Yet more strings to my bow

Marvellous. Caught Mistlebourne Mag just before they went to press (well, to photocopier). Have amended my ad as follows:

* Home-cooked dishes (South-East Asian a speciality!) and American confections (eg chocolate brownies) delivered to your door

* Rice-cooking tuition - perfect rice every time using my foolproof method!

Will be inundated!

Strict Connecticut

Lily and I are on the way home from the Manor. After hearing about her pop lacrosse near-triumph (they lost 9-15, but Lily always sees the positive side) and a few funny dorm stories (Tammy the matron says there's an invisible Wall of Smell between one half of the dorm and the other – I'm pleased to discover Lily is on the Side of Sweet Perfume and not Stench), I broach the email question.

'Now, darling, have you heard of netiquette?'

She looks blank.

'Have you heard of etiquette?'

'Nope. But I've heard of Connecticut. It's in Madagascar.'

'What?'

'In the film, it's where Marty wants to get back to.'

'Ah.'

There's a silence while I consider whether it's worth tackling the importance of the bcc at this juncture. I decide that, as ever, I would only be wasting my breath.

'Do you remember I told you Mattie has a pet scorpion called Fluffy?' asks Lily. 'It just died and they had it...'

'...cremated,' I offer.

'Nowuh!  What do you call it when you keep it and have it...'

'...stuffed.'

'Nowuh! when you put stuff on it and it keeps it for ever.'

'Pickled.'

'Nooooo! It begins with muh... muh....'

'Mummified.'

'Nowuh! Varnished. That's what they did. They varnished it and put it in a translucent box so everyone could admire Fluffy.'

Tap water and docktails

‘I had one of Lily’s round robin emails yesterday,’ remarks Sal.

‘So did I,’ says Cass. ‘I love them! “Hi how r u, love Lily, xxx.”’

‘Oh yes,’ laughs Sal. ‘And I always send her long chatty emails back, because I think she must be feeling bored.’

‘Don’t!’ I squeal. ‘She never reads her emails! Just say, “Fine.” I think she sends these things out to everyone – except me.’

‘Oh yes, she does,’ says Sal. ‘All sorts of people, including Club Penguin and Tyrrells Crisps!’

I groan and turn back to my prawns.  

‘You’re not cooking, are you?’ asks Cass with alarm.


‘Ye-es…’  I have been sizzling and tossing for a good few minutes now. Reclaiming my inner chef!

‘I’ve obviously got this completely wrong. You said come over for cocktails.’

‘It’s meant to be an Elegant Girly Dinner, not just Elegant Girly Cocktails!’ I laugh as I lower the Rayburn lid and divide the rice and prawns onto three plates.

‘I wish I hadn’t had my spag bol now,’ says Cass.

We look at each other in anguish. I can’t bear it. All she can manage is a teaspoon of rice and a single prawn. Plus she and Sal keep putting their hands over their glasses when I try and top up their mojitos. Honestly! What kind of Elegant Evening is this?

‘Mmm! Properly cooked rice!’ sighs Sally.

‘Did you just cook that rice now?’ asks Cass.

Is this a trick question? It’s just rice, isn’t it?

‘How did you do it?’ demands Cass.

‘Eliza has the knack,’ says Sally, in the manner of a proud mother. ‘It’s all those years in Asia.’

‘And what precisely does the knack consist of?’ Cass pursues.

‘It’s foolproof – and terribly easy. You just measure the rice first, then wash and drain it, then put it in a saucepan with double the amount of water. Put the lid on, bring it to the boil and then put it on a low heat till it’s cooked through.’

‘By which stage I would have turned it into wallpaper paste,’ says Sally.

‘But if you wash it first, it gets rid of the starch and then it doesn’t go gloopy,’ I explain.

‘Oh, that’s the knack,’ says Cass. ‘Mmm. Very good.’

‘Ah! Delicious,’ says Sal, savouring her first prawn.

‘Where do you get your prawns?’ asks Cass. ‘They’re very succulent, if I may say.’

‘Tesco’s Finest,’ I mouth apologetically. ‘You need to get raw prawns so they soak up the marinade.’

‘You see, you know these things!’ cries Sally. ‘This is your USP! South-East Asian dinner parties!’

‘Except I’m not very good on presentation,’ I say, eyeing the smears on the side of Sal’s plate.

‘You can buy a job lot of those Chinese bowls,’ says Cass. ‘And you can get orchids from Lidl.’

‘I mean as in slapping it on the plate.’

‘No, you’d have to be up all night making those carrot flower things,’ agrees Sally.

