Depression

Wow, only a week since my las post and I am even more miserable if possible. If I were reading this, I would probably kill myself now. My depression has reached a new, all-time low. I'm depressed even writing about it. With no jobs on the horizon I have resorted to pacing the house each day, not applying for jobs, even avoiding my admin work and hoping that something will find me and rescue me. Not ideal, but on the upside I haven't yet slit my wrists.

Have just sent off about a thousand applications to various recruitment agencies for temping/ secretarial/ admin type jobs. Somehow merely doing that invalidates the last six years of my life, probably the reason for said new low. Should I atually take one of these jobs (or get offered one) I am likley to find myself on the sure path to nowhere, overly qualified, and yet completely in doubt as to what appear to be my own meagre abilities. It basically comes down to the fact that this is all rubbish.

Today I hoofed down nine out of a possible 16 cornflake crispies. By my (poor) calculations, that means I consumed nearly 18g of saturated fat right there. Not bad, I say, for a day moping round the house without a stitch of exercise. Looks like I am well on my way to being the biggest fattie on the bike ride! Anything worth waking up for tomorrow? Probably not, I say...

unemployment

Feeling miserable and unemployed. Its mid-July and I haven’t gotten anymore. For the first time I’m starting to regret rejecting the Ski and Snowboard job- its as though someone is making my pay for thinking I was too good. Tomorrow will be my third day in London this week, spending the days parting with money I don’t have. Have resorted to the credit card with the misguided hope that I will have a job this time next month and be able to pay it off. Looking unlikely and now I’m really starting to worry.

Got rejected today from a job that I didn’t even know I had been rejected from until Lucy told me. Feel like a fool for emailing the interviewer this morning with my latest clip which I have been smugishly proud of. He didn’t reply. Come to think of it he didn’t reply to my last email other. What has happened to the art of common courtesy?! When someone has taken the time and effort to fill out a job application the least the interviewer could do is relieve you from limbo and let you know you’ve been rejected!

I am also feeling really fat. Today I shared an oily Italian lunch with Rachna at Carluccio’s during which I dipped my oily foccacia bread in copious amounts of olive oil. This was followed by coffee with full cream milk and a cupcake complete with fatty icing, a marshmallow easter egg on my return home and a stir fry noodle dinner.

For the first time am starting to seriously doubt that working in the media is worth the hassle. Have resorted this evening to looking for editorial recruitment agencies- even they are coming up with “no vacancies” as soon as I narrow my criteria to editorial, graduate, London. Could I be less specific about the work I’m looking for?! An editorial assistant for a “fascinating” security title- really?? Am desperate to moan to someone and no-one is about. Feeling like I’m depleting my friends’ ears with the amount of moaning they are having to put up with from me.

My magic 8 ball says it is only “most likely” that I will ever find a hottie. Not exactly great odds is it?!

Day 5

It's two weeks since I have touched my bike or done anything that doesn't involve sitting in my room and venturing down to the kitchen every half hour. So I decided to head off on my own this morning (as there was no way I was going to go out with the 7am troops on a Sunday). Left just after 10am, without phone or keys, intending to enjoy the warm air and country solitude, and do the Radlett route I had practiced with my father just a couple of Sundays ago.

Encountered two members of the same family who we crossed paths with on that ride (I recognised the yellow bike) and, once again, gave myself a pat on the back when I whizzed past them. On the approach to St Albans, however, I got a bit lost and it didn't help that I had chosen to wear my fashionable, sporty sunglasses rather than the lensed ones I can actually see out of. Unable to read the road signs at the roundabout, I ended up on what appeared to be a mini motorway, heading in the opposite direction of anywhere that looked familiar. A few close calls with speeding cars, and diversions down a random selection of country lanes later, and I saw a sign for Shenley. Finally, I thought, a name I know.

But by the time I started on the long road home, I was somewhat delusional from the lack of snacks (essential) and disheartened at the prospect of no snacks or communication with anyone for the forseeable future. (At this point, I was debating calling home and getting someone to pick me up). Riding in a straight line was becoming quite the challenge and I ocassionally veered into the path of oncoming traffic. Was I being punished by supernatural forces for gloating about beating those other cyclists?

Eventually found my way back to Radlett and headed home on what I thought was the direct route which ended up being full of slow inclines. I got off to stretch midway and nearly collapsed in a heap on top of my jelly legs, which seemed unable to function in their usual role. My backside felt like it had been given a strong right hook in each cheek.

