The quest for Job Charming
Outside it may be raining
but in here it's entertaining!
CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS AS TO THE PRESENT MOMENT:
1. Smoky. In spite of the murdering cold that has taken siege of the upper part of my body (yeah, all of it, from head to belly button. Don’t ask, please), I can’t quit smoking. I should probably grow up and realize what’s best in order to make it to my thirtieth birthday… But, as they say around here, I ain’t no quittah. (that is, I’m not a quitter. So many years studying English to come to this, you’ll say…)
I got to the Prince of Wales yesterday feeling like one of those transgenic non-free range chickens they sell at Sainsbury’s –another great place to waste an afternoon fighting all the marketing techniques they have us humans exposed to- and when Catherine saw me, she was in stitches.
“Giveeee mememee a brrreak, alrrrrright? Ammmmmspaaanish, Got all the rrrright to be frrrrreeezing cooollloolllooolld. T’sss bloooody freeeezeeen in this joiiint”, I managed to mumble, shaky.
“No, love, you ain’t seein’ nowt’. ‘Tis only mild, now. Wait ‘til January. Ya gonna bloody die. Ya wooz.”
“Not a wooz. Have to adapt to this horrible unlivable weather is all.”
Mind you, the weather makes you work harder and faster. That’s how I’ve been carrying beer barrels like they’re bunches of daisies. Even the men from the dray (the guys that bring us the barrels from the brewery) have accepted me as one of their kin. Okay, they’re only empty barrels, but still… I can roll the full ones, no problem, and you gotta have some arms for that too, let me tell you. Especially the big fuckers, the cask bitters.
Anyway, that was not the point. The point is, it’s utterly cold in here and it’s only December. I wonder if I’ll make it through the winter. And I thought London was cold. Ha. Stupid me. Something tells me Catherine’s right; I haven’t seen anything yet. What I hate the most is that people seem to walk down the streets like it’s no big deal, rain, wild wind, cold, you name it, and I have already broken two umbrellas (well, the wind has, more like). I feel clumsy as hell, but I guess I’m only southern European.
2. Curious about my surroundings. While living in London, three or four years ago, I got to meet the most physically perfect women one can imagine (note that I specified: physically.) They lived only to shape theire bodies into impeccable perfection: no blemishes, no wrinkles, no stretch marks, no cellulite, rock-hard boobs. They made you feel like Godzilla, whether you were or not. It is curious how here, in this God’s Forsaken Place in the middle of Herts women are so real, so natural. Big bums, big bellies, huge thights, boobs they can kick with their knees... who cares? They still walk hand in hand with the most astonishing studs (no brains, either, but hey, can’t have everything). I mean, they wear tight clothes and décoltés like they’re Charlize Theron, even if they remind one a lot of Roseanne Barr.
This, I firmly believe, should spread like a fashion and be adopted by the rest of the world: it’s cold, so we eat, and although men will not gain weight beyond the typical national beer gut, women do because that’s how our bodies are designed. Men won’t ever have to bear babies, right? Exactly. I want to express my respect and support to the Hertfordshire women, for being just women, not replicants from outter space. Fuck skeleton fashion! Give us meat!.
3. Reluctant. I’m not a Herfordshire woman, though. I am Spaniard brought up to look my best, while men can look like a barrel of Guinness, as long as they wear suits and smell of Égoïste Platinum. Bugger. Have got no self-confidence like Hertfordshire women. Have to fit into trousers I brought from Spain.
4. Worrying. Oh Lord. Have to start exercising. Have to go running everything or do something. I’m gaining weight. No more cheese. Erase concept bread off memory. Don’t even go near wine. Mars bars: nunca máis. (und so weiter)
5. Of increasing Frustratio laboris. Job hunt has brought many results to this date. None, unfortunately, productive or positive at all. Had big fallout with life and all of its integrants, be it natural or cultural, after Irish Translating Position Big Fiasco. I’m still sending CVs and applications, of course, but my resistance is becoming increasingly low to deal with rejection. Meanwhile, I keep making meatballs and teaching Spanish. I feel like the Captain out of that book, “El capitán no tiene quien le escriba”, checking everyday if today is gonna be THE day of my big breakthrough… but no. The only thing breaking here is my skin, due to the hereabove mentioned meteorological conditions.
