Open Writing

Those computer lessons are finally making themselves useful. Last weekend when I tried to send my diary to 'Open writing' I managed to obliterate over
1000 words and replace them with the letter 'e' and then saved it; all quite
without realizing it. Amazing to think nothing quite so catastrophic ever
happened until I acquired my computer proficiency. After rubbing my head in
my hands and on the keyboard for five minutes, accusing the silly smiling
'help' paperclip thing of messing things up, I remembered studying something
about a 'search' engine, and expecting the computer to make engine-like revs
when I activated it. I gave it a go and managed to retrieve my file. It was
under the heading 'Scrapbook'. I think the computer had a real cheek to
scrap it without my permission, but I am starting to view IT principles in a
more positive light, and feel quite haughty about my prowess in the computer
domain.

March 15 is approaching fast. This is an important date because my PGCE
round 2 selection must be in. I got the letter from the GTTR a month ago,
telling me my first choices were already full and asking me to make another
two, but I'm a procrastinator. Have been telephoning and emailing all my
friends for help in decision-making. This is making things worse. Every time
I come off the phone I change my mind depending on what the last caller
thought. If I were to draw a histogram based on my survey, though, Brighton
would be the longest bar, followed by Chester,...and if I don't decide soon
I may be subjected to another year as a dinner and Avon lady. or maybe I
could be an IT expert?

I took the bread-maker back to Argos on Tuesday. I was terrified as I'd
used it twice. I was sure they'd be able to tell and would glare at me
sternly, moaning, 'We can't take this back love. Look at the state of it.
Every millimetre of burnt dried date appeared in football sized format as I
darted from one bit to the next with the dishcloth. The dishcloth annoyingly
deposited flecks of the previous night's broccoli back where I'd cleaned,
but I persevered...a quick steamy breath on the see-through plastic lid and
a swipe with kitchen towel and the job was complete. I felt so on edge
waiting for the verdict of the woman on the customer service desk. I
repeated,
'Well, it's just not suitable. It's too big .heavy,... slow .... doesn't do
the job properly.'

She kept retaliating with recommendations to try the Moulinex 50, the
Morphy Richards super-compact at only 5 kg etc . My £50 return depended
entirely on her mood that morning. I put on the vacant, thinking about
shopping in Sainsburys face which I use when I go through customs and
managed to hide the fear. Fortunately she didn't check to see the state of
the instruction book, which had dried bread mix on and gave me back the
money. I was so thankful as this is a lot for someone who is unemployed.

I am making more of an effort to find a job as some days I feel so lonely
and stuck in a lifeless hole, watching other people busy around their 'real'
lives. It's hard to meet people if you're not working and don't have a
family, and you feel so purposeless and disconnected from society.

I went for two interviews at care homes, enquired at the counter of a
Chinese take-away and went into WH Smith , Boots, M&S etc. The staff in the
training place which the job center has sent me to looked more impressed
with my efforts than usual last time I went in. The first residential home
didn't seem too impressed with me but then I did have mushy pea stains on my
cords and onion breath from my lunchtime sandwich, and I wasn't too
impressed with them either. They were having a 'meeting' when I arrived and
kept me waiting a whole hour. I heard raised voices coming from the dining
room and think there must be disturbances among the staff. Now all I can do
is wait, and yet there's still a part of me which is terrified every time
the phone rings. 'Maybe I'll be offered a job. I'll have no free time.
It'll be hard work. What will the people at work think when I turn up with
mushy pea sandwiches?' I've grown used to might little routines and if I do
start work it will be hard to leave them behind.

The highlight of this week was trying out a salsa class at the stadium. When
I lived in China and Japan, I took martial arts classes but felt so robotic
doing the moves. I longed to be back in the UK where I could exercise in a
more expressive way. I'd been staring at the stadium timetable for weeks,
encouraging myself to go, but had been either busy or too deplete in a
confidence to have a go. (the last time I took part in a dancing class was
in Australia. It was run by a long-haired, assertive Columbian student from
my language school. I loved the snappy music which made me dream of balmy
nights in S. America and sangria and I managed to get away with bad
co-ordination because the aim of the class was to have a laugh ), I feared
that in Huddersfield my fellow students might be clad in groovy dance gear
from Pink Cadillac, well used to wiggling their hips around on the dance
floor.). The class wasn't quite so much of an ordeal as I'd anticipated.
The other students seemed to warm to me entirely because my twirls at the
wrong time made them laugh, and many of them were middle-aged house-wives.

The worst thing I did was to follow the teacher as she ran over to the other
side of the room to correct someone, as I was so intent on copying her every
mambo. Oh dear..but then, laughing at myself along with everyone else made
me feel less sad for not having the sense of belonging I get when working,
and I'm determined to go along next week for more.