I have a job. I may have a job. I'm 98% certain I have a job. OK, technically at the moment I don't have a job, but I'm told I probably will. My friend Amy, a lady of great beauty and poise, thinks she may have wangled me some employment in her team at Sheffield Uni. Apparently, I'm told, only the manager having a complete change of heart will stop me getting it. And that's ace, because I could feel myself slipping steadily into the pessimistic, miserable mindset that prompted the beginning of this blog. Tonight I will get drunk.
It was nice telling my mum on the phone, hearing the relief in her voice - she too, I suspect will get drunk tonight. My mum is a huge worrier, about every conceivable thing. Sometimes things that are completely out of her control. She once admitted to laying awake all night, concerned that her niece's rabbit was stuck outside in an uncomfortable hutch in the freezing cold. She comes down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, worried that she's locked the cat [below] out, when in fact she hasn't. But mostly, she worries about me, and I'd like one day to put an end to that.
The cat's called Oscar, and I think he's about 13. We got him when I was only just a teenager and for every minute since he's been a thoroughly outstanding cat. He doesn't squeak and miaow all the time, sits on your knee a lot, kills tiny creatures with aplomb, and has a permanently wet nose. As you can see, he's a massive ponce, and is thoroughly indulged, but I think that's one of the main reasons for having a pet: deep down, it's just nice to give another animal the best life it can possibly have. He even chases ping-pong balls and torch-beams around the carpet in an insane fashion. What more could you ask for? Yes, we'd all like a pet monkey, but it's just not feasible.
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