Why do I feel I do nothing? - A confession

I have a confession to make. 

When I started blogging, I was an SAHM, and at that time, the blogosphere often resounded to the strains of SAHMs justifying themselves, trying not to justify themselves, feeling angry about having to justify themselves... It probably still is, but I'm not reading it so much in my own circles, because it tends to be a preoccupation of mums with younger children than mine. Anyway, as I said in my previous post, I often chipped into the debate, and waved the "SAHM and happy" flag.

Then I got a part-time job. Very part-time - only a few hours a week. Not a very glamorous job. I mean, I wasn't running my own successful business, or heading up a department in a multinational corporation. I was a Sales Assistant in a toy shop, and on the minimum wage (though I did negotiate a 50% pay rise for my second year, which I thought was pretty good going).

The confession is this. When I got the job, I loved being able to say I had one. There was a moment when I was filling in a questionnaire, and in the section headed ‘Occupation’, instead of ticking the box ‘Not in employment’ or ‘Caring for dependents’ or whatever it was labelled, I ticked the box ‘Retail’. I loved that moment.

When people asked me what I did, I no longer had to say "Oh, I'm at home with the kids". I really liked that. Which is dreadful, because I'd so often commented on blogs "Don't say ‘I'm just at home with the kids’ - it's a really important job, the most important job you could be doing, actually. Say it with pride." I don't know if I'd convinced anyone else, but I certainly hadn't convinced myself. I really liked that I'd jumped over to the other side. But I didn't want to feel that it was "the other side". For all the rhetoric about choices, doing what's right for you and your family, etc etc, fundamentally, I think I had been looking down on myself and other SAHMs.

That’s my confession. So now, I feel bad on two counts. First, I am an SAHM and therefore don't do anything (see previous post). And second, I am outed as the kind of horrible woman who looks down on SAHMs, and think they don't do anything.

I am nothing if not honest.

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Why do I feel I do nothing?

Calling all SAHMs out there...

Why do I feel I do nothing?

I know the answer, actually. It's because

• When I had pre-school children, I used to look at mothers of school age children and think "wow, you have so many hours a day to get things done". I assumed that when my children were at school, I would have everything done in a wink, and then have time for new exciting ventures too. Now those days are here, I still don't achieve everything I want to do, and I have no time for any ventures, new, exciting, or otherwise.
• Although I know I hold family life together, and I know that is an important role, it seems like not very much. It's very invisible. It's so invisible that even I don't see it.
• For all the blog posts I've written and commented upon on this issue (and believe me, it's quite a number), and for all the encouragement I've given, and for all the times I've said "it's not a competition", somewhere deep down, I must feel it IS a competition. So although I know that life involves choices, sometimes dictated by circumstances, sometimes not, somehow I feel that being out at work AND having a family proves you are a more competent person than just having a family (just having a family...). I want to be one of those more competent people. There is a corner of me that sniffs a GCSE in "being competent" that I could be working for, or if not a GCSE, at least a gold star. 
• If I enjoy the things I do (eg supermarket shopping -  yes, I do enjoy that), then somehow I can't let myself see them as "work", and if they're not "work", then they're fun/pleasure/leisure/bunking off/slacking and I can't count them. Which is clearly ridiculous, because if I was in a job, and enjoyed elements of that job, I wouldn't feel guilty and as if I was being paid to enjoy myself. I'd just think they were part of the job.
• There is far too much Protestant Work Ethic around. Who needs to work to justify themselves in any case?
• This time a year ago, I had a part-time job and I was studying part-time for an MA. Then we moved back to Britain, and although I am trying to put those things in place again (I've had TWO job interviews in the past fortnight, go Iota!), these things take time. I find it hard to be patient. But I was also slightly relieved not to get the jobs. Even a few hours a week would put a strain on me, and on family life, and after you've moved to a new place, there needs to be a bit of slack around, even if the cost of that slack is that there's often a bit too much of it. My time will come. 

Ooh, that last one sounded a bit spot on, didn't it?

Meanwhile, yes, I suppose if we're calling a spade a spade, it would be good to say out loud that this move has involved sacrifices. They don't come anywhere near outweighing the benefits, and I'm not the only one who has made sacrifices, but it's probably helpful to look at that spade and name it. Though talking of spades just makes me think about how I've done nothing at all in our new garden, and how can that be? because I have so many free hours a day, (though looking at the state of the house you wouldn't think so), and everyone likes to do gardening, right? and with the amount of free time I have, since my children are at school all day, I could be growing our own organic vegetables, so I'll just add that to the list of things I should do but haven't done.

Waah.