Made it home proud and exhausted. Riding time: two and a half hours; recovery time: an afternoon in front of the telly, and indulging my every sweet tooth for the following week.

Day 4

I am counting day three as a short ride I took with my sister, Amy, down to Radlett, through Butterfly Lane, and back up home. It was pretty tough but the first time I didn't have to get off my bike and push. Champion!

And now its June. Already. So much training yet to do. I was supposed to be seeing the pounds drop off by now, but today packed in eight chocolate digestives and a couple of triangles of Marks and Spencer's finest, wicked Toblerone. Fabulous.

Day four yesterday was remarkably successful. Set off with my father at about half nine up to St Albans. The weather was glorious, and I'm noticing that I'm starting to find the short spurt up the A41 easier each time I do it. The weather was pretty hot already, even that early in the morning, and I was pleased to have taken my hayfever meds. Tackled some of those awful slow-incline hills, particularly on the way home through Borehamwood and- breakthrough- I made it up the back side of Brockley Hill in one burst. Am starting to understand how to work through the mechanics of pain. But whizzing down a hill in the warm summer air is perfectly blissful, and I regularly imagine myself, complete with flowing skirt and wicker basket, idly pedalling through the French countryside surrounded by daffodils.

The true picture is, of course, largely more frightening- wobbly white thighs with ugly red patches, as the blood rushes to my oxygen-starved muscles; beetroot face covered in sweat, drool and dust, and a lycra outfit that reeks of the 80s (only I had better legs then).

Cyclists, we all know, are the bain of any driver's existence on tiny, windy country roads. They have to crawl along, pretending to be patient in their car, until there is sufficient room to overtake. We know the driver hates the cyclist because, as soon as they get the chance, they rev their engine and scream past said cyclist with a devilish smile at having beaten them.

And yet there is nothing more irritating to a cyclist than being stuck behind another cyclist who is slow, can't drive in a straight line or insists on overtaking you despite the fact that ancient water wheels move faster than they do. Yesterday we got caught between a family and all their out-of-town relatives, who insisted on overtaking me and then crawling along up a hill, which makes the climb even tougher. So it was with smug pride that I watched them struggle from behind, biding my time, before pedalling my heart out and speeding past. Plus my suspension- clad, seven gear bike was fancier than theirs. Who says consumer culture doesn't hold the power to make you feel good?

It's a sad truth that we all find some sordid pleasure in seeing others struggle where we can succeed. Even if it's only a marginal success and we require an extensive recovery period after beating the competition.

Birthday party

The text message said "well done" but there was nothing complimentary about it's tone. Too many people were coming to our joint party at the Trafalgar Square bar, it said, and we would likely end up spending the evening with those eager school-reunion types who haven't been in touch for 10 years, but are the first to accept a mass-emailed party invitation, while our real friends shivered in the queue outside.

But am I really to blame, I think, standing in the shower assessing every nitty, gritty detail of the sequence of events. My party co- host had not specified how big the bar was and, now when I come to think about it, had no objection to my posting a global invitation on facebook (a desperate attempt to satisfy one's inner popularity concerns- yes, 37 friends will celebrate with you when you have asked them two months in advance). I conclude I'm certainly not to blame. In fact, I bet she had the whole party planned before we even discussed it. A joint party where she runs the guestlist. Yes, that's it, I think, as the hot water pours down my back.

By now I am nearly convinced that I was an after-thought, and have worked myself up into a fury. I play a scene over in my head where I call her and tell her exactly what I think of her. Then I tell her that I'm moving my party to another bar and taking the party people with me. I picture her drinking herself into a stupor, alone at the original location, barely able to break a smile at the few people who dribble in to her function. As I brush my teeth, I picture posting a global note to my guests that reads: "Due to unforseen circumstances, I have been forced to move my bash elsewhere." The intrigue would get everyone talking and then I could show her for what she really is- manipulative and evil. I picture feeling fantastic, enjoying the party of a lifetime and watching her apologise miserably for having sent that sarcastic message in the first place. At this I stop, shocked at my own wickedness. It's a good thing the mirror is so steamed up that I can't look myself in the eye, I think.

Back on the floor of my bedroom, the white box on my phone screen reads: "1 new message". She's not mad at all. She was only joking, but did I not read the website that said the bar has just a small capacity?

I am officially the world's most sinister friend.

Plastic bag

On my way to work this evening, I stopped at the Tesco metro in Bank to pick up some soup and a fruit salad for dinner.

