Last night Steve and I were forced to shop at the Sainsbury’s of Despair: it's laid out all weird, so you spend 10 minutes looking for the milk, and everyone is wandering about in a similarly aimless, desperate manner, looking like they’re about to cry. It’s the one on Clapham High Street, and I was getting very bad vibes from it. Bought ingredients for fajitas and got the hell out. Made dinner, drank a Miller Lite (the Champagne of Beers! Or is that High Life?), which Steve had brought all the way from Chicago!
Now I am at work eating a crayfish salad (one of the saucy buggers has a bit of crayfish poo on it. I took it off, but what if I missed some? Will I live? Check back tomorrow if you care) from atop a pile of page proofs (I like to live dangerously) and looking at my Hotmail to see if I’ve somehow missed an email from a major publishing house saying ‘Yes, we’d love to employ you.’ Where could it be?
Have also had my hopes dashed (again). Was hoping to win the Green Card Lottery, move to Chicago, and live happily ever after. Steve was gonna hitch a ride on my coat-tails, too, so he’s bummed. We had a whole marriage deal worked out! Damn you, Immigration Services and your unreasonably strict guidelines! See, although UK nationals aren’t eligible for the lottery, if either of your parents were not born in the UK you can apply. As soon as I read this the tape loop of me sucking down beers at Ten Cat, hi-fiveing jazz musicians at Green Mill*, buying coffee and cheap organic ready meals at Trader Joe’s, all accompanied by Therese, started to play. Then when I read it again a few weeks later, it became apparent that what the clause actually says is that if one of your parents were not resident in the UK at the time of your birth, and if the country they resided in was eligible, then you could apply.
Back to the drawing board.
* This has never happened. It just suddenly sounded good to me.