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I had the interview

OK, so I took all your advice, left Hector at home, and went to the interview. It wasn't in a disused quarry - that would have been spooky. No, it was a fully functional working quarry. All very fascinating. Not only were they blasting rocks - and apparently some of my job would be to deal with importing the explosives - but also, there's this bit of the quarry which they have to keep quiet about, because there might be some very valuable artefacts waiting to be dug up there. They hinted that it might even be the bones of Richard VI, who died in battle on that very site. So they couldn't show me into that bit of the quarry, but there was plenty else of interest.

But back to the beginning. I arrived, and was the focus of rather too much attention from a couple of enthusiastic Dobermanns. Not my favourite breed, and I'm a bit of a newcomer to the world of dog ownership, so I don't want to be judgmental, but I'd say that dogs that size need to be more firmly handled. They really weren't very well controlled at all. Luckily, my coat pockets these days are full of poo bags and treats, so I was able to stop them jumping up and slobbering over my nice interview clothes with a little morsel of kibble. Kibble might be a girl's best friend, in fact.

After I got past the dogs, a couple of nice men came and said they'd show me round. The first asked if he could look after my phone while I was there, which was terribly kind of him. It would be embarrassing to be interrupted in an interview, if you forgot to switch the phone off. He didn't seem very forthcoming, but the other man, the one with the metal teeth, was very friendly, and kept smiling at me, to put me at my ease.

They showed me the stagnant lake at the bottom of the quarry, and then the areas where the blasting takes place, and also this really fun bit where there's a huge crusher, and lots of old cars. It's a scrap metal business, but they called it "destroying the evidence" every time one of the cars was hoisted up by that huge magnet and dropped into the crusher. A good sign, definitely. I like working with people with a good sense of humour.

Then they took me in to see the boss, and he was also very kind. Asked all about my husband and family, and whether they'd miss me if I disappeared. Seemed a slightly odd way of assessing a candidate's self-esteem, but I'm wise to these psychological tests that they slip into interviews these days. No flies on me. Oh yes, interviews are quite the challenge these days. It used to be all verbal question and answer stuff, but not any more. Now it's all problem-solving exercises. So when they got the handcuffs out and snapped them round one of my wrists, attaching it to the chair, I just smiled and said "I suppose you're going to leave me here now, aren't you?" Spot on, of course. They walked off, but as they left, one of them sketched out the team-building exercise. "Someone'll be in to help you soon. Enjoy yourself, ha ha ha..." - as I say, I do like a sense of humour in a colleague, and so I joined in the laughter, to show that I, too, can have a laugh in the workplace.

The two other interviewees arrived, to help with the team challenge. I don't want to be smug here, but honestly, I did wonder if they were quite in the same league as me. Firstly, they weren't at all suitably dressed. I know I'm a little old-fashioned, but I do believe in covering up for an interview. If you have to wear a lace-up corset under your clothes to hold in those little flabby bits, fair enough. But for heaven's sake, don't forget to put your blouse on top before you leave the house! And perhaps black leather shorts and thigh boots are fashionable in Eastern Europe, but here in Britain, in February, I did think they weren't very suitable interview wear. They could have popped into John Lewis on the way, surely.

The team challenge was tricky, as the two other girls only spoke broken English, and at first I had no idea why they wanted to know where the nearest chemist was. I tried to explain that English words can have different meanings in Britain and America (and I mentioned my blog at this point - thought it was good to get that one in). When they kept on and on, asking about drugstores and drugs, I explained that in British English, we call them chemists, or pharmacies, and that I didn't know where the nearest one was, though I remembered driving past a Boots not far back. Then I finally worked it out. One of them must have had a bad headache, because she was very persistent in her questioning, and got so heated that she started slapping my face, and at that point, I can tell you, I was seriously worried about the outcome of the team challenge. Luckily, I had a packet of ibuprofen in my bag, which I offered her for the headache, though she didn't express much gratitude. Huh. So much for being good in a group situation.

Anyway, it was soon time to go home (the "handcuffed to the chair" thing - not as hard as it seems, at least not for someone who's operated a blog on Blogger for the past 5 years). I couldn't find anyone to show me out, which I thought was a bit odd, and it would be quite nice to get my phone back. I'm guessing that how I deal with that all feeds into the psychometric profiling. All in all, I came away with a positive impression of the organisation. I'll let you know when I hear from them.

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What shall I do?

I've been applying for a few jobs. I sent my cv to an agency or two. Apart from that, I've been putting "part time" into the search box of the local Gumtree, and if something vaguely interesting has come up, then I've winged off a cv, just to see what happens.

Well, I got called for interview. The job is an administrative one. The advert didn't say much (they don't), but when the guy phoned, he explained they were a family business, with a couple of areas of interest, and expanding quickly, which is why they need more administrative support. He sounded nice, normal, competent. I can't really say too much (we all know the dangers of blogging - it's never as anonymous and hidden as you think), but the main business is well-established enough that I've looked it up on a website, and driven past it. And I could eat there. People have been eating there for decades. That sounds pretty well-established, don't you think?

