© 2019 by pickledtillyour92

  • pickledtillyour92

The Job

Updated: Sep 23, 2018

A bit more about me; I work from home which means I don't commute, sit in unnecessary meetings, briefings or get caught up in office politics, but I am totally alone. To avoid complete and utter solitude I often work at the temporary tennis club, I beaver away between cross court drills and my subsided lunch, with an old man and his half a pint of IPA for companionship. Not exactly a dynamic lab of young innovative creativity.

I work with French clients who fall into two categories: bullies and basket cases. I prefer the bullies, you know where you are and the more they beat me with their batons the better I become at saying ‘non'. As for the basket cases, they are just damn right incompetent and no matter how many times I say, write, text, send a flipping pigeon they still don't get it. For the love of Ford (big fan of Aldous Huxley).

I now have a situation where I am on the wrong side of the channel, so I must travel back to Paris to meet this delightful group of clients. A typical week is as follows: client has wobbly and insists on immediate meeting, I try and feign all sorts of excuses, but client doesn't budge, and I am meant to be ‘our girl in France'. I book a Eurostar for an inflated last minute price, return to the city that broke my heart, reminds me even more of beautiful boy and live through a 12-hour panic attack.

I sit through excruciating meetings and repeat for the umpteenth time the same messages. Once the work is over I trot to the first Parisian terrace, drink a pichet of rosé chatting to anyone I can to take my mind off where I am and who I am not with. I then trudge to Gare de Nord, en route picking up items from my storage unit (my life is currently squeezed into 2 cubic meters) and stock up on cans and miniature bottles for the journey back. And all this fun at my own cost since I have made the choice to be in London with my mother and affectionate step-father.

With my French working contract comes 9.2 weeks of holiday. Yes, you did read that right. My colleagues in the UK get 25 days. A gross amount and totally overwhelming when you have no one to spend it with and no idea how to spend it. Suggestions welcome. It's the opposite of FOMO. My worry is not managing to do anything in the place I currently reside; two great cities London and Paris with much going on yet I do sweet sod all. I also fear I have oodles of time due to my 9.2 and don't use it in the way I should. What is should, define ‘should'? Living a full life, making the most of every opportunity or day within my 9.2. Where does this ‘should' come from? The notion that we should always be doing more, taking advantage of more, testing ourselves more? Maybe this is FOMO.

The beautiful boy lived like that, flew by the seat of his pants kinda living. How I loved living like that. I find when things are going well the universe conspires for everything to spiral upwards, and when things go badly the same happens in the other direction, is that Paulo Coehlo?