Current level of conviction in own genius: 2
Hours of composition achieved in last 24 hours: 0
Hair day: Beyond reproach. The back of my hair is recoiling in horror.
Oh sigh. Having complete non-day in which the most exciting event was walking all the way up Brixton Road to hand in a job application to the Young Vic Theatre whilst managing to avoid the flying spittle from the drunk dude staggering about the place, and rewarding myself with my near-daily KitKat and newspaper (Guardian, Mondays and Fridays, Independent the rest of the time) ritual. Plus buying an arty mug from Woolworths to sate my burgeoning need for trendy kitchenware, which, as I am still on a budget of Zero, I cannot wholeheartedly act on.
No word from Brunel Uni. This is the position, out of the 15 or so I have applied for, not counting sorry-assed temp jobs, which I am most wholly and resoundingly qualified for. If even they don’t want to see me for an interview I am clearly fucked. Perhaps I shall see if that cleaning job with Lambeth Council’s social housing unit is still available. Anything remotely close to my dream is clearly eluding me. Am so bored with looking for and applying for jobs that my eyes feel like they’ve turned inside out, tucked themselves in and retired for the rest of the day.
Still, juice were on Radio 3 on Sat, making it 3 times in the ether in 6 weeks for me and my pieces.
And lovely weekend with Andy in Cambridge, watching him do his assertive publisher’s thang at the city’s literature festival, including rubbing shoulders with the likes of John Harris, Alison Pearson, Meryl Wyn Davies and other assorted political commentators and authors.
Sigh again. Look on the bright side etc.