So, this evening I was going to go and look out some interview clothes, but just checked my email, and found one from Gumtree titled "Important Safety Alert". It said:

	Our Customer Services team have noticed something suspicious about someone you've been talking to on Gumtree.
	The user who posted the ad 'Part time Administrator' has been reported for fraud, so if you are still in contact with the user, we'd recommend you don't go any further with your transaction.
	If you have sent an item, some money or any confidential information to this user, you could be at risk of fraud.

So now I don't know what to do. Bloggy Friends, have your vote. Should I

1. Go to the interview. Get the job. Then ask what's going on.
2. Phone the guy in advance. Explain about the Gumtree email. Give him a right of reply. If you're not convinced, don't go to the interview.
3. Go to the interview. Tuck a flick-knife down your boot before you go.
4. Phone the police, and ask them what to do.
5. You must be mad to be even contemplating anything other than going to the police. These people have your cv. They know how many O levels you have. Just think what they could do with information like that.
6. Walk away. The last thing you need is extra stress in your life, and any which way you cut this, it sounds like extra stress. There will be other jobs.
7. Take Hector along with you. He'll be able to sniff out anything suspicious. They don't call him "Hector the Inspector" for nothing. Look at the way he demolished that packet of Special K. From Special K to Special Branch - this could be his big break. And if things get nasty, he could pee on the floor, distracting the villains for a few important seconds while you make your escape.
8. Ooooh, intrigue! You HAVE to go to the interview. You have to get the job. You have to investigate the situation from the inside. It would make such a great blog post. Maybe a novel. Don't disappoint us, Iota. 

What do you think?

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Situation vacant

Wanted: Swimming Sherpa

Hours: 1-2, about 2-3 times a week

Job Description: Make my swimming experience easier. Golfers have caddies. Birthing women have doulas. Why shouldn't I have a swimming sherpa?

Duties: 

• Pick out and bring all necessary swimming equipment, remembering hairbrush, shampoo, deodorant, coin for locker, plastic bag for wet swimsuit, clean underwear, membership card, etc.
• Remind me to use loo before getting changed into swimsuit.
• Find big locker which has key with safety pin attached, or if unavailable, nick safety pin from key to small locker. (Or bring TWO coins for two small lockers, both with safety pins on key rings.)
• Work out how to fit my coat, shoes, clothes and other items into one locker, without getting rain/mud debris on clean/dry items (this is Scotland).
• Check out how attentive lifeguard is, and advise on whether showering before entering pool essential on each occasion. 
• Hold towel while I swim. 
• Hold glasses while I swim. 
• Advise me if anyone is trying to catch my attention, ask them if I know them, and explain that I am very short-sighted and not ignoring them deliberately.
• Keep count of my number of lengths. 
• Calculate mileage swum, with creative use of language as appropriate.
• Choose shower, based on criteria such as whether door shuts properly, whether plughole full of someone else's hair, whether shower gel dispenser is full, whether water is hot, strength of water jet, etc.
• Ensure my clothes don't fall on wet floor as I dress.
• Stand just outside cubicle, arms outstretched for use as additional hooks (or lobby health club to fix more than one hook in each cubicle.)
• Rinse and spin swimsuit.
• Locate functioning hair-dryer.
• Carry wet and dry kit home in appropriate bags, and hang out or place in laundry basket or put away.

Qualifications: No qualification required, but previous experience desirable. If you are a parent who has ever taken an under 5 swimming, you will be ideally qualified. Over-qualified, in fact. I won't expect you also to breast-feed a baby, or entertain one of my siblings with a book, while you attend to my needs. I won't cry if you bring me a Teletubbies towel instead of a Peppa Pig one, or refuse to leave the building without a treat.

Therapy in the toy store: Part ll

Do you know who gets the best therapy at the toy store? It’s me! Yes, me, me, ME!

I love the people I work with and for. They ‘get’ me without trying, in a way that is rare here (they’re East Coasters – I wonder if that helps.) It’s not often in America that I can relax as I make the darkest worst taste jokes, and know they’ll be received with guffaws of hilarity, and that the thread will be picked up and continued with. There’s nothing I love better than a running joke, and we have a few of them scampering around the aisles.

I love the space. It’s not mine, you see. There’s not that inescapable feeling that I could be… should be… tidying, cleaning or repairing something, somewhere. Am I the only stay-at-home mum who can’t relax in her own home? At least I used not to be able to, but now I can, because now home is where I’m off work, not where I’m at work.

I love the variety the job brings to my life. I love how in the morning I think to myself “ooh, work today, good!”, or “ooh, a day at home, just what I need!”. I love how I no longer have to be so self-sufficient. Being at home full-time is a tough call, sometimes.

