I had an invitation to an interview a few days ago. I didn't particularly want the job, but I do want money, funny little bundle of strangeness that I am. I was pleased, too, that it wasn't frontline care, which I have promised myself I will never do again, even if I have to sell my own kidney for a dinner. This morning, unfortunately, I got an email from the company telling me that the funding for my post has been frozen so interviews are off. Oh well, back to the drawing board.
I responded by firing off a challenge to my local paper the Chronicle & Echo to give me sufficient column inches, freelance, every week to counter the Tory-leaning copy pumped out by their writer "Pandora". Typical me, in a way, responding to a disappointment in the real world by withdrawing into fantasy. But sometimes fantasy becomes reality if you push hard enough at the door, and it's not like I haven't done the freelance journo bit before, albeit in my dad's magazine and a hundred unprovable years ago. So who knows what'll happen with that one?
The Chron would certainly be a better read if I had a column in it. Though I couldn't guarantee what would happen to the circulation when I really went to town on the Enemy.