In which I say so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

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It was with a tear in my eye that I bid farewell to my job this week.  In fact, after a couple of pints of cider there were quite a few tears – thank god I stayed off the gin. 

It’s funny, but when I was offered this job I um’d and ah’d about whether to take it, as it was originally only a ten month contract, it was out in the wilds of  Somerset, I’d have to commute which made me nervous… but I was so fed up in my old job that I decided to take a risk and say yes.  I can now look back and say that this was the best decision I ever made.  The last eighteen months have had such an effect on me, both career wise and also in my personal life.  I’ve had some amazing experiences – meeting some fantastic people (who have great taste – the necklace they gave me as a leaving gift is really beautiful), seeing shows that I would never have thought of watching by myself, going to the Edinburgh Festival for free, staying in lovely little hotels.  Also, at the risk of sounding totally corny and Oprah, I’ve really had the chance to grow and develop and have been able to go on to get jobs that I never would have thought possible a few years ago. 

To summarise: it was an awesome job and I’m going to miss it very much. 

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This weekend marks the start of my birthday celebrations, as I enjoy the last few days of being 26 and head into the murky waters of 27.  Friends are coming over for food tonight, which includes delicious Jamie Oliver chocolate pots.  These are the easiest dessert in the world to make – melt chocolate, add cream and butter and brandy, set in the fridge – but they never fail to impress, especially when served in teeny tiny espresso cups.  They are a heart attack in a bowl, but I think a birthday warrants that. 

Then my parents are taking me out for dinner on Saturday night, and I heard rumours that cava will be part of the evening.  S is unfortunately missing out on this treat, as he is doing a 12 hour bike race on Saturday that won’t finish until about 9pm, at which point I don’t think he’ll be capable of anything beyond crashing on the sofa and drinking vast quantities of squash.  He’s starting to get a complex, though, as this is the third time in a row he’s not been able to come out for dinner when my parents have been down, and the paranoia is creeping in that they are deliberately engineering times to come down when they know he’s busy.  I know I should be reassuring him that my parents see him as a model son-in-law, but eh, family relations aside, all I can think of is that it just means more cava for me.  And as the birthday girl, coping with the trauma of being another year older and of finding yet more crowsfeet and frown lines, I  deserve that.

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(God love WordPress stats – from them, I’ve just discovered that if you Google “Venezuelan Pig Rustlers” this site comes up 7th.  Fame at last!)

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