So, I have just had my full first weekend back in Belfast. Overall, it was a dispiriting experience, full of the following: dysfunctional men, who either a) told me how much they enjoyed anal sex, and how much they want to shag my friend J, while their girlfriend and "life partner" is sat opposite or b) turned up at the pub, and slammed down my spare key, telling me they were fed up with being nagged for return of aforesaid key, after ONE text asking for it; weak willed responses to nicotine cravings; annoying encounters with sales people (no, we can't keep a rug behind the counter for you to pick up later in a taxi, therefore you must drag it all round town; no, you can't get the new contact lenses you've paid for until we have charged you £25 for an "after care" test; no, Marks and Spencers no longer sells baked beans!); and a flat full of bits of crap (and birthday cards for the last six years in random piles in drawers - am so sentimental) but no functioning TV aerial leads. Harrumphh. What is a girl to do? Why, consult the purse of truth of course. According to the purse of truth, the outlook for J is fairly rosy. It agreed that she should shag her friend P when he visits her at her parents' house at Easter; it also thought that D still wasn't over J.
I did not ask the purse of truth anything. But I have decided to apply for a job elsewhere. I then proceeded to have a disturbing dream about this elsewhere, in which I was shortlisted for an interview, but turned up wearing jeans, a big grey jumper and walking boots, with no presentation prepared. We traipsed around the university which looked just like a comprehensive school, and everyone else was wearing gorgeous party clothes and amazing glittery shoes. I think my unconscious is trying to tell me something.
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