I love the change in myself that the job has wrought. It’s as if someone directed me to the shelf marked ‘confidence toys’, and let me choose the one I wanted. I’ve overcome my early fears. I’m not afraid of the till. I’m not afraid of the credit card swiping machine. I’m not afraid of doing returns. I’m not afraid of coupons and discounts. I’m not afraid of answering the phone. I’m not afraid of customers (and they’re pretty scary when you first start). I’m not afraid of gift-wrapping while someone is watching me, or while several people are watching me (which is very different to gift wrapping at your own kitchen table, trust me). I’m not even afraid of the wayward raffia. That stuff has a mind of its own, but my authoritative fingers can now deftly tame it without fail into a delightful bow.

I love wearing make-up and decent(ish) clothes when I’m there. I’ve noticed (and I love this too) that all the clothes I’ve bought since I’ve started work have been strong colours: plum, raspberry, teal, mustard yellow. Get me. I’ve never worn anything mustard yellow before. Oh. Wait. Not true. In 1988, I had a mid-calf-length wool skirt from Benetton which was mustard yellow. But that was more of a subtle French mustard, not a statement Colman’s English mustard, and I always wore it with grey or black, not daringly paired with other equally assertive tones as I do now. Speaking of Benetton, whatever happened to Benetton? We all thought Benetton was the last word in cool, high street, natty dressing at one time. That’s retail for you, though. Tough business. I should know. Did I mention that I’m in retail now?

Where was I? Ah yes, the confidence that the job has brought me. I nearly died of sheer unadulterated pleasure when a customer thanked me for helping them, and said “you’re very good at your job”. Two people in the week before Christmas made a point of telling the store owner, in front of me, that I’d found them exactly what they needed. One of them used the word ‘awesome’, actually. (*blushes*) (*face clashes with mustard top*) I’ve noticed that people who come in trying to sell advertising space or whatever it is, now ask me “are you the owner?” rather than “can I speak with the owner?”

They warned me from the outset, when I started in September, how crazy busy the shop would be for the whole of December. They painted a picture of madness, chaos, unrelenting pressure, trials and tribulations. And guess what? I loved every moment. Every single moment. I thrived on the continuous activity. I drank in the atmosphere like a tonic. I flourished. I’m actually a bit bored, now it’s January.

One more thing I love, and this one has taken me by surprise. I love contributing to the family income. It’s not much. I’m on an hourly rate which is embarrassingly close to the minimum wage, and I don’t clock up many hours. But it’s a good feeling nonetheless. I didn’t know that about myself. I always thought I didn’t mind at all that Husband was the sole breadwinner.

I recently missed a reunion dinner at my old university. A friend sent some photos, and as I looked at the faces in the pictures, I reflected on how topsy-turvy life often is. Most of those people, all of them probably, are in well-paid, high-powered jobs (let’s face it, the ones who aren’t, don’t pitch up so much at the reunions). Their jobs are appropriate to the education we together received. And I’m not saying that they’re not successful, satisfied, stimulated, happy in their jobs. But I do know this. None of them, not one single one, will be getting the same unmingled joy out of each day, each hour of each day, that I am, in my lowly sales assistant position, in my small unknown toy shop, in my out-of-the-way crevice of this fly-over state.

I’m not naïve. I know that this job won’t keep me happy forever. I know that I’ll get bored before too long. I know that I’m capable of more, and that I’ll be restless to experience and prove that. But when it came my way, this job was a godsend. The last job I had was the opposite. The children were aged 1, 4 and 7: one at home, one at preschool, one at big school. A challenging time to return to work, by any account. But Husband was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly, unemployed. I worked half-time to see us through, in a job which on paper seemed interesting, challenging, do-able, suitable for someone with my educational background and employment history. But it was a nightmare. I resigned at the end of the first week, in fact, but was persuaded back. The experience sucked all my confidence out of me, and though I knew in a rational way that it was the job description, the organisation, the people who were to blame, not me, that didn’t stop the sucking process. It ended badly. So over the past couple of years, as much as I was chasing a green card, I was secretly always relieved when it didn’t come, because I was so scared of the world of work. But now, as I said, I’m not even scared of the raffia. I’ve come a long way. It’s not often you’re on the payroll for your own therapy.

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I am sad

I am sad. I am sad and weary. I am sad and weary and I have a question.

Those of you who have followed this blog for a while will know that Husband and I have been trying to return to the UK for, oh, two years or so, this move being dependent on Husband finding employment. One of the bad things about being a stay at home mum is that you find yourself in a position to contribute little to the mix, and entirely dependent on the whims and vagaries of the field of work of your spouse (in Husband's case, a very narrow field). The job search coincided with the credit crunch and its aftermath, and though Husband's area of employment isn't exactly at the sharp end of the business world, and perhaps a little cushioned from other people's harsher realities, no doubt the timing hasn't exactly helped.

