Goal: To eat lunch at the Tate Modern's Cafe 2, leisurely read a book, and repeat the experience of the carrot-something-yummy wrap from the previous Saturday's Outing With Husband.
It turned out that my four-day mini-vacation was not all it was cracked up to be. I had a job interview scheduled for Tuesday--the day after my freelance gig ended--from before I accepted the job I’m due to start Monday, and figured I'd go ahead with it just to check them out. The interview went quite well, and I left it torn over my decision to accept the job I'd already taken. The managing director and other higher-up types were on vacation, however, and the director of copy decided to have me back for a second interview on Tuesday with the account group, who he thought might wield more influence with the absent MD.
One of the problems with this position, besides the Very Important types being on holiday and there being some doubt as to whether they could make me an offer before I was to start work on Monday, was the location. The place is way out in 'burbs, and what according to the Journey Planner promised to be a 35-minute trip from our very centrally located corporate apartment turned out to be an hour and a half each way (silver lining: it would be closer from our new apartment, which we move into at the end of November). So Monday was spent working, and Tuesday and Wednesday were spent with three hours in transit and an hour and a half interviewing each day. And I didn’t take the job. Or perhaps I didn’t get it. At the end of the day, the MD decided he still wanted to meet with me personally before giving the green light, and my recruiter, bless her, took the onus off of me and told them they’d have to come up with an offer before Monday if they wanted to hire me. They did not, and after speaking again with the creative director at the place I’d already accepted, I believe it was the right decision all around.
In any case, this left me with two days remaining of my mini-vacation and Thursday I spent, as predicted, watching 18 hours of TV and not bathing till 5 in the evening. Yeah, I know. It’s a terrible waste to be living in London and behaving so irresponsibly. (By the time I left for the local pub where Yan’s new co-workers were holding a little welcome for us, I had actually seen two episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond--a show I actually sort of hate--twice.) The only thing I’ll say in my defense is that I tend to do this when I am really stressed out and am therefore feeling social anxiety disorder-ish (which indeed I was after the two interviews, the ruined half-week, and the looming talk with the creative director, which had not yet occurred).
I am happy to report that today, however, after lazily sleeping in, I jumped in the shower and headed, book in hand, to the nearby Tate Modern, where I had been fantasizing about a certain carrot sandwich. The experience was only slightly less exhilarating in person. The museum was much more crowded than I anticipated (should have skipped Everybody Loves Raymond and gone yesterday), and three times in a row people asked amused variations of, "So it’ll be just you?" Also, they did not have the carrot sandwich I had been dreaming of, so I had to settle for a cold mushroom tart, which was not nearly as good. And since it was a lot more crowded than I had anticipated, I didn’t feel right taking a table while others were waiting. Finally, I realized the book I brought along--Marley & Me--was not suitable for public consumption; as I neared the end I realized that, duh, all books about dogs end with the dog dying and I’m not prepared to sob into my cold mushroom tart whilst sitting all alone in a fancy museum. So off I went to a bookstore and then to a Starbucks (I know--how very American of me) to read my new, more appropriate acquisition (I selected The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood).
At Starbucks, an Englishman walked in on me while I was peeing and was so shocked that it took him a few seconds to register what was going on. Weirdly, I remained calm, covered myself as best I could but CONTINUED PEEING (how, I haven’t figured out yet--must have been those two cappuccinos and the tea I consumed), and said, "hold on" in a sort of patronizing way, even though it was I who neglected to lock the door. But after I pulled up my pants, the embarrassment registered and I stayed in the bathroom for a good long time, hoping to make a clean getaway. (I did, and then beat a quick path home.)
Everybody Loves Raymond, anyone?
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