I got up at quarter to seven (before either of my parents), got myself ready and even plaited my hair (although the middle strand was too short, so there wasn't much plait). Dressed myself in a long skirt, with light shoes, pink T-shirt and a brown jacket as a caution against cold wind (ha!). Waited in the station waiting room for my train at 8.45 sharp, which was extremely crowded because of everyone trying to avoid the peak charge. Took ten copies of my CV, along with my registration e-mail and my little Fast Track badge that was supposed to let me in early.
Oh God, why are these events never well-organised? You'd think a Fast Track badge would get you in quicker, right? Wrong. When I got to the Exhibition Centre, there was a queue there. And it didn't matter whether you had your FT ticket or not, you were in the queue. In fact, the FT ticket didn't make a smidgen of a difference until you were right inside the building, when you got ticked off a list and your ticket was converted into your badge. It was truly pathetic.
Once inside, you got all manner of goodies shoved into your hands (including a plastic container from the RAF which I still haven't figured out) and were left to wander around as you saw fit. Hardly anybody wanted a graduate with languages. There were about three stands for me, if that, putting aside the gap year organisations. Christ, people tell you that this is going to be useful and is it? Is it bollocks. You have to combine it with something else: Economics, Law, Management, Business Studies... nobody TELLS you that during your A-Levels or your undergraduate degree. Loads of stalls for accountants, I should tell poor Michael. He's applied for all these accounting jobs and they won't take him because he has no experience. I signed up for two seminars about working in France and Spain respectively, went to a CV seminar and an interview seminar and then got out of there. It was like a cattle market.
After that, I wandered down to King's Road and finally found Steinberg and Tolkien, the vintage clothing shop I've been searching for. It is a treasure trove, a wonderful place with all kinds of boots, shoes, hats, jewellery, dresses and bags. Of course, I was broke so I didn't buy anything. I decided to go and see the Chelsea Physic Garden, but when I got there it was closed. It's only open to the public on special occasions. They really should have put that on the sign. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, never able to get in. So then I was wandering along, getting very hot, because it was a blazing sunny afternoon. Fortunately, a bus came along, and it was going to Victoria. After some see-sawing, I decided to visit Foyles (my book mecca on Charing Cross Road), then go back home. There is a Lush at Victoria Station, so I grabbed some Blonde shampoo and headed up to Foyles with aching feet and sore thighs. The atmosphere was more soothing than I can say. I love that place, I adore it. And my mother has NEVER been there, which is like an Elvis fan never having visited Graceland. I said I would take her there the next time we were in London.
I got myself back to Waterloo, grabbed a water bottle and some mints, then went home. The older guy opposite me kept trying to talk. In fact, I think he was trying to flirt. He kept telling me about how his mate had to pick bits of a suicide off a train and then recuperate for a week. I was thinking Mate, you're not impressing me. You're not even getting anywhere. Just leave me alone. Thank God he was going onto Exeter. I finally got home, exhausted, and collapsed on the sofa. Mum was sympathetic for once, which was nice. She told me I wasn't useless and that I would find a job. She also said she knew that what I really wanted to do was write. I was surprised. I didn't think it was that obvious. But then I have shown her some of my stories. She pointed out that I couldn't do that at first, I had to have a steady career. What does she think I'm doing this for?
I have recently been thinking about my boobs. I am ambiguous about my boobs to say the least. I acknowledge they're necessary for babies and that men like them, but really, that's about it. They're just milk bottles, that's all, big ones that make shirts strain and flop around and don't allow me to go without a bra. The thing is that I am physically lazy when it comes to my body. I would rather be comfortable. Having big breasts is not comfortable. I swear I'll get them reduced when I'm older. It'll be heaven to have a B cup and just wander around with no bra. I do like my waist. My thighs have cellulite, which is unfortunate, although it's improved. My bum is still too big. My legs are good, but I'm waging a constant war against stretch marks.
And in other news, I have an interview! This is for a Project Co-Ordinator job in Putney; it will be freelance until September, when the position becomes full-time. It would be perfect if I got it, because I could do my dissertation, earn some money, then have a job to go into at the end of September. They e-mailed me the day after they got my CV, so that must be a good sign. *crosses fingers* Wish me luck.