I tell them about the Mistlebourne Mag ad. I suppose I could add South-East Asian as a speciality, even if I did get the marinade out of a jar. Or maybe I could give rice-cooking lessons? 

Cass seems to have given up on us. She is peering under the table, where the puppy has taken over Dusty’s spot and is tearing round in circles. ‘She always chases her tail in the evenings,’ says Cass. ‘It’s like having a baby with colic.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Sal. ‘There was a certain time of day when the babies would…’

‘…chase their tails?’ Cass comes up for air.

‘Except poor Plum doesn’t have much of a tail,’ I point out.

‘I know, it was docked,’ says Cass.

‘Oh no,’ squeals Sally. ‘That’s why she’s trying to chase it. It’s like a soldier trying to scratch his leg.’

Cass brings us up to speed with the builders while Sal and I eat. It really is a travesty. The girls are reduced to drinking tap water.

‘I can’t take alcohol any more,’ apologises Sal. ‘It makes me feel terrible.’

‘That’s one thing I’m determined not to let slip,’ I say. ‘It’s like everything else – it’s a drinking muscle, if you don’t use it, it atrophies. Atrophies! That’s the word!’

Sal looks bemused. Cass giggles. ‘I knew it wasn’t prolapsed!’ 

3 dogs, no income

Before I can stop Digger, he is greeting Cass and Sal with an enthusiastic leap, boffing Sal on the chest and then, warming to Cass’s scent (Ralph Lauren Notorious if I’m not mistaken), latching on to her leg and giving it a good old hump before I can yank him off and shut him in the bathroom.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, ushering Sal to a chair. She rummages in her bag and pulls out her inhaler.

‘What was that?’ asks Cass, putting her basket on the floor and taking off her old shooting coat to reveal a black scoop-necked top and a stripy pencil skirt.

‘I say.’ I look her up and down admiringly. ‘Everso Notorious.’

‘And whose is it?’ continues Cass. ‘Not yours, I hope.’

‘No, he’s Dan’s. Digger. It’s a kind of try-out, because I’m going into the dogminding business. I’m working up to 8.3 recurring dogs a day.’

‘There’s a law against that now,’ says Cass.

‘No! Don’t tell me there’s a law against 8.3 recurring dogs!’ I twist the ice tray over a glass and send cubes cascading over the kitchen worktop. 

Cass is shaking her head. ‘Where did you get that figure from?’

‘I had a life coaching session with Meredith, my American friend from Hong Kong, after I last saw you, and she worked it out. 8.3 recurring dogs equals 45 grand a year.’ I scoop up the ice cubes, clink them into our glasses and pour in the mojito that I efficiently made earlier.

‘But you’d have no recurring friends if you had 8.3 recurring dogs,’ points out Cass.

‘That’s true,’ says Sal, breathing steadily again. ‘And you’d smell.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, sticking a sprig of mint in the glasses before handing out the cocktails. ‘I’d smell, my house would smell… it already does after one night with Digger.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to come in,’ adds Sal. ‘I’d have to have so much anti-histamine… Ooh! That’s strong! I’ll fall over after one of these!’

‘You’d be driving round in one of those vans with mesh between you and the dogs,’ says Cass. ‘Mmm! What’s in this?’

‘Oh, just rum, fresh lime, soda, sugar, mint...  I suppose I’d never pull another man, except perhaps a dog-fancier,’ I add.

‘You don’t want doggy people sniffing round you,’ says Cass.

‘No, you’re right. I’m not that doggy myself. I’m only selectively retrievery and labradory.’

‘Maybe that’s where you’ve gone wrong,’ Cass says cryptically.

Dusty, I notice, has emerged from under the table and is sniffing Cass’s basket with interest. ‘Have you got some food in there?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s Plum. Get your nose out, Dusty!’ And there, curled up in her African shopping basket, is Cass’s new Jack Russell puppy.

5 Make-up Must-haves!

For tonight’s Elegant Girly Dinner, I am serving fresh mojitos, an Asian prawn dish fudged adapted from two cookbooks, jasmine rice, and mango and passionfruit cheesecake (Tesco’s rather than Eliza’s Finest). I am also inaugurating the bronze satin skirt that I acquired at a country house jumble sale last September and my black suede tango shoes from the Shoon sale. Amazing what a fillip it gives one to dress up! This calls for not just the magnifying mirror to do my make-up, but glasses too!

