My Not So Perfect Life(47)

But that’s not the half of it. That’s not even the 10 percent of it. What’s happened to Dad and Biddy this week is like a lottery win, like a freak pot of gold under the rainbow. I still can’t quite believe it’s happened. The Guardian has profiled Ansters Farm Country Retreat in its “Glamping Roundup.”

It’s nuts! I mean, Ansters Farm isn’t even a thing yet! But clearly some journalist was under a deadline and found the website and thought, This’ll do. It’s all in the piece—the yurts, the chickens, even my prose about children being children. They printed a photo of a campfire in front of a yurt and captioned it: Ansters Farm is the latest family haven for hip glampers, and I nearly died when I saw it. I mean, The Guardian!



And if I’d still been at work, it would have been my greatest-ever triumph. I could have marched into Demeter’s office and said, There’s branding for you.

But I’m not.

It’s the last week of February and I don’t have a job. I don’t have the prospect of a job. I just have aching hands from typing job applications, googling brand agencies, and writing spec letters.

I’ve written an individual email for each application. I’ve researched every single possible company in the UK that I might suit. My mind is reeling with product names, campaigns, contacts. I’m exhausted. And panicky. Occasionally I glance in the mirror and see my own stricken face, and it’s so not the face I want to see that I quickly look away again.

I’m trying to keep the fear at bay by doing stuff. I’ve reorganized my hammock. I’ve re-drafted my monthly budget to make it last two months. I’m doing a ton of walking, because, you know, walking’s free. Plus it gives you endorphins and will therefore, in theory, cheer me up. Although I can’t say that’s really working. And I’m still up to date with Instagram. I’ve posted moody images of London streets at 4:00 A.M. (I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t mention that.) I’ve posted a photo of the new pretzel stand at Victoria. I sound bright and breezy and employed. You’d never know the truth.

Flora’s been in touch, quite a bit. She’s left phone messages and texts and a long email starting: Oh my GOOOOOOOD. I can’t believe the witch FIRED you, that is SO UNFAIR!!!!!!!!



I sent an email back, but I haven’t spoken to her. I just feel too vulnerable right now. Sarah’s also been in contact—in fact, she sent me a surprisingly long and sympathetic card. Apparently Demeter got rid of Sarah’s boyfriend too, before I arrived at Cooper Clemmow. He’s called Jake and he’s a really good designer, did nothing wrong, but got made redundant. He’s still unemployed all these months later, and they’re both fairly devastated but trying to be positive. She ended with, I know how hard this is for you, and a string of sad faces.

And, you know, I’m sure she had the best of intentions, or whatever, but it didn’t altogether cheer me up. I never went to that drinks at the Blue Bear either—how could I? I’m not part of the gang anymore. And, anyway, I couldn’t afford to pay for my round.

I’m hanging out a lot at home, but even that’s stressful, because of our new flatmate. Anita has sublet her room while she’s away in Paris. It’s totally against the rules, but our landlord never comes round. (I wish he would. He might get rid of the whey.) Our new flatmate is a cheerful blond girl called Irena who has rosy cheeks and wears a floral headscarf a lot of the time, and I had great hopes of her until she invited all her friends round.

I say “friends.” That’s not exactly what it is. They’re a religion. It’s the Church of the Something (I didn’t quite catch the name and now I don’t like to ask). And they all meet in her room and sing and have talks and shout, “Yes!”

I have nothing against the Church of the Something. I’m sure they’re very good people. Only they’re also quite noisy. So, what with the singing and the whey boxes and Alan yelling, “Knobhead!” at himself, it’s getting quite oppressive in here.



I’ve come into the kitchen to make my vegetable stew, and I’m crouching on the cardboard boxes, which are now so battered they keep half-collapsing. Maybe I should join the Church of the Something? The thought crosses my mind and I give a wry smile. Maybe that’s the answer. Only I don’t think I have the energy to shout, “Yes!” twenty times a night. I don’t have much energy at all, is the truth. I feel drained. Defeated.

I stir my butternut squash and rutabaga stew (cheap and nutritious) and close my eyes with tiredness. And just for a moment, with my guard down, I let my mind roam into places it shouldn’t. Places that are cold and scary and full of questions I don’t want asked.

What if I don’t find a job?

I will.

But what if?

There’s a sudden dampness on my cheekbone. A tear is creeping out of one eye, I realize. It’s the steam, I tell myself furiously. It’s the onions. It’s the whey.

“All right, Cat?” Alan appears at the door of the kitchen, leaps up, and starts doing chin-ups from the lintel.

“Fine!” I force a bright smile. “Good!” I shake some dried herbs into my stew and give it a stir.

“Bunch of nutters, aren’t they?” He jerks his head toward Irena’s room.

“I think we should respect their beliefs,” I say, as another “Yesss!” resounds through the flat.