What will I be when I grow up?

I ponder on the interview I have coming up on Day 7 of Thirteen, what do people wear in offices these days? Pinstripe suits are probably only worn in the Four Courts. The D&G suit with leopard lining was fine for client meetings, a bit strident for an academic institution perhaps. If only, I muse…

It must be at least two months since I sent my manuscript to an agent and a month since I sent it to a publisher. It’s pretty bad, this waiting, while the book is out for reading, even with friends, it feels like my soul is exposed on the side of the road, with passersby glancing idly or worse, walking by, not noticing it. And here I am, now writing about writing, doubly exposed.  

I told Adam, my new lodger, I’d have his door handle fixed by the time he returned from England. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll leave it open,’ he smiled. Yes and Tess, the human border collie will snuggle up on your bed, I thought.  A few other DIY issues had to be tackled and despite having persuaded my sons to study construction technology, neither could repair the dangling handles they’d reefed off each other’s doors over the years, in pursuit of stolen items of clothing, match of a shoe, or holy grail, thick unguent hair putty.  Most of you will recognise that a young man will always say ‘he can’t’ no matter what the request, but once they’ve been established in corporate life for long enough, they will insist they can do all DIY, that nobody need be appointed to fix a leak, as they dream of the toolshed/workshop they always wanted and you only get the job done when a neighbour lends you their handyman.

Proof of this theory, the moment I mentioned these minor carpentry issues to an absentee boyfriend it prompted him to insist on visiting with his toolkit. That would mean dinner too. Well, gift horse and all that, how could I refuse?