I am sad, because we have just had disappointing news of the latest application, and weary, because this feels like boringly familiar territory. Husband has been doing all the right things. His cv ticks all the boxes. He knows how to present it. He has spent time networking with people in the field. He keeps in touch. We do not wallow in what Americans call 'a pity party' each time he is unsuccessful, but get right back up, and look for the next opportunity. He is not picky.

Here is my question, though. Is recruitment in other people's fields quite as bruising an experience as it has been for us - or have we been particularly unlucky? I can't help thinking that in most businesses, the process goes something like this: the job is advertised, a shortlist is drawn up, candidates are interviewed, one is appointed, and the others told they've been unsuccessful. In Husband's two areas of potential employment (universities, and the church - or church-related organisations), the process seems more like entering a maze. It is very common for no candidate to be appointed, and the post re-advertised in a slightly different format a few weeks or months later. It is very common for the process to take months. It is very common for the process to take months, and then to be abandoned. It is very common for them not to bother to tell candidates what has happened. It is very common for the whole thing to be a cover for the appointment of an internal candidate. With crashing irony, the time when Husband was in that situation, and all his department had to do was appoint him to carry on with his research, for which they had received money from the government ear-marked for that purpose and for him specifically by name, they managed to appoint someone else instead, who had no relevant experience at all. The words 'piss-up' and 'brewery' come to mind. It's how we ended up in America.

Is the business world more efficient? I suppose committees of philosophy and/or theology academics were never going to be the speediest and most efficient of decision-making bodies, were they? I picture them all in a room, trying to discuss the relative merits of the candidates, stuck in the mire of theoretical considerations, and going off on tangents from which they have no hope of ever returning.

As for the church, well, I can only despair. Husband has been on the receiving end of the kind of behaviour from senior church men and women, on both sides of the Atlantic, that would make the Pharisees blush. If there isn't a Parable of the Blushing Pharisee, there jolly well ought to be. The inefficiency, the waste of money and time, the in-fighting, the empty promises... Most of all, the sheer lack of consideration. Do these people not realise what kind of effort goes into a job application? And the time it takes? Blimey, if Husband was paid by the hour for job applications and their accompanying preparation, he wouldn't even be looking for a new position, we'd be so wealthy. Do they not realise the emotional energy that is expended? Over literally months? Do they not think what it is like to consider moving a family? Because with every clergy job (not just in our case), it's not only the job that's involved. It's the location, the house, the schools, the whole life? Don't they think about that at all?

It is with this in mind that I am SO tempted to drop in the name of the latest Bishop who has just changed his mind on a job. This job was advertised in April, and then again in September, after a failed first round. Flight tickets had been purchased for Husband's interview. He wasn't guaranteed the job - I get that. So I know that it was a risky business getting excited about the place, and researching what it might be like to live there. No, he hadn't been promised the job, but he HAD been promised an interview. At a week's notice of the flight, he received an email saying the Bishop had decided nor to go ahead with the post at the present time. At least they are refunding the flight ticket (they'd asked us to pay half). And now Husband has to go away and hide somewhere for a week, because of course he'd told people he was going away, and has arranged for classes to be taken in his absence. It wouldn't do for him to bump into students in Dillons.

I realise that this all sounds horribly petty, and of course I don't know the inside story. I don't know what pressures other people are operating under, and I don't know what frustrations and problems they face. But for heaven's sake, STOP promising more than you can deliver. Stop it. Just STOP IT.

Oh, and the reason I'm so very tempted to name that Bishop is this. I know he, or one of his communications staff, will have his name on google alert. I just know it. And I want him to realise that this is a big deal. That for him, what is just a little twist in some Diocesan politics, or an unfortunate mistake, or an embarrassing glitch, for us, is life-changing. I want him to know, because once people get to a certain level in an organisation, they forget what it's like to be nearer the bottom of the pile, and they have people around them who shield them from the memory. They don't even have the decency to write emails themselves (too busy, too important). But of course I won't name and shame, because we can't afford to be alienating people in such a small world. A small sucky world.

Back to my question. Is our experience typical? Is recruitment in every sector such a painful process? Or is Husband just in the wrong business?

I should really retitle this post. I am sad. I am sad and weary. Most of all, I am sad and weary and ANGRY.

300 not out

“I think you’d be a great addition to the team”, the Toy Shop Owner said.

Yay! I’m starting a week tomorrow, doing probably a couple of days a week, 10.00am to 3.00pm, in September, and building up as necessary through October, November, and the busiest period of the year in December. I love the fact that this has all fallen into place so easily. One phone call. That’s all it took. Sometimes you get a lucky break, and this has been one of mine. All I need now is a social security number. And there I was, thinking that getting the green card marked the end of the bureaucracy…

The children are so excited. I’ve just picked up 9-yo from school, and he’s already told his whole class, two teachers and the principal. Not bad going in one afternoon.

