Well, it’s been a weird week. Am feeling very down about work, and this was not helped by the events of Thursday night, when I went to a book launch and got all sad. Keep reminding myself that it’s a very bad idea to let my job define my sense of self, and to get all bitter and “everyone is out to get me” about work, when clearly no one is out to get me. Anyway. So I went to the launch and the authors did their thank-you speeches, and everyone got thanked except me. I was actually crying in the toilets for a long time, and looked all blotchy when I came out, despite splashing water on my face and practising a cheery smile in the mirror. I do the gruntwork on my imprint, make sure things happen on time, chase contracts, artwork, page proofs etc, but as this work isn’t visible, unlike, say, publicity, I don’t get any credit. Do I sound bitter? Well, that would be because I am. The Boy knew exactly why I was upset, and as neither of us was now in the mood for free booze, we left.
The weekend was better, as it involved babysitting my twin nieces. They’re 21 months old, and one calls everyone “mummy”, and is a scrappy little thing, and the other is bigger and on Saturday morning managed to steal six Farley’s Rusks and hide them in the conservatory, before being dobbed in by her sister. While I disapprove of the theft, I gotta salute her stealth and enterprising nature. A chip off the old block.
Sunday the Boy and I went to Greenwich market, which is full of lovely antiques and edgy 20th century furniture, but a tad overpriced. £250 for two chairs that look like they came from MFI in 1987? Let me think about that for a moment… However, I did buy a lovely 1960s telephone table for £3, and my living room now contains not one, not two, but three items of furniture with those characteristic splayed screw-on legs.