I’ve got an interview for my dream job. It’s writing features on a freelance basis for a national newspaper (which for now will remain nameless). If you’d asked me when I was starting out as a lowly trainee reporter in the newsroom of a local paper where I’d like to end up, this is it. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
With Little B almost 14 weeks old he still feeds every couple of hours. I work from home and coffee shops with the help of Granny, but we have no professional childcare so I can really only commit to an office-based job at weekends, when Misery Guts is on hand to take over.
But when I saw the job advertised – it’s the first time there’s been an ad for this publication in more than two years – I couldn’t not apply. And now I’ve got an interview. Today. Which fills me with dread for a number of reasons:
1) I don’t have anything to wear
2) It’s based in central London = separation anxiety (for me, not Little B). We haven’t been that far apart geographically yet. When we left hospital with Little B I nearly had a panic attack when I temporarily lost sight of him because I couldn’t keep up with Misery Guts who charged on ahead as I waddled behind.
3) It involves re-entry into adult-only office life. Just the thought of the politics makes me shudder.
4) What if I get a leaky boob during the interview?
As a result I had one too many white wine spritzers on Saturday night – not in celebration at landing the interview, but in sheer terror at the prospect of it.
Just getting there has required military-style planning and industrial-scale milk pumping.
Could I take Little B with me, I wondered? What if I simply put him in the papoose and didn’t mention it, like that Italian MEP. They might not notice. Then I considered taking him with me and finding someone I could hand him over to for an hour or so, but the chances are my smart clothes would no longer be smart by the time I made it through the office door. Instead Misery Guts is going to come home from work early and I’ve armed him with about a week’s worth of expressed milk, just in case.
With that sorted, there was then the question of What To Wear. It’s been more than four years since I last wore my ‘work’ clothes – you can usually find me at my laptop in jeans and vest top – which means they’re all wildly out of date. Forget last season or even last year, we’re talking last decade. And this is the kind of place where the wrong shaped court and the cut of one’s trouser leg will be noted.
So I spent Monday evening stood on a chair in front of the living room mirror trying to salvage an outfit out of my sorry wardrobe. It turns out my ‘best’ trousers are actually now too big, which isn’t much of a surprise given I used to sit on my bum for eight to 10 hours a day with a desk drawer full of snacks looking forward to my afternoon Twirl, and now spend my days running around after a three-year-old while holding a baby.
Still, the trousers will do, even if they do look a bit clowny (hopefully I’ll be sitting down). And the top I settled on will be fine as long as they don’t look too closely – it’s dry clean only, and there was no time for dry cleaning, so I scraped the baby goop off the shoulder (the last time I wore it was with a baby BB for a photo shoot for The Sun about mums who drink too much wine – ha, the irony!)
So I think I’m just about ready for re-entry. Even if I have woken up with a stinking cold.
In about six hours it will all be over – wish me luck…
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