THINGS TO DO:
1. Jump into shower, make self look human and keep looking for perfect Job Charming (in manner of Prince Charming)to come rescue me from the mediocrity my existence's plunging into, instead of wasting vital minutes complaining about not finding it. One can’t win lottery if one does not play, innit?
2. Eat healthy. (Humm…) Difficulty strives in nature of wheather, which instinctively draws body into craving for carbohydrates like WW III is gonna start any minute now and there are Japanese missiles flying over our heads.
3. Call umpteenth translators agency, see if I can talk them into accepting me as valid member of society. (Ha. Sometimes I crack myself up)
4. Find out prices to practice and learn in order to obtain driving licence. Shake with fear, O’ cold and rainy Britannia, for Spanish psycho-cowgirl’s intending to invade your roads! (Yee-haaaaahhh!!!!)
5. Get an official, proper, comme-il-faut residence permit in order to obtain no. 4. This one’s gonna be tough, as whoever has already read previous blog will understand my total lack of patience with bureaucratic processes. Will have to put myself together, though.
but in here it's entertaining!
CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS AS TO THE PRESENT MOMENT:
1. Smoky. In spite of the murdering cold that has taken siege of the upper part of my body (yeah, all of it, from head to belly button. Don’t ask, please), I can’t quit smoking. I should probably grow up and realize what’s best in order to make it to my thirtieth birthday… But, as they say around here, I ain’t no quittah. (that is, I’m not a quitter. So many years studying English to come to this, you’ll say…)
I got to the Prince of Wales yesterday feeling like one of those transgenic non-free range chickens they sell at Sainsbury’s –another great place to waste an afternoon fighting all the marketing techniques they have us humans exposed to- and when Catherine saw me, she was in stitches.
“Giveeee mememee a brrreak, alrrrrright? Ammmmmspaaanish, Got all the rrrright to be frrrrreeezing cooollloolllooolld. T’sss bloooody freeeezeeen in this joiiint”, I managed to mumble, shaky.
“No, love, you ain’t seein’ nowt’. ‘Tis only mild, now. Wait ‘til January. Ya gonna bloody die. Ya wooz.”
“Not a wooz. Have to adapt to this horrible unlivable weather is all.”
Mind you, the weather makes you work harder and faster. That’s how I’ve been carrying beer barrels like they’re bunches of daisies. Even the men from the dray (the guys that bring us the barrels from the brewery) have accepted me as one of their kin. Okay, they’re only empty barrels, but still… I can roll the full ones, no problem, and you gotta have some arms for that too, let me tell you. Especially the big fuckers, the cask bitters.
Anyway, that was not the point. The point is, it’s utterly cold in here and it’s only December. I wonder if I’ll make it through the winter. And I thought London was cold. Ha. Stupid me. Something tells me Catherine’s right; I haven’t seen anything yet. What I hate the most is that people seem to walk down the streets like it’s no big deal, rain, wild wind, cold, you name it, and I have already broken two umbrellas (well, the wind has, more like). I feel clumsy as hell, but I guess I’m only southern European.
2. Curious about my surroundings. While living in London, three or four years ago, I got to meet the most physically perfect women one can imagine (note that I specified: physically.) They lived only to shape theire bodies into impeccable perfection: no blemishes, no wrinkles, no stretch marks, no cellulite, rock-hard boobs. They made you feel like Godzilla, whether you were or not. It is curious how here, in this God’s Forsaken Place in the middle of Herts women are so real, so natural. Big bums, big bellies, huge thights, boobs they can kick with their knees... who cares? They still walk hand in hand with the most astonishing studs (no brains, either, but hey, can’t have everything). I mean, they wear tight clothes and décoltés like they’re Charlize Theron, even if they remind one a lot of Roseanne Barr.
