Right, that's out the way. Moving on.
Earlier this month I began training as a library assistant as I’m now on the casual list for Jubilee Library.
It’s an opportunity I’m really excited about; it may not be the heady heights some aspire to, but I have always fancied working in a library. Talking to like-minded colleagues and customers about books, films and music all day, helping people improve their skills, cute kids (and I NEVER use those two words in such close proximity) who've actually heard of Roald Dahl as well as Sophie Dahl. The downside: seeing so many books I want to read but being unable to read them as my job is to shelve them! Surrounded by water and not a drop to drink.
With that, the BHCC work, the copywriting work and the fact that my next eight or so weekends are booked up with visitors now that it's summer and I live in Brighton - cheers guys (I love you really) - I have my hands full. As my mood is on the up my scathing humour has taken a nosedive, however. Is it possible to be happy and creative? Or do the best concepts evolve from depression?
One thing guaranteed to raise my hackles still, giving me sparks of anger that sometimes give rise to creative bursts (creative swearing counts, right?) are the seagulls. The big ones have made little ones and because they don't know how to fly yet they walk up and down the roof. Being in the attic room, I hear EVERYTHING. You want to know the best seagull hangouts? Which seagull is rutting which? I've got the info you need. You can pay me in earplugs.
Add to that the screeching, cackling, squawking, car alarm noises emitting from their foul hooked beaks and gun shot splatters of shit that land on my window with such impudent accuracy and you have a very angry blogger. I even caught myself Googling 'how to kill seagulls' and sympathising greatly by the people desperate enough to ask the internet.
"What's the best poison to kill seagulls?" cries Scott from Wit's End.
"You should've asked what's the best poison to kill you!" replies Smug Pratt from Ivory Tower who clearly gets 12 hours uninterrupted sleep per night.
I had to take a Skype call (my first ever) from one of my copywriting bosses and had to overcome my fear of the webcam. Bought for me by a well-meaning friend who doesn't fully understand my technopohobia.
Then I realised that with the right angles and lighting, webcams are brilliant at masking pesky blemishes and HAI THERE NEW PROFILE PIC. And that's why fat spotty 15 year olds love them so much.
Turns out after all the faffing image wasn't necessary in the end, just the sound. My amused boss commented on the seagulls he could hear and sighed, "I miss that sound". I said I'd tell them to fly his way like the Wicked Witch's monkeys as soon as I can figure out how to snare them.
GIRLY PART - not to be confused with girly parts. (Meh, I warned you this new-found contentment had put a damper on my wisecracks). I went to the hairdressers and asked them to remove approximately 50% of my hair as I was fed up of waking up looking like Monica Gellar in the tropics.
They thinned it so much if you glanced at the floor afterwards you'd have been forgiven for thinking a wee terrier had fallen from my barnet.
They said it would feel stubbly and fuzzy at the back - it doesn't - but now I want to know what that feels like. I'm tempted to take another chunk off, this time at the side instead of the back, à la Ulorin Vex.
Yep, nothing at all could go wrong with that plan and I'll definitely end up looking just like her.