The fruit salad was reduced, as supermarkets always do with the fresh food they won't be able to sell the next day, but I noticed that the container was leaking a little. At 69p though, it was a bargain dinner treat to complete the tub of soup I was going to microwave. I had to have it.

When I reached the checkout, the lady at the till took my clubcard and priced up the dinner package.

"Do you want a bag for that?" she asked.

"Yes please," I said absent-mindedly.

"You can get an extra point if you don't take a bag," she said.

"Thanks," I said. "But I want the bag." The last part of the sentence had faded into a mutter under my breath, but I didn't need to explain why I wanted the plastic packet to the shop assistant, I reasoned.

She completed the transaction. "Are you sure you want the bag?" she asked again.

I couldn't believe the nerve of it. I only wanted one plastic bag so I didn't have to carry the dripping fruit salad in my hands across Tower Hill, to my office, and arrive at my shift with sticky fingers, making for an all-round unpleasant start to what was going to be a long night anyway. What was her problem?

"Yes, I want the bag" I snapped this time, grabbing my goods from the counter, and stridently leaving the store.

And suddenly the eco-warrior in me realised I didn't care nearly as much about the environment, as I did about eating my pre-packaged dinner with clean hands.

Sticky shelves

Saturday 16 December 2006

I am tidying my bedroom which has begun to take on the distinct appearance of somehwere recently robbed and raided. This is because one of my shelves is broken, so I have been forced to create piles of books, photo albums, CDs and so forth, on my carpet.

In June, I mentioned to my mother that, now I would be moving home from unversity, I would need some shelves for my growing collection of important literary works (many as yet still unopened). So we went to B&Q and selected some wood/chipboard shelves and decorative silver wall fittings. Lovely. We hired a shelf man to put them up and I stacked my stuff onto them. They looked great. Really great, like I had suddenly gained 10 years of maturity by virtue of my displayed intellectual collection.

Until one night I was rudely awoken by a deafening crash. The top shelf had caved in under the weight and had taken the other shelves down with it in a domino- like effect.

"Don't worry," my mother said. "I'll have them fixed by the time you get back from Ecuador."

Three months in South America passed and I returned to find the shelves still drooping from the wall, like unwanted loose skin. It is now December and the middle shelf is still out-of-order. Apparently, when the shelf man wouldn't return my mother's calls, she took matters into her own hands and fixed two of the shelves herself. I didn't ask how, but I respect my mother because she is willing to get her hands dirty and the shelves in operation are holding up brilliantly.

Now I ask if she can finish the job and fit the final shelf.

What happens next seems like a skit from Home Improvement.

My mother appears at my door with drill in hand and some adhesive glue. "This can't be right," I tell myself. But then I remember that this is the woman who used to staple our trouser hems, because she wouldn't sew.

"Just hold the shelf in place," she instructs. So I do, and she goes at the wall with the drill and the glue, shoving the nozzle thick with goo between and round and in the fitting, sealing it to the wall. We repeat the same for the other side.

Then the shelf is rock solid. I pull at it and lean on it, but it is definitely in place.

"Thanks mom!" I say, and load the shelf with bits and pieces.

I can't believe anyone pays for a handyman, I think.

Charity on the tube

Monday 20 December 2006

I was sitting on the tube on the way home tonight, reading my book as usual, when a man came into our carriage from the next while the train was in motion between stations.

Usually, this sort of incident causes passengers to stare harder at their laps, shuffle thier iPods or look intently unfazed, because anybody willing to walk between carriages on the underground while it is moving must be crazy, drunk or dangerous.

Or perhaps nobody else is actually paying attention, I think, and this is just the scenario I create in my head to prevent the one where we all get held up and no-one can help us because we are under ground.

Tonight the man is just homeless, and gently closes the door behind him before taking a stand at the top of the carriage. "Here it comes," I think. "He's going to serenade us with some brash off-key singing before shaking a greasy cap in our faces or deliver an overbearingly loud sob-story spoken in a hazy slur."

Instead he quietly addresses just the few people in his close vicinity.

"I'm very sorry to trouble you," he says in a soft, breathy voice.

"But as you know, it's a cold night tonight and if you could spare any change, I would greatly appreciate it."

And that is it.

How refreshing not to be bombarded on my journey home, I think.

The gentelman opposite me reaches into his pocket in an act of Christmas kindness and so I too reach into my purse.

I give him 50p.