This, I firmly believe, should spread like a fashion and be adopted by the rest of the world: it’s cold, so we eat, and although men will not gain weight beyond the typical national beer gut, women do because that’s how our bodies are designed. Men won’t ever have to bear babies, right? Exactly. I want to express my respect and support to the Hertfordshire women, for being just women, not replicants from outter space. Fuck skeleton fashion! Give us meat!.
3. Reluctant. I’m not a Herfordshire woman, though. I am Spaniard brought up to look my best, while men can look like a barrel of Guinness, as long as they wear suits and smell of Égoïste Platinum. Bugger. Have got no self-confidence like Hertfordshire women. Have to fit into trousers I brought from Spain.
4. Worrying. Oh Lord. Have to start exercising. Have to go running everything or do something. I’m gaining weight. No more cheese. Erase concept bread off memory. Don’t even go near wine. Mars bars: nunca máis. (und so weiter)
5. Of increasing Frustratio laboris. Job hunt has brought many results to this date. None, unfortunately, productive or positive at all. Had big fallout with life and all of its integrants, be it natural or cultural, after Irish Translating Position Big Fiasco. I’m still sending CVs and applications, of course, but my resistance is becoming increasingly low to deal with rejection. Meanwhile, I keep making meatballs and teaching Spanish. I feel like the Captain out of that book, “El capitán no tiene quien le escriba”, checking everyday if today is gonna be THE day of my big breakthrough… but no. The only thing breaking here is my skin, due to the hereabove mentioned meteorological conditions.
THINGS TO DO:
1. Jump into shower, make self look human and keep looking for perfect Job Charming (in manner of Prince Charming)to come rescue me from the mediocrity my existence's plunging into, instead of wasting vital minutes complaining about not finding it. One can’t win lottery if one does not play, innit?
2. Eat healthy. (Humm…) Difficulty strives in nature of wheather, which instinctively draws body into craving for carbohydrates like WW III is gonna start any minute now and there are Japanese missiles flying over our heads.
3. Call umpteenth translators agency, see if I can talk them into accepting me as valid member of society. (Ha. Sometimes I crack myself up)
4. Find out prices to practice and learn in order to obtain driving licence. Shake with fear, O’ cold and rainy Britannia, for Spanish psycho-cowgirl’s intending to invade your roads! (Yee-haaaaahhh!!!!)
5. Get an official, proper, comme-il-faut residence permit in order to obtain no. 4. This one’s gonna be tough, as whoever has already read previous blog will understand my total lack of patience with bureaucratic processes. Will have to put myself together, though.
Comentario:
El Molino Rojo, ¿eh? lo pasé bien con esa peli, certainly.
De fresquito por aquí andamos zumbaos: En Bilbao, hace dos semanas, 22 grados centígrados. Inexplicable. Será por sus cojones, pero es inexplicable. Esta mañana, esperando al bus, he perdido el meñique y el anular de la mano fumona. Hace un ris que jode el cutis (tío mío dixit).
Ñas... la colonia en cuestión es la mía.
Grande el mars bars nunca mais: entreculturas.
Per certum, que creo que el carné es mas barato que en Spain y algo mas fácil en cuanto a exámenes.
De fresquito por aquí andamos zumbaos: En Bilbao, hace dos semanas, 22 grados centígrados. Inexplicable. Será por sus cojones, pero es inexplicable. Esta mañana, esperando al bus, he perdido el meñique y el anular de la mano fumona. Hace un ris que jode el cutis (tío mío dixit).
Ñas... la colonia en cuestión es la mía.
Grande el mars bars nunca mais: entreculturas.
Per certum, que creo que el carné es mas barato que en Spain y algo mas fácil en cuanto a exámenes.
Comentario:
uhmmmm
un ingles impecable.....debe ser por eso que no entendi ni la cuarta parte :\
Musus
un ingles impecable.....debe ser por eso que no entendi ni la cuarta parte :\
Musus
Comentario:
:-(