Grrr. Argh.

[raven]

On telly right now, Hawkeye, BJ and Potter are singing in sepulchral fashion, "There's a long long night of waiting 'til my dreams all come true..."

Huh. I have had a very bad day. Very, very, very bad. I am going to tell you all about it. I wandered down the stairs this morning thinking it would be fine, it would be a good day, I would get things done. Okay. One of the things I was supposed to do today was, er, take my driving test. And it was going all right, finally, and hathy_col very kindly offered her mum up as ritual sacrifice as someone to drive me, and then the DSA, the fucking, fucking DSA informed me I had vanished from their computer system. Whatever the administrative fuck-up actually is, it's their fault and they'll give me the money back. But I don't have a driving test this week, or next week, or, in fact, until January. I would kill small furry animals just to be able to get in a car and drive.

So I spent most of my morning writing a long, rude letter to the DSA, a morning I meant to use for my feminism paper, and then I gathered up a bunch of things Pedar wanted posting and walked the half-hour to the post office. (When I have a driving license, I will not drive this distance. It's a stupid thought, to drive such tiny distances.) It had closed for lunch. I had a choice: hang around for an hour, or walk back, sit down for exactly one minute and walk there again. I, stupidly, chose the latter option. So after I had wasted two hours of feminism-writing time in favour of, er, wandering around the village getting steadily more irritable, I went home and made a cup of coffee.

Which, of course, I knocked over, half on my laptop and half on six weeks' worth of feminism notes. I got it off Loki, which is one blessing, but the papers are entirely soaked. I hung them out of the window like strange and crackly laundry and went to answer a ringing phone. It was Claire Curtis-Thomas's secretary, Rob. He's a lovely guy who has been fielding my calls since March, and he told me: forget it. I don't have an internship. She's forgotten about me, and he can't get in touch with her, and he's sorry for stringing me along for FOUR MONTHS but er... yes. I don't have an internship. I am not getting out of here in September. I can't explain to you how awful this is. I am going to go mad.

I was having a long, late lunch with quackaquacka and eternalwings, and I wandered down to the station and missed the train. (It was early, so I missed with that almost balletic grace with which I occasionally achieve when missing trains - think a full-tilt run culminating in a grand jeté leap that ends with the tips of your outstretched fingers brushing the closing doors.) I had had enough of leaping about and swearing, so I went to the newsagent for a large bar of chocolate and a newspaper. While I was paying for them, the guy behind the counter asked me where I live. I said, "Up in the pinewoods," as you do.

"I see you go past every day," he said. "Do you go to Range?"

"Er, no, I went to Merchants'."

He looked a bit uncomfortable. "You don't look that old."

The hell I don't. I thanked him, took the chocolate and went back to the station whilst musing on the fact that Range doesn't have a sixth form. That guy thought I was fifteen.

In short, yes, I am going to go madder than a trapped hare. I am stuck here. I have no driving license, no plane tickets to Europe (last month's debacle), no job. (I don't even have my usual job, because of course I withdrew myself from the bookshop rota because of the internship I was supposed to have.) Right now, I want to know what happened to my life. How did this happen, all of a sudden? I thought I was an adult woman with an education and a job and a place to live, and now I'm just thinking circumstances have conspired, the DSA and Easyjet-the-bastards and Curtis-Thomas and her lack of any organisation at all, to make me fifteen forever.

This is really quite awful.

In a neat twist of irony, an obscure Sky channel are showing XF episodes in completely random order, and today's was "Monday", which is a nice story about Mulder waking up, running late, to a flooded apartment, a bouncing cheque, "the longest meeting in FBI history" and finally, a bank robbery that ends in his being shot and he and Scully both dying in an explosion - only for the same day to happen again, and again, and again. In short, other people have shit days, too. It's a good episode and I will write something else about it when I am not so pissed off and worn out with the entire world.

Um - I'm leaving the country at the end of this week, so if you want to get in touch with me at all for anything, before Friday is best. After that I don't know how contactable I will be.

Comments

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

Oh, god. I will be writing in the manner of Mills and Boon! Complete with purple prose and very bad epithets! And the worst thing is how quickly the damn story is taking shape inside my head. I DO NOT WANT TO DO THIS OMG.

Ah, well, you've got me beat. I know exactly no Tamil at all. But I kind of have to join in with the laughter there. Khabi khabi hum marjathehe!*

*er, just so's you know, I can't transliterate worth shit.

[leiascully.livejournal.com]

Do it! I'll edit it for you. We'll wrestle it into shape. And you're a good writer, so don't give me all that ;)

Arré! Okay, I was laughing too. So it goes.