Style: Basic work-wear made funky with teal coloured tights
Listening to: my own fingers clattering up and down the keyboard
What’s on today: 8am – 3.15pm: work
So there I am, ripping into the morning post with my letter-opener, when Dr Old School (see Who’s Who) comes in. I smile and bid him ‘good morning’.
HIM: You are relentlessly cheerful, Rosie. How do you manage it? Perhaps you aren’t aware of the harsh realities of life yet, huh?
I smile and shrug; this is a conversation we often have. He smiles again before perching on the edge of my desk, looking solemn.
HIM: Tell me Rosie, what are your life plans?
ME: (secretly thinking: own a wardrobe full of Louboutin’s) I don’t really know yet.
HIM: (furrows brow) How old are you?
ME: (feeling 46) 26.
I don’t want to reveal my vacuous passion so I mumble something inarticulate about becoming a writer. I forget about my desire to travel, my love of erotic photography (come to think of it, probably best left unmentioned to your employer, that one) or animals. I don’t even try to placate his obvious bafflement by telling him that I might want children one day.
He then says something rather interesting. He asks me what kind of timescale I have placed on achieving my goal. Obviously, it’s pretty hard to judge the minute you are going to become a bestselling author of an as-yet-unwritten novel, so I do all I can do, I shrug. Dr Old School nods sagely and shimmers away.
Now I find myself in a quandary: I can’t help but think that something new, job-wise, is on the horizon. Then I remember something Dr Gorgeous said during our ill-fated trip to work on Monday. When I asked him how the Practice Development Plan (or PDP, if you speak Brentish) went the previous weekend, he said “your name was mentioned” in an ominous tone. When I asked in what capacity, he mentioned something about training but failed to elaborate. Hmmm. The plot thickens.
And it’s not just my uncertain future running around my mind today. I wish I could get over feeling so guilty when someone asks me what I want to do with my life. Why can’t I simply say that I’m happy as I am, thanks? I wish I could admit that I don’t see myself nailing a Practice Manager plaque to my office door in five years time; that I did my degree not to further my career but purely so I could get out of working full-time when I was studying. I work to live, I don’t live to work. As long as I can pay my rent and bills and still have some left over for the odd beer, gig ticket or pair of shoes, I’m a happy Rosie. I don’t think I should have to justify or apologise for my lack of ambition.
So, I shall make a pact with myself and you: if anyone (colleagues, old school friends, relatives) ask me what I’m planning on doing with my life, I’ll say, “well, I’m going to see Blood Red Shoes in Camden next month, and The Courteeners in December. We’re looking into adopting a retired greyhound and by the way, don’t you just love my new shoes?” Let’s see how mo’ fo’ goes down.