemates, there's been the ongoing search for a job. There have been three interviews; two bad, and one which left me waist deep in expectation right up until I opened the e-mail telling me I hadn't got the job. Aside from that, the process has generally consisted of me getting well excited, applying like mad and hearing nish all in return. Seriously, potential employers. If we're failing miserably, at least send us a generic, one size fits all note to let us know. It don't half placate the application-addled brain.

So given all that, you'd forgive me for feeling a little jaded when, out of the blue, two opportunities toddled their way towards me in the final days of my holiday. There had been no application forms, no scouring of websites, no pimping myself out in carefully constructed covering letters. Just ten days of sunshine and relaxation which somehow culminated in two separate people with separate positions to fill, choosing me.

Once I'd finished rubbing the lucky stars out of my eyes, the talking started. "So, what's the deal with this room, then?" I said, tentatively broaching the subject with my two good Uni friends at lunch yesterday. The lessons about getting too excited ringing in my ears; I'd already convinced myself that in the time between texting about it and seeing me, they'd clearly have had a re-think about their choice of housemate.

Instead, they seemed just as enthusiastic about me joining their North London abode as I was. And so it was agreed that in September, all being well, I'll be moving out. Again. Hopefully for longer than three weeks this time.

Oh, and if the God of Fate who reads my blog and then pisses on everything I get cautiously excited about on here could click "unsubscribe", that'd be even better.Ta.

6 comments:

Redbookish said...

Oh, good luck!!

Or rather, break a leg, as it's unlucky to wish someone good luck in the theatre. And don't whistle. Or wear green. Or mention Macb--the Scottish play.

unpackingbooksfromboxes said...

I'm sure it's time for your luck to change. If anybody knows how carefully housemates should be chosen it's me, but I'm sure if they're uni friends of yours then they'll be much fun. And I find moving house (once the stress of it is over) is an excellent way to start fresh and clear your mind of past negativity.

London-Lass said...

I shall just say a very small and very cautious "Ooo!"

But then shall back away. Slowly & carefully.

(I understand the God of Fate is quite a light sleeper)

Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open said...

Redbookish - Thanks. I hereby bin all green items of clothing from my wardrobe.

unpacking - Yeah, funnily enough I'd earmarked these two as people I could happily live with way before their room was even remotely up for discussion. Let's hope it'll be a fresh start.

Londonlass - Precisely my thinking. And my reaction. While quietly jumping up and down in a corner.

jman said...

Doing the Snoopy joy dance on your behalf. Misdirection is a wonderful thing.

Ellie said...

You need to spend more time with the dogs. ;-)

Of course, just kidding. You've had a crap year. Hugs.

 

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