Well, maybe he did. I await the advent of the silver cow creamer.
Yep, that’s the status right now: aspiring to Bertie Wooster’s level of competence. Sigh.
[Sidenote: Himself was once profiled by The Guardian for what the fashionable gentleman is wearing about town, just in case you think I’m over-egging the ‘my life is a Wooster book’ thing a little too far.]
I did, however, find a lovely local florist called Jane, and so, in-between urgent work jobs, I was emailing Jane in Caithness, pretty much bargaining down to whatever she had in the shop was fine, just stick a ribbon on it and deliver it now please. And yes, I knew all about the weather they’d been having (thus no tulips from Amsterdam, if you were wondering).
Work? Gah. Today I’m dressed like a wanker, with my ridiculous spotty coat, but I figured that the art of believing I could do this was:
1. Have a rich mummy and daddy and go to the right school.
Um, no, totally, totally, absolutely failed that. Poverty is why I have problems (talk wrong, act wrong, lead poisoning from roadways, worse from factories, abuse, more abuse, scars visible and not, a fair bit of PTSD, you know, the works).
2. Dress like a wanker.
This I can manage. Or, at least, try. Because it’s not that I’m good at my job, not even close, but I’m no better or worse than others, except I don’t talk right or dress right. And I’m told this. To my face. All the time. I am of the lower orders.
Which is why I accidentally ended up with all these massive featured in the media jobs. Such high-profile jobs are usually not for the likes of me, ever, no never (unless they go tits up and I’m roped in to ‘assist’ and/or take the blame), but prissy private school types have equated in-house jobs with housework, and thus and so. Muggins, of all people, really, of all people, muddling about hopelessly with some of the most important documents. No pressure.
Except lots of pressure. Crazy too short to do a half-decent job deadlines, ye olde tech, everyone down with the dreaded lurgy (including me), and, oh yeah, going to classes at night because I’m told I suck at my job, and I do. Which leaves only a few hours set aside per 24-hour cycle for trying to sleep.
Yep, no pressure. What could possibly go wrong? So, dress like a wanker, because those bastards breeze through life without ever having to lift a finger.
It won’t work of course, but I’m willing to try anything at this stage.