Disappointment

I am still somewhat reeling from the rejection letter, which arrived yesterday from Bath Uni. Rob brought it down to the pub where I was working and I opened it in a quiet corner, without my glasses on, but could still make out the words 'We are sorry....', so knew instantly it wasn't the news I'd been hoping for.

Funnily enough, although I am generally a doom and gloom monger, always assuming the worst, I had a good feeling about this. I felt the interview went well. For a start, I was uncharacteristically assertive when it was hinted that I might be applying for the wrong course; that my writing was more directed at the Young Adult market. I insisted that I did not wish to be pigeon holed and I still needed to discover what kind of a writer I am.

I was equally emphatic about my chances of surviving the stress of it all, explaining that I knew what I was in for and was ready and willing to take it on the chin. This is not the usual answer I would give. That would typically be more along the lines of 'You're right, it does sound quite hard and I probably wouldn't be very good.' But I resisted the almost urgent need to put myself down and remained positive.

As you can imagine, I have gone over and over every last word I said, wondering which were the ones that took away my chance of a place.

I asked for feedback, thinking that if I am to apply again, I would know what to avoid saying next time. Sadly, they don't give personal feedback, but they did say encouraging things and recommended I just keep improving my writing.

So, I have booked myself onto a residential writing course. I will have to be very very brave to spend five days in a Gothic looking house in the depths of Shropshire, sharing a room with some stranger (I already know I won't sleep the entire time) and facing the prospect of having to read my work out to people, all of whom, of course, will be much better than me. A terrifying thought, but perhaps a good dress rehearsal for the MA course. Assuming I get on next time round. I think this time I will revert to my usual Eeyore philosophy and think the worst. Then maybe it will turn out better.

Painting and decorating

I knew there was a reason Rob advised me never to contemplate becoming a professional painter and decorator. I am reminded now because I rashly decided to paint our downstairs hallway, which has always been a bright orange colour. This is fine, it goes with the floor tiles, and should be an uplifting colour, but as our hallway gets no natural sunlight, it actually makes the house seem gloomy and dark. So, as we are about to have a big party to celebrate all our anniversaries and birthdays rolled up, I suddenly panicked and decided the entire house needed a makeover. Since my earnings of £6 an hour do not allow me to employ someone to do this, it has to be me.

I bought the 'hint of peach' thinking perhaps I could get away with one layer because the orange coming through underneath would compliment it. I banished the dogs and cat outside (where they sit glowering at me through the kitchen window) and set to work early this morning.

I had promised Rob that this time I would do all the preparation very carefully. I covered the orange spattered light switches with masking tape; I hoovered generations of spiders' webs from all the corners, behind the pipes, radiators etc. I got some dust sheets and put them on the floor so as not to wreck the tiles referred to above. I put on my old stripy nightie and started to paint (not roll) in all the corners and edges. I felt very positive and even Rob looked a little bit impressed with my efforts.

Then I got down to the nitty gritty; the rolling part. I felt a bit smug, this was going to be easy, a mornings job and I could still get on with filling the receding well hole in the middle of the veg patch, which I had lost my right leg in back at the beginning of the summer, and down which most of our onion crop had vanished.

What an achieving day.

Well, perhaps not. Here I am, having finished layer number one, realising that there is no way on earth I won't get away with another one, unless I want to go for the very rustic sponged look. As well, I am covered from head to toe in paint, which makes me look as if I have some rare dermitological condition. My hair is also speckled, resembling an extremely bad case of dandruff. The sodding paint won't dry quickly, which means the dogs have actually cast an evil spell on me and Puff is driving me crazy scratching at the window and meowing pathetically. There's no point clearing myself or the mess up until I get the second layer done and it has now been officially confirmed that watching paint dry is not a fulfilling occupation.

As well as all this, the contrast between the peachy coloured walls, and the skirting board, picture rail and all the wooden bits of the downstairs corridor, is now shockingly obvious (the bright orange used to detract from the terrible state of the woodwork) which means that I shall have to invest in several pots of gloss, and somehow get that on without attracting any remaining spiderwebs or dog hair or general dust. I know from past experience that this is almost impossible. The gloss has a special magnetic effect when it comes to any filth. It also means another day traumatising all the animals.

Frankly, I've lost the will to live.

Babe

This is not a blog about a certain pig. It is about men calling 'women of a certain age' babe, and the appropriateness (or not) of such an address.

Luckily, I rarely get called it, because it's the kind of expression which makes me wince and say in an embarrassingly matronly way, 'What did you just call me young man?' There tends to be a certain type who call women this, presumably thinking it will flatter them. Believe me, it does not. They tend to be of the flashy, medalliony, hairy chest poking out of black shirt variety.

At least, that is what I thought, until, on a bar shift the other evening, our very soft, and rather well spoken, head barman suddenly said, in response to a plea for help whilst pulling a pint of Becks (I am just not definite enough with the pully thing and it ends up with a whopping great head on it, which customers, understandably, don't like) and he said, 'Yeah, sure Babe'.

Well, his babe elicited a little flutter from within. I thought to myself, in a desperately adolescent sort of a way, 'Hmmm, so, he thinks I'm a bit of a babe, does he?' and I found myself running into the kitchen to tell all the youth that I had become one of Justin's 'babes'. To boast, in fact.

I think I was flattered, rather than insulted, because, being that 'woman of a certain age', I had not expected Justin to think of me as a babe; being one of the only ones not under the age of thirty, not wearing thongs and with a certain sagging quality about me, which they haven't yet achieved.