Disentangled

Well, yeah - it was.

Got a call yesteray; the plumber who was gonna give me an apprenticeship has lost some contracts, which means they can't justify taking on etc etc etc. Wasn't totally unexpected - not for the fourth time, and not with how ridiculously well it all went. Easy come, easy go, I guess.

Funny thing is, I'm not too bothered. I mean, I was gutted at the time; got sent for an early tea-break cos the tears dripping onto my Domestic Hot Water notes were making the rest of the class (wee hard-men-in-training, bless 'em) feel awkward.

But by lunchtime I'd formulated the start of a new game-plan, made a couple of calls and resolved to get absolutely leathered on whisky and ginge, go to bed and start afresh today.

I've no worse off than I was 9 days ago - better, even; still feeling quite energetic and positive, as if a wee part of my brain hasn't quite understood the news yet. I'm in the mood to get things done - applications, scary forms, part-time jobs, bring it on!!! And my fat clothes are too big again and my friends are fantastic and a stranger in Tesco gave me his clubcard points yesteray, and it's not fucking over till the fat lady gets physically escorted off of college premises by security. Yeah!

I can't believe it.

I got a JOB!

I'M GONNA BE A PLUMBER!!!

Was so sure I'd fucked up that interview last Friday - mostly down to the hyperventillating dalek that took up residence in my voicebox for the hour, although the lack of nicotene certainly played a part.

But. But today I got a call from the Man Himself, and he said they're gonna take me on; said the office wifie was gonna sort out the paperwork today; said I could start as soon as this block of college finished; said you won't let me down, will you? As IF!..

Bounded back into class, shrieking that I had a JOB (!!!), and all the wee boys laughed at - no, not at me; with me. Went down for teabreak; had a sandwich, but it wasn't just a sandwich - it was the kind of sandwich I'm going to make myself every day when I'm a plumber!!! Went out for a seat in the sunshine, but it wasn't just the sun - it was the sun that's going to be shining on me all summer when I'm up a scaffold playing with power-tools, when I'm a plumber!!!

Hardly dare to believe it - had my hopes raised and dashed 3 times already; seems wise not to reeeeeeeally celebrate till I've done my 6 months probation, or at the very least till I'm on the building site.

But the dreams I thought I really was going to have to let go come Spetember are suddenly alive again, and I can feel the very air around me opening up with infinite hope and possibility, and maybe just maybe it's all finally going to be OK.

So fucking happy. Please let it last...

My mate Baz got into a bit of bother in the booze shop in Oxford...

...he'd come down from Caithness, where "Can I have a poke with that, please?" is a simple request for a small bag to put your wine in. The Asian shopkeeper, however, looked a tad concerned, eyes flicking between the two of us and a spot under the counter where his "panic" button musta been located.

Baz, a bit the worse for wear, tried again: "CAN I HAVE A POKE WITH THAT, PLEASE?!?!?" (clearly, the man had hearing difficulties). More eye-flicking; a wee side-step towards the button and away from us... "A! POKE!!!!!" roared Baz as I collapsed ino the counter, helpless with giggles, confusion reigning supreme on either side of me.

Only when it looked like we were going to be arrested for sexually harrassing the good shopkeepers of Cowley Road did I manage to stand up, put my face back together, grab the wine and tow him out of the shop. We never did get our poke.

Careers office, late Friday afternoon. Slightly dopey woman ("Gail") is carrying out Google searches I could've done quicker and better myself, under the misnomer of Careers Advice.

The clock beeps 4; mass exodus of middle-aged women bustling towards the weekend in a flurry of handbags, car keys and goodbyes.

"Bye-bye, Helen!"
"Bye-bye, Gail!"
"Bye-bye, Christine!"
"Bye-bye, Margaret!"
"Bye-bye, Angela!"
(Bye-bye, Dipsy! Bye-bye, Tinky Winky!")

"Ooh, it's like the Tellytubbies, isn't it?" I enthuse, chuckling to myself.

Gail glares at me, hands clasped over her bulgy tummy.

"I'll be sure to tell them that on Monday," she says icily.

There was this song on the radio last September, when I was just starting my apprenticeship, it went " - now you welcome me to a town called Linford Christie". Cheered me up no end; after all, if you can have a town called Royston Vasey (after the talentless void that is Roy "Chubby" Brown), then why not have one named after a huge muscle-bound black sprinter as famous for his enormous lycra-encased knob as his athletic prowess? Spent many happy hours bleeding my radiators and idly comtemplating being welcomed to a town called Linford Christie.

Turned out to be " - everything is dead, now you welcome me to a town called hypocrisy".

Disappointing.