...am currently stressing about the cover sheet, as the title might suggest... Tomorrow I am going to arrange and observe my class, and prepare the language analysis, and all that. Again, it's really writing by default, and the assignment is now complete, at 2442 words, 12 references to materials and 7 different sources in the bibliography... Then, I think of Linda and her great essays and lessons, and of how she only just passed...and I think of the interview on Friday, which went so well, and how the girl asked me why I decided to do the Delta after only two years...yes, interesting question. I think we all embarked on that suicidal trip to find some stability in this life of uncertainty, of going from place to place, of not knowing if this room will be the same in two months' time, if we will be in the same city next week.
For the past 6 months I have lived in 4 different places; I haven't been able to cook one meal for myself; I have panicked and stressed over my things, crammed in my friend's flat, because I have nowhere to store them. I have been thinking of going back "home", where I would have my room, my family and my friends, and I wouldn't be so lonely that I cry most days, unable to see the future. One more interview tomorrow, and a hostile city, that's what it's proved to be, that I want to run away from. I envy the ones who have their own life, and a house, and a family, because these are things that I have tried to have for the past 5 years, and I have worked so hard, and nothing has changed.
Still, here we go, working hard and hoping that eventually all these efforts will be rewarded. The interview went really well, and I feel quite optimistic about it. And next week it's my birthday, which I am going to celebrate alone, since I don't have any friends here - ok, I'm seeing theatre friend the day before for the makeover thing in central London. But there's only so much I can ask of one single person.
On the plus side, having been to Bournemouth, I have finally have my precious boxes with me, and this means my Parrot, my Underhill, Hewings, my dictionary, and my biography of London and of Turner; yes, this prompts the questions "where the hell am I going to put them when Christmas comes and I have to leave this place", and I'm afraid the answer is yet again "theatre friend's flat", but fingers crossed my books and I will have a job and a place to stay in a few weeks.
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