Anyway, whatever moment of tiny triumph I might have had at potentially earning, over the next 6 months, enough to pay 2 weeks rent, has evaporated in the usual miasma of inadequacy, the traditional Monday tram tears, and the realisation that in order to survive, EVERY week has to be as least as good as last, or ideally far better, something which seems ludicrously improbable right now. I'm not complaining, though. I enjoy it, and at least I don't work for Patty Hewes or her real life equivalents. I do love the portrayal of careers in the law in Damages. Number of times any one of my employers gave me a Chanel handbag in 11 years in the law: 0. Number of times my employers offered me a beautiful apartment or sent me to Bloomingdales with a blank cheque: 0. Number of firearms used in the execution of my legal duties: 0. Number of legal meetings that took place in anonymous cars on street corners: 0. Conversely, number of times Ellen Parsons has to sit in a windowless beige conference room for fourteen hours at a stretch putting small colour coded post it notes on the corners of documents without the slightest suspicion of a biscuit: 0. Number of times Ellen Parsons has had to sit through the night trying to manipulate giant, unstable spreadsheets of exchange rates with little or no grasp of mathematics, intermittently getting screamed at by investment bankers: 0. It's hard not to feel a little cheated by my experiences as a lawyer. Can anyone in another frequently televised occupation please reassure me that the gap between reality and tv drama is similarly gutting? Vets, doctors, police, spies?
I digress. If you were irritated yesterday - and god knows I irritated myself - I apologise. I mean, honestly. This blog is not the place for cheerful tales of happy social events and satisfying professional triumphs however tiny! This weblog promises death, despair and biscuits and dammit, I will deliver.
Today I will be irritating you further, but in a different way, by putting ads on the blog. I don't know quite why I have finally capitulated, but the state of affairs described in the previous paragraphs is probably something to do with it. And seeing as Facegoop manages to generate revenue equivalent to several economy bags of cotton wool balls every month, I can't wait to see what dizzying amounts of money I will be entitled to here. I also very much look forward to seeing what Google considers appropriate targeted advertising for you, my lovely, long-suffering readers. Things I hope to see advertised: owl experience days, special cashmere blankets made from the tender throat hairs of kids, Sadaharu Aoki cakes. Things that will probably be advertised: hair transplants, stomach stapling, deworming treatments, self-help books for social anxiety.
It only seems fair, though, that I should give something in return. Is there anything in particular you would like to see more of? Confessional? Craft projects? Belgian politics? I have a plan for a special end of year video treat, but it will take some preparation. In the meantime, I am in your hands. Well, I'm not and you should be very thankful for that, since I haven't actually washed today, but you know what I mean.