This is my 300th blog post. I still haven’t decided on a new name (I thought I might launch the new name at the 300th post, but it’s snuck up on me.) I’m thinking I might just call the blog “Iota”. Is that a bit pretentious? I really wish we lived in Iowa, because then I could be “Iota in Iowa”. Then we should move to an island off the coast of Scotland, and I could be “Iota: from Iowa to Iona”.

I like my profile picture, of the notice nailed to the tree trunk, and I was wondering about tying the name in with that. How about “Iota stakes her claim”? Kind of assertive. Or perhaps a reference to the American writing style: “Iota: discursive in cursive”. I’ve wondered about:

Iota, actually
Iota, Stateside
Iota’s Quota, which would abbreviate rather pleasingly to IQ.
Iota, Wife in the West
Iota on the Great Plains… She’s Great, but she isn’t Plain. Trouble with that, is that one slip of the keyboard, and you’re into “She’s Great, but she isn’t Palin”, and then I’d attract all kinds of unwanted political traffic.

Of course there’s still “Among the Bison with my Dyson”. I can’t rule that one out yet. It has so much potential for a fantastic visual image on the header.

What about tornadoes? They’re the other well-known feature of life in the Midwest. How about “Torn ado about nothing”? No? Thought not.

Sorry to be wittering on so much about names, but they are important things. Colgate, for example, is (I’m told) ‘hang yourself’ in Spanish. Persil is ‘parsley’ in French (and I believe it is marketed in France under that name). And who, who on earth, thought that Pepto-Bismol was a good name for a medicine for indigestion? It just sounds like 'Pept-Abysmal'. Mind you, I do wonder if the Pepto-Bismol marketing department operates on some kind of reverse psychology, because no-one in their right mind would consider buying medicine for indigestion that lurid pink colour. No-one except Barbie, and clearly she never gets indigestion because she never eats anything except Slim-fast.

Barbie… toys… toyshop… job… All witterings come full circle if you let them run their course.

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Job

Well, congrats to those of you (If I could escape, Aly and Heather) who said toy shop, because you are right! (Florida, Wiltshire, Lapland - you've got to love the diversity of blogging.) And an honorable mention to Speccy, who did mention toys - but had me in a travelling van, instead of a fixed retail outlet. It's one of those toy shops where you can't buy a Barbie or Nintendo game, but you can buy wooden fruit. I love it, because it's the antithesis to Toys R Crap, which I hate, and which is pretty much the only alternative here.

The shop is very English in feel, actually, because it's small - though big enough to have room for kids to try out a selection of ride-on and bounce-on toys. Whenever I've been in there with my children, they get on one of those wobbly ride-on things that you operate by wiggling the steering wheel quickly from left to right, and I find it hard to persuade them to leave. I've always been impressed by a shop that lets children wiggle and bounce around, especially as the aisles are pretty small (it really is very untypical), so it would be easy for an errant wiggle to knock down a whole display of boxes of Lego.

Incidentally, did you know that in America, they pronounce Lego 'Laygo', as if it were French and had an acute accent over the e. And they always refer to it in the plural. English children play with Leggo. American kids play with Laygos. Just a little cultural detail of the kind which I know you have come to expect from this blog.

Any old way, I'm not going to say too much about the job at this point, because I'm going in on Wednesday morning, and I don't want to have to post on Wednesday afternoon, about how it didn't all work out, having got you all very excited on my behalf. So act casual for now, ok?

I imagine the interview will go something like this:

Toy shop owner: What experience do you have in the retail sector?

Me: None.

TSO: Can you operate a cash till, and credit card swiping equipment?

Me: No.

TSO: How would you help someone who was looking for an educational toy?

Me: I'd tell them not to bother. School will educate your child. Focus your home life on having fun. How about this camera that squirts water, or this whoopee cushion?

TSO: Will you enjoy engaging with children, leaving their parents free to browse undisturbed?

Me: Up to a point. Here's a sign I've seen in another shop, which I'll display when I'm on duty: "Unattended children will be given an espresso, and a puppy to take home".

TSO: Will you promise to talk in your lovely English accent?

Me: Yes. I know no other way.

TSO: You've scored 1 out of 5, and on that basis, I'm happy to offer you the job.

You think I exaggerate the whole accent thing. I should tell you that I found out about the job, because the TSO was trying to recruit a friend of mine - an English friend of mine - who turned it down. (Actually, she's my only English friend here, and the reason she turned the opportunity down is because she is moving back to England. Today. Sob.)

I should have titled this post Job and sob, shouldn't I? That would have been neat.

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Three white things

First white thing

I made a startling and potentially life-changing discovery while in Scotland, and being a generous soul, I thought I'd share it with you. Those square white plates that they have in restaurants and in catalogues... get yourself some.

We were staying in a friend's house, and the first night, I rustled up a delicious little something for the children: fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. (Oh come on, I was on holiday, I wasn't going to be slaving over a hot stove every night.) But here's the amazing thing. If you serve fish fingers, pasta and broccoli on square white plates, it looks like some gourmet speciality. It really does.