Oh God! Hairs are sprouting everywhere. Upper lip – a hedgerow of fine blond ones, with the occasional dark stubbly one poking through. Chin – oh God! How long has that been there? Eyebrows – are those blond or grey hairs among the dark ones? It’s a travesty. And this is only just the beginning. I still have a jawline. I don’t have those bulldog jowls yet or a cross-hatched neck. Split veins on my cheeks, yes, despite not being a dipsomaniac. Oh well, slap on some Max Factor … sorry, hold on a tick. Think products! Think rich! Think Christy Turlington!

5 Make-up Must-haves!

1. Yves Saint Laurent Touche Eclat Concealer

2. Maybelline Dream Satin Liquid Air-Whipped Foundation

3. Estée Lauder Signature Silky Powder Blush

4. Maybelline Falsies Volume Express Mascara

4. MAC Amplified Creme Lipstick

What a laugh they must have making up these names. Right. Well that looks better. I remove my glasses. Much better! You see, the trick is to mix only with friends of the same age, since we’re all living in a blur. 

Oh! The door.

Dog's breakfast

Poor Dusty has spent most of her time under the table since Digger arrived, hoping to avoid being boffed. I entice her into the bathroom to give her her breakfast in private, then return to the kitchen to go through the half-and-half performance with Digger. He inhales the first half in about three seconds flat, gagging as he goes. I wait a few minutes for him to compose himself, then give him his seconds, which he hoovers up in one. I send him out and, as predicted by Dan, he instantly poos in the middle of the lawn. Then he paces up and down groaning, throws up half his food, studies it for a moment and eats it up.

Life coach update

18:20

Action stations! Call Jemima. ‘Could I possibly borrow Cinder for half an hour?’ Race up the road to collect her, race back, sit on the sofa, open the laptop and…

18:30

Skype Meredith.  

‘Hi,’ I say, clicking my tongue to summon my menagerie. ‘Look what I’ve got in my charge…’ I pan the laptop around my knees and feet, taking in one old black labrador, one young black labrador and Dusty.

‘Congratulations, sweetie! Is this in your new role as dogsitter?’

‘Yes it is!’ I say proudly. ‘Three dogs. Not bad, eh?’

‘Are they £10 dogs or £15 dogs?’ enquires Meredith.

‘Um, well Dusty’s mine, of course, so she’s a no pounds dog. But the other two are £15 dogs – in fact, Cinder’s an £18 dog, because she’s a puppy. There’s a premium for puppies because they chew your slippers and the skirting board.’

‘Sweetie, if they’re doing that, I hope you charge damages, or you’ll lose all your profit.’

‘Oh yes, it’s all in the contract.’

‘You’ve drawn up a contract?’

‘Yes, everyone does it round here.’

She’s nodding, clearly impressed. ‘Good. So, how long do you have them for?’

‘Two weeks!’

‘Sweetie! Let’s see! 33 times 14, £462! That’s wonderful!’

I report back on my other achievements of the week – all the job applications, the ad in the local paper, writing the blog, completing my Mission Statement…

‘And have you signed up for an online dating agency?’

‘Um..’

‘Sweetie, I sense this fear barrier. You need to break through it. Action steps. That’s your next task.’

Urgh. 

Poor old Digger

My first client has arrived. He's rather a charming old boy, with white chops and white rings around his eyes. If Digger were a man, he'd be about 6 ft 5, slightly stooped, a bit arthriticky around the knees, with a shaggy-eyebrowed Patrick Moore quality about him. As it is, he's a dog. He goes straight over to the carpet, buries his nose deep into the shagpile to get a good whiff of what must be the beguiling equivalent of Chanel No 5 (eau de Dusty), squats unmanfully over it and wees.

'Oh God!' says Dan. 'Digger! OUT! Sorry, Lize,' he shrugs helplessly. 'I can safely say he's never done that before.' They always say that, of course, like the owners of all those Staffies that used to attack Dusty in London. 'Never done that before!' they'd say.

Dan clearly doesn't trust me. He's bagged up the food in four individual daily pouches. Poor Digger is absolutely starving. His ribs protrude from his worn old coat. He only gets fed once a day, hence the instruction to give him his breakfast in two halves, lest he scoff it so quickly that he's sick. 

Digger comes not just with an instruction manual but a glossary. Dan was evidently traumatised as a young boy when I let him believe that the bath plug was called a 'plugout'. I think he was about 12 before he realised the truth. Now he's meting out his revenge on his poor dog.

Bastard! - in your basket!
Paid for! - you may now eat
Piddle! - self-evident
Dump! - self-evident
Bark! - self-evident
Safe! - stop barking!

'What about when you want to stop him eating poo?' I ask, since poo-eating (not his own, but cow's, horse's, fox's, that kind of thing) is apparently one of his foibles.

'Kick him,' says Dan.

'Can I give him any treats?'

