It occurred to me on the bus that I have never been to theatre in all the time I’ve lived in this city. We were heading down Shaftesbury Ave. and there were all these posters for all these plays. When I was at Uni I went to The Gate at least once a month. Although the cost is a bit on the prohibitive side. But I should at least make the effort.
There was nothing that jumped out at me from the posters. Just a sea of blah. I’ll maybe try The National.
Maybe I should be writing plays instead of a novel? DBx
Some more of the novel (it’s definitely a novel now):
As the lift finally freed itself from between floors Georgina spilled out into the reception area. The redhead behind the desk stared at her for a minute before speaking, “how long have you been in there?”
“Oh I’d say half an hour. No one responded when I pressed the buzzer,” Georgina replied.
“I guess it just decided to rest itself.”
“Really? That’s your response? Not sorry for all the trouble you’ve been put to? Not, are you okay? Just, oh it must have reset itself,” said Georgina, her cheeks flushing with the heat of rage now boiling up.
The receptionist continued to stare at her blankly in silence.
“Nothing? No apology? Nope?” the red Mist rising higher. “Okay fine. Whatever. You clearly don’t care about the people who visit your offices, so you probably don’t care about the people who work in your offices either. Thanks to your ridiculous lift I have now missed my interview. An interview for a job I clearly would have been perfect for but now don’t think I should even bother about asking to be seen on an alternative date because why would I want to work in a place that treats its people as if they’re nothing!”
“Miss Fitzpatrick?” came a voice to her left
Georgina spun round to face the tall conventionally handsome thirtysomething man in the Ted Baker suit who was calling her name. The mist still at its full height she snapped, “what?!”
“We’re so sorry about keeping you waiting. The last two interviews over ran. If you’re ready we’ll see you now,” he said offering a half smile, half look of incredulity.
“I… Yes, I… Thank you. I will… Yes,” was all she could offer in response.
Not based remotely on experience or factual events – honest!
Marcus Timms is the worst manager I have EVER had. He’s the reason Caroline left. He’s the reason I might leave too.
Reasons to hate him:
- He comes from money. Stupid amounts of money. His dad is some sort of Earl of something.
- He likes to have a bit of a grope when he thinks you’re not looking. He is stupid enough to think that you won’t notice him touch your a***!
- He cannot do his own job, yet he seems to be very opinionated about how I do mine.
- He had absolutely the worst breath in the world!
- He Seagulls everything – which is what I call it when someone flies over you from a great height and then sh*tes over you by dumping their workload on you at the last minute.
- He sort of looks like Boris Johnson…
I love my chats with Auntie Monica. She just seems to set me on the right course when we chat. I can be sinking in a sea of vague and she’s drag me out and prop me back off. It’s one of the truly great things about being raised by someone you’re not actually related to.
That probably needs an explanation. My Auntie Monica is not really my aunt. Monica took me in when I was six after my mother passed on. They were best friends and had been to school together, so it was a natural choice. I never knew my father of course. I know who he was. By which I mean, I have the first name of some guy from America. I know the story of their brief romance. I know that he left.
Monica is still my best friend. She’s the woman I trust above anyone else. Not only did she take me in but she taught me how to be me. How to be the woman I’ve become. She could have taught me less about drinking Jameson and snagging a handsome fella and more about finding some focus in my life. But it wasn’t that important growing up. And she has good advice now on the things that matter. Growing up I was always more interested in why than how. She encouraged that in me. To follow the path that the world threw up in front of me rather than carving out my own. Free spirited I guess you’d call it.
I miss seeing her every day. But we talk every week and she fills me in on the local Bunratty gossip. She’s always been quite the storyteller. Probably comes from working the bar at Durty Nelly’s. Funny how our local pub has become such a cliché around the world. I love her as much as I loved my mother. She made growing up without a family something I never had to experience. She is my family.
You’re still here! I’m so sorry – I forgot you. I’ve been busy. Writing! Here’s a little something I’ve been working on – possibly the start of the novel or maybe just the start of a short story:
If the morning had gone differently she wouldn’t have been stuck in the lift. She felt certain of that. The lift was the inevitable result of a catalogue of tiny disasters that day had thrown at her. It had started with the burnt coffee that the twelve year old behind the Starbucks counter had made for her and had ended with the lift grinding to a halt between the 11th and 12th floors. The interview was probably over by now. They’d probably decided that she was one of the worst human beings to have walked the planet. How dare she apply and then not show up at the appointed time. Didn’t she know how busy they were. Didn’t she want the career in journalism her CV had claimed she did.
Between the coffee and the lift there had been the man on the Bakerloo line who had pressed himself into her back, when there was clearly enough room in the carriage for him not have done. That was followed by the infant that spat up their banana over her Mulberry satchel. Then there was the call from Anthony. That just seemed spiteful. He knew the day was important. He knew what the job meant to her. But did he let her have that moment? Of course not. Why would he do that when he could inflict maximum damage with just a well placed phone call. She didn’t take the call, that would have been foolish, but she did check the voicemail. That was her mistake. She knew realistically that she should have checked it after the interview, but the temptation was too great.
“It’s me,” the message began – the King of the Obvious strikes again. “I just need to know when you’ll be out of the flat. I have someone coming to look at it tonight and I could do with it being tidy. If you could stay out until after seven that would be helpful. But more importantly if you could let me know when you’ll be moving out then I can just get everything closed off.”
No goodbye. Not even a hint of kindness. Just business. She could still hear it in his voice: the bitterness. She’d hurt him and he wasn’t letting that go any time soon. He was going to hold on to that feeling for as long as he could. His inability to unclench was one of the reasons she’d decided to leave him. That and, of course, because of Michael.
I’ve got more, but it’s the start.