If I was a half-decent blogger, I'd have comparison photos for you. Fish fingers on my usual circular pattern-round-the-edge plate, followed by fish fingers on clean-lines square white plate. Then you could see for yourselves. Sorry. You'll just have to shut your eyes and imagine them... See...? The first looks suspiciously like fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. The second, ah yes, the second has become North Atlantic cod coated in our own special-recipe golden breadcrumbs, oven-baked to soft perfection, accompanied by delicious wholemeal pasta and locally sourced garden-fresh broccoli tips, served with a smooth coulis of 'ketchup de tomates organiques'.

They had rectangular white plates too, which were even more sophisticated. I mean, rectangular, for heaven's sake.

Second white thing

It is very hot here. As we made our descent, the pilot informed us that the temperature on the ground was 108 degrees (that's 42 for you celsius types). It was windy too, and walking out of the plane onto the stairs felt like walking into a giant hairdryer.

Still, we are quite jammy really. It's been over 100, unrelentingly, for two or three weeks, and now the forecast says it's going to drop down to the low 90s - maybe even a cool 89 tomorrow. So we timed our absence and homecoming pretty well.

I am mentally better adjusted to living in this kind of temperature than I used to be. I used to find it frustrating, because, being English, I'm so hard-wired to looking at sunshine and thinking "ooh, lovely". This just led to frequent disappointment. I've had to relearn my reflexes. It's as if Pavlov took his salivating dogs and said "and now, just to complicate things, I'm going to ring the bell, and then serve you food that tastes disgusting and makes you sick... let's see if we can recondition you...". It's one of those complicated ex-pat things. You have to reconfigure some of your good/bad assumptions. I remember being confused when our realtor was showing us round a house in January, and said "this yard has trees, so it'll be nice and shady". It required a mental u-turn from the usual expectation of "south-facing, sheltered, sunny".

So yes, I'm pretty well adjusted these days. I don't look out of the window and think "ooh, lovely". A lot of the windows have the blinds down anyway. I look at Weatherbug on the computer, and think "ooh, hot". I will confess, though, to a residual English excitement at the thought of how quickly the washing will dry (though actually, it's not as speedy as you might think, because of the humidity). I think it will be some years before I lose that.

Third white thing

I've got my green card. It was waiting for us in the mail on our return. It's white. Forgive me for being simplistic, but I was expecting it to be green. This means that I can get a job, and get paid. It's actually rather intimidating (pathetic of me, I know).

So that'll be me, flipping burgers then.

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More life stuff

I forgot to tell you the worst bit.

The day after the visit, back home, in the grim grey light of morning when it had become clear that the negotiating process was going to end badly but whilst we were still mired in it, my friend who had been looking after our hamster phoned to say he wasn't looking very well. Not very well at all.

He had been healthy at 4.00am that morning, when she had been unable to sleep and had gone into the kitchen and seen him running on his wheel. Literally on his wheel, ie on the top of it, which is something of a hamster first, according to the vet we later spoke to. But by 8.00am, something had happened, and he wasn't responding to stimuli. When I got there, he was looking dead, but a few twitches indicated life, so I lifted him out of his cage, and held him on my lap, thinking perhaps the warmth of my hands would revive him. For a few minutes, it seemed I was onto something, as his breathing became regular again, and his eyes opened. On the advice of the vet who my friend phoned, we dripped a sole drop of honey into his mouth, and kept him warm. For about half an hour, I willed life and health into him, but alas, the glimmer of hope was forlorn. Whatever was ailing him was too much for his little hamstery form, and he died in my hands.

At 5-yo's valentine party, I was admiring the art work on the classroom wall. The children had had their pictures taken with puckered up lips, and had coloured in their lips in red or pink. They had then written a sentence saying "My valentine kiss is for..." (which actually I didn't think was terribly appropriate, but that's another story). Most of them had written "Mom" or "Dad" or the name of one of their classmates. 5-yo had written "My valentine kiss is for mi ded hamster".

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Life stuff

Do you remember I told you about a job opportunity for Husband which was causing us to agonise a little? Great job, great career move, wrong side of the Atlantic, was the gist of it. The end of the story goes like this.

We went to check it out one long week-end in January. By that stage, we'd pretty much decided it was for us. Though not where we wanted to end up, it had great potential to be a good stepping stone, giving Husband the opportunity to do all the things he needs to do, to polish up a nice bright shiny cv for a future trans-Atlantic hop.

The week-end itself was pretty bad. Two flights in each direction, so that's already a pretty tiring day at the beginning and end. Rainy and grey, in a state known for its sunny weather. 9-yo got ill, and so I stayed with him in the hotel, while he threw up 15 times in the course of a morning (yes, I was counting). I knew it was bad, because normally when he is ill, he is a trooper. If I ask him how he is feeling, he manages a weak "fine", or "ok", but on this occasion, he called me over to the bedside a few times to tell me "I feel very terrible", unasked.