Dan frowns. 'He's doesn't have human food, if that's what you mean.'

'Dog biscuits?'

'He can have one at bedtime.'

'Can he have a chew?'

Dan inspects Dusty's bag of panatella-sized hide chews and hesitates for a moment before conceding. 'He can have one chew.'

Poor Digger. This will be a loving respite home for him.

Supermarket swap

Have given up Waitrose in marvellous sail-trimming measure. Realised more sensible to prune £6 here and there from budget rather than waste valuable hours earning it. Have just spent practically the whole morning comparing products on supermarket comparison site, making fascinating discovery that the top four cleverly match each other’s prices on general brands such as Heinz, but make their mark-up on their own-brand products that can’t be compared. Except I did compare raw prawns, and Tesco’s had the best offer. So, thanks to Gitface, I have defected to the shameless capitalist pigs and scourge of every country town, so help me God. Am trying out a few Finest items on Sal and Cass tomorrow at our inaugural Elegant Girly Dinner (we decided we needed to raise the game around here, get out and about, cook, drink, wear skirts). 

1.0 guinea pigs

Dan calls. ‘Thought up any good inventions lately?’

‘Well actually, I did think of a great website, cantbearsed.com, but then I couldn’t think of anything to put on it, and I couldn’t be arsed to do it anyway.’

‘Excellent. Any jobs?’

‘You wouldn’t believe how proactive I’ve been. I spent a whole day searching online and applying for dozens of jobs. Trainee estate agent, pizza delivery...’

Dan lets out a guffaw.

‘You may well laugh, but that’s all there is going, and they only pay six quid an hour. So I’ve had to face the sad truth, that I am unfit for employment. However, I have posted an ad in the Mistlebourne Magazine and actually I think I’m going to be inundated because I do sound incredibly useful. I’d hire me if I had the money.’

‘Excellent. I need someone to dig a ditch and put up a fence.’

‘Sorry, I don’t do heavy manual labour. But I can clean your silver or iron your shirts for the modest sum of £8 an hour.’

Another guffaw.

‘Or give you a lift to Candlebury for £5. Although you’d have to come to Mistlebourne first. I also look after dogs on a sliding scale from £7 to £15, depending on the services rendered, and, the brilliant thing is, when my client base has risen to 8.3 recurring dogs a day, I’ll be making 45 grand a year!’

‘Bonus! As it happens I’m off to France on Friday and Buffy who normally housesits went and got married, selfish cow, so I’m having to farm out duties to about six different people. Maybe you’d like a guinea pig for your job?’

‘I don’t do guinea pigs. I didn’t know you had any, anyway.’

Dan laughs. ‘Guinea pig for your new dogsitting job. As in Digger.’

Hmmm. Digger. Dan’s outsize jumpjet of a labrador. ‘How long for?’

‘Only four days. As you know, we tinyholders can’t go off for weeks on end like some people.’

‘And I presume this is a paid post?’

‘Well, Lize, you’ll need to see if you’re up to the job. Think of it more as an apprenticeship.’

‘I’m actually quite well versed in the art of looking after dogs,’ I say witheringly.

‘Lize, what you don’t realise is looking after one dog is an entirely different business to looking after two, and by the time you get to 8.3 recurring, it’s a very different business indeed.’

‘How about a special offer, half-price, just so Meredith doesn’t sneer at me for being unbusinesslike?’

‘Which would be how much?’

‘Seven pounds fifty a day.’

‘30 quid? You’ve got to be joking. Anyway, you seem to be forgetting, when you swan off, who looks after Dusty?’

‘Sophia and Vincent. Rose and Richard. Occasionally Sally and Giles, even though Sal’s allergic. Oh, and twice, my very kind brother.’

‘And so, Lize, I think you’ll agree, it wouldn’t be right to charge your very kind brother to look after his dog.’

‘What about danger money for poor Dusty? She hates it when Digger’s all Tiggerish with her.’

‘He’ll soon settle down. Good. Sorted. Now, he does have some foibles...’ 

You see, they say never work with friends or family, and they’re right.

Eliza Gray, ENP, UAGF

Eliza Gray
Reliable, efficient, helpful
No job too big or small
Your wish is my command

Oh God. The only thing I can settle on is my name. I'm trying to compose an ad for the Mistlebourne Mag. Everyone else has letters after their name. BA (Hons). PGCE. VTCT. HHHT. MVB. MRCVS. Can't imagine anybody in the village knows what they stand for, apart from the BA, but they're all very trumped up and important-sounding, unlike plain Eliza Gray. Hmmm. Shall invent initials.

