I’ve just emerged from three days on a lovely little telly job. And coming home is always a little like climbing out of a rabbit hole. Everything is brighter yet, deliciously, slowed down. My back aches, possibly from perching on the same plastic swivel chair for hours on end. And I have an irresistible urge to shop.
Back in the real world of course, the kids are unclean, exhausted and smelling suspiciously of J20. Homework is…predictably, not- quite-done and, the washing mountain looks like something only a Grimm Brother could think up.
Hence it’s taken me until now to get back down to this. The glorious art of writing a little piffle, tweaking and whittling it up, and then teasing and pulling it’s skirts down until you think….Crap! It’s nearly pick-up time. And then you publish.
And this is why I love blogging.
1 The ‘job’ you don’t have to clock in and out of, that you can do where and when-ever you like.
2 A job you are never too old, or young, or thin or fat for, where it doesn’t matter if you didn’t go to the right schools, or that you don’t know the right kind of people.
4 The perfect job.
Apart from the money thing. Getting paid would be nice.
Which brings me on to exactly why I happened to apply for a writing gig on a female website not unlike the one I optimistically launched back in 2008. Or, the other site I sold my first site to, and then edited for two years.
Plus it was raining that day. And that always makes me think I need to find gainful employment. Or a rainbow.
Anyway, last night they kindly emailed me to tell me that…
I don’t think I will be visiting the site again. You see it hurts to know that my skills weren’t sufficient to write about Owl Cushions or to deliver an informative but ironic recipe for a decent Chocolate Dacquoise. And I’ll miss the free trips to swanky pubs and hotels I had had my heart set on.
But I’ll live.