Husband got the same bug, but managed to soldier on through the arranged schedule, since he wasn't actually vomiting (sorry, too much information, I know). At one point, I left the two of them in a double bed, Husband fully clothed, clasping the duvet around him, and saying in a shivery voice how cold he was, while on the other side, 9-yo had flung off all covers, stripped off his pyjama top, and was red in the face and burning up. 12-yo was with our friends (as you can imagine, the whole thing had developed some logistical challenges by this stage), and I took 5-yo, who had been cooped up in the hotel room with me, her sick brother and Spongebob Squarepants all day, to the hotel pool for a swim. It was an outdoor pool, but it had stopped raining. Or so I thought. As soon as we'd got into the water, the rain started again. It was chilly, our towels were getting wet in the rain, it was grey and miserable, I still feel really self-conscious in a swimsuit, and 5-yo was playing a game that I didn't really understand, but it seemed to involve her bossing me about a lot. I think it would be fair to say it was a low point, but it's at moments like this that you have to love kids.

"Isn't this relaxing?" said 5-yo, sitting on the side of the pool, kicking her feet in the water, and surveying the scene in a somewhat regal manner.

"We're so lucky to have the pool to ourselves. I don't know why more people aren't here. It's just... so... relaxing."

So the week-end wasn't great, but we decided we wouldn't let that colour our thoughts about the job and the option of moving. However, a tactful reporting of events (you never know quite how anonymous your blog is...) would be that the content of the job, and the terms and conditions which accompanied it, had changed considerably between the time when it was first offered to Husband, and the time of our visit. Nothing had been in writing, but that wasn't really the issue. It's just too complicated for a blog post, as these things often are, but suffice to say it was all rather an exhausting, frustrating and demoralising experience. Yes, I think that sums it up (and if you want to read the rant between the lines, feel free to do so).

Here's the thing, though. When it all fell through, apart from the disillusionment and disappointment, we both felt a huge relief (especially me!) I really hadn't wanted to move within the US at all - not even to a state known for its lovely climate, not even to a place with good air links to the UK, not even to a lively growing city by the sea, not even for a great career opportunity for Husband. Because it was the only option on the table, and seemingly a very good job and a good package, with bells and whistles, it would have been hard to turn it down, but my heart was never in it. I already knew all that in advance though, so going through the tortuous process didn’t tell me anything new.

Life’s a bit like that sometimes, isn’t it?

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The ripple effect

Day 28 of 'The Daily Post'.

Do you remember about this time last year, the senior executives of General Motors went to ask Obama for a bail-out from public money, and they travelled to the meeting in private jets? Obama pointed out that this was something of a gaff, and the executives were publicly humiliated. I thought Obama did well to point it out. But what about this?

The main industry of the city I live in is aircraft manufacture. It is home to three big producers of private planes. Between them, Learjet, Cessna and Hawker make 45% of the world’s business jets. After Obama’s criticism of the GM executives, large numbers of orders were cancelled or postponed, and new orders dried up. Business travel by private jet was no longer as desirable as it had been. Last year, these three companies produced 11,500 private jets. This year, they expect to produce 7500, and next year, 6,500. Their market research suggests that they won’t be back up to 2008 demand until 2017. In the past year, 13,000 people have been laid off. Others are working reduced hours, or being given periods of compulsory furlough.

I don’t really know how to feel about this. I don’t think the world needs to add to its global warming problems by having senior business people flying around in their own, or leased, jets. Should I be pleased that orders are so severely reduced? On one level, yes, but that’s not the reason these people were made redundant. You have to feel sorry for those 13,000 people. I would feel sorry for workers made redundant from the tobacco industry, in spite of what I hoped for the future of that industry.

I feel a particular sympathy for those 13,000, though. It happened so suddenly. One news item, and their fates were sealed. It was unforeseen. Yes, you’d expect a recession to bring a reduction in orders of business planes, but this was a drop of a 35% in a single year. It must be galling that it wasn’t even a matter of government policy. The incident was symbolic not substantive, the result of an unscripted reaction from the President. Most of all, I’m sure those workers don’t appreciate the irony that GM jobs were saved by a bail-out, but there’s no public subsidy for the aircraft manufacturers.

I’m sure we all, if we’re honest, enjoyed the embarrassment we imagine those GM executives experienced. It was a time when we felt the mighty deserved to fall. It wasn’t happening, and the GM executives took on the role of scapegoat. Since they weren’t actually going to lose their jobs, then being taken down a public peg or two by the President was the next best thing. The corporate bottom was smacked. But spare a thought for those 13,000 whose lives have been turned upside down by that one incident, an incident which, because it came from the White House, caught the public imagination and gained publicity, took on a significance beyond its worth.