Blame Canada

Last weekend got off to a great start - Joe's company was having its annual picnic in a town about 2 hours' drive from where we live. But Joe decided I was too good for the bus, and paid one of his friends to fly me there in their private plane!! So, on a Friday afternoon in glorious sunshine, I found myself hovering 4000 feet above the Niagara peninsula. I even caught a glimpse of my house : )

After reaching my destination, I waited for Joe in the airport bar which was only for private plane owners and seriously posh. My drink was free. I felt like a princess!

The next day was the company picnic, when we sashayed around Joe's boss's multi-acre property, having a dip in the pool, go-karting on his private race-track and admiring his ridiculously extensive collection of exotic cars (including a cherry red Lamborghini Diabolo, pictured below, which I had to stop Joe from drooling over).

So all in all, a reasonable start to the weekend. But then we got home at midnight to an answer machine message telling me I hadn't got the part in 'My Fair Lady'. I know!! Not that I think I should have got the part purely on the basis of my English accent, but I was one of the better ones auditioning so it should at least have tipped the balance! What a rip-off.

I'm not even that bothered about the part. What I am bothered about is the rejection. It would be great to get accepted for something - a full-time journalism job would be ideal - so I can stop wasting away the days with little bits of work. The freelance stuff is great for the time being, but I've been doing it for a year now and I'd kind of like the time being to come to an end.

It's worse when Joe's family ask me if I have a job yet (apparently, freelancing and working reception don't count). Wouldn't I tell them if I had a job? Wouldn't I call them, squealing for joy down the phone? Why on earth do they feel like they have to ask me??

Joe's grandma did just that when we were in the hospital on Sunday visiting Joe's grandfather (although, to be fair, she has a lot on her mind). After a bout of shingles and a fever, he's on a steep downward spiral into dementia. Six weeks ago he was fine (here he is at Easter, nearest the camera), and now he looks at me with the deepest suspicion and confusion.

What was more depressing was the guy on the other side of the room. His whole family was there as the priest read him his last rites, after which he was pronounced brain dead. The family carried on talking as the man lay there, colour flowing out of his cheeks and mouth agape like a giant sarcophagus. I couldn't stop looking at him. The guy was dead. Memories of my mum made my heart throb like an old wound.

In the meantime, Joe's grandma continued giving me advice on finding a job. I walked out of the room just as my eyes started to overflow.

Now it's Tuesday, and after a couple of good nights' sleep I'm feeling a lot better. Life might be frustrating and uncertain, but overall I'm incredibly lucky. And who knows what the next few months will bring?