Confessions of a part-timer, Wednesday 15 August 2018
‘Aren’t you a writer now?’ She asks brightly.
‘Yes, yes I am,’ I say, and at the same time, I clip myself around my own ear-hole for not being folded over my phone on my commute to the esplanade. It was the sun you see, it was just watching as the clouds fled like a pack of colourful runners bunched up at the front and thinning out towards the end where the pace peeled off. They distracted me, and she seized.
‘Changed your mind, did you then?’ The way she says ‘then’ makes me drag a breath from my feet. She’s rolled a little curiosity grenade at me and it’s metamorphosed; it sits licking my boot like a teeny tiny kitten at a military themed fancy dress party. This kitty’s come as a little hand grenade purse and I can just make out a slogan beneath the serial number: curiosity killed me.
‘No, I just—' I’m confused because I think I know what she’s getting at, but I need her to clarify before I line out my defence. She’s done this dance before; she sees it: my enquiry.
‘’Cause I thought you said you were going to do it full-time and then Sam said she saw you at her meeting the other day.’
‘Yeah, Sam, that’s right, I did, yeah. That was really weird. She’s my friend’s direct report, bizarrely.’ I think I’m effervescent now.
‘Your post on Insta was great by the way, really inspiring! Thought about doing something else myself. But…’ There is a head tilt. It’s not my imagination. Or neuroses.
‘Yeah… It’s just… errr… well it’s my long-term plan. I’ll get there.’ I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve here but I’m definitely looking up at the cracking sound – the man flicking out his towel on the balcony up there.
‘Ha! Yeah, it’s difficult making money from your hobby, isn’t it?’
Hobby. I fucking hate that word. When she says it, the other version of me in the infinity continuum (with all the Shakespeare monkeys and infinite iterations of plant-based curry) – catches the fallen towel with my ham-fist as it glides from its rail and now I’m chewing on the chalky corner of it. I probably look like I’m disguising a yawn.
‘I mean it’s not just—’ Why does my voice sound so mousy?
‘Mmmm. Good luck anyways, we should catch up for coffee soon. I’d love to hear all about it.’ Her eyes steer the rest of her body away from me.
‘Oh fuck off.’
Confessions of a part-timer, Wednesday 15 August 2018.
You know I’m a nutter, right? You know I make all this shit up in my head, don’t you? This dialogue didn’t really happen. Well it did. But just in my head. I made it. I’m dead creative, me.
This is the next chapter of my blog. It’s the confessions of a part-timer. It’s just about me part-timing. Doing a bit of work. Doing a bit of writing.
If you saw my Adventures of a part-timer Instagram post, you’ll already know that in my family, part-timing is synonymous with being a workshy little bleeder. Like I said, nasty business: the part-timer part-timing. It’s time to confess.