Eliza Gray, ENP, UAGF
There. Extraordinarily Nice Person, Universal Aunt and General Factotum.

Gosh, this is hungry-making work. Like Old Mother Hubbard, I rifle the depleted store cupboard. Aha, a can of tom yum soup. Excellent, will have that for lunch. The healthy choice. Oh! Just spied the Mature Cheddar & Red Onion Kettle Chips peeking from behind the spices. My hand reaches up and I pull it back. It reaches up again as if I have no control over it. I’m not interested in self-discipline, I tell the small voice inside me that is trying to renounce the devil. It’s not as if I’ve got long to live.

Mmmm. Addictive. Mmmm. The soup’s really good too. I take the bag of chips and the bowl of soup back to my work cupboard and place them to either side of my computer. I alternate between the slimmer’s and the obese person’s options. 

Eliza Gray, ENP, UAGF

Highly Experienced, reliable, efficient local mother, cook and dog-owner available to take over when you have too many balls in the air. help out when you need an extra hand.

* Home-cooked dishes and American confections (eg chocolate brownies) delivered to your door

* Universal Aunt - babysitting, child-ferrying, stand-in mothering

* Taxi service Lifts to and from Candlebury and in local area

* Home boarding for dogs, dogminding, dog-walking 

* Specialised cleaning - ironing, window-cleaning (ground floor only), silver-polishing

* Decluttering 

* Errands, eg to the bank or post office, delivering or picking up items

There! I'll be inundated!

Spring fever

Spring is springing and the birds are singing their little hearts out! The verges are alive with daffodils and dandelions and daisies. I love it! I’m absolutely squinting in the sun. It’s nearly time for the clocks to go back (or is it forward?). No matter! The whole world is waking up. It’s humming. I’m walking with a spring in my step and my head held high. I’m on a mission!

Dusty and I turn down the wooded path to the river, tramping through a sea of wild garlic and primroses and violets. God’s in his heaven and all’s... urgh. This stench of garlic is turning my stomach. It’s like walking through a back street in Hong Kong. Probably quite nice at sundown, prior to a Chinese meal. Not first thing in the morning after missing breakfast. Right. Come on, Dusty! Back to the car.

2 things to rejoice about

1. I've practically applied for 3 jobs, as per Meredith's action plan
2. Having realised I am not suited to the job market, I don't have to write a CV!

Dreamer

‘Dreamer, you’re nothing but a dreamer, well can you put your hands in your head, oh no…’

You see, every cloud has a silver lining. If it hadn’t been for me leaving the car unlocked last time I was in London and some thieving bastard nicking my digital radio/CD player, I wouldn’t have ended up with Giles’s old cassette radio and made the discovery of the century in a shredded plastic bag in the bowels of my car boot: a bunch of old cassettes. Supertramp! Crime of the Century! Even in the Quie… hang on a moment, let me rephrase this:

Top 10 albums for re-living my youth

1. Crime of the Century - Supertramp

2. Even in the Quietest Moments - Supertramp

3. Breakfast in America - Supertramp

4. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – Elton John

5. Band on the Run – Paul McCartney

6. Greatest Hits – Simon & Garfunkel

7. Greatest Hits – Queen

8. Their Greatest Hits – Eagles

9. Legend – Bob Marley

10. Songs from the Big Chair - Tears for Fears

And none of that wretched digital radio rubbish which keeps cutting out. Just good old trusty analogue, which just goes crackly when you’re out of reception.

‘Dreamer (Come on and dream, dream along), you’re nothing but a dreamer (Come on and dream, dream along)…’

Meredith wants to know what I do all day. Well, I’ve just had to interrupt my blog monetisation investigations to drive half-an-hour to pick up Lily, and then I shall drive half-an-hour back to deposit her with her saxophone teacher, who's slotting in an extra lesson since Lily's exam is almost upon us. Then I shall cook supper. Then I shall pick her up. Then we shall eat supper and go to bed. Just running a house, walking the dog and to-ing and fro-ing your child is practically a full-time job. Especially when you’re the sole carer. Your whole life is reactive – you are your child’s personal taxi and 999 service.

Oh God! Which means there’s no way I can do a proper job. It’s not just the general 999iness. What about the holidays? I can’t farm her out for the entire hols. Or leave her alone all day. So that means I can only do a job that fits in with the school hols. So I don’t have any choice. I’ve just got to be an inventor or an entrepreneur.

Trainee Estate Agent

Pluck up courage to call Trainee Estate Agent man. 

‘Super!’ he says. ‘Do you have access to a computer?’

I try to match his brightness and enthusiasm. ‘Yes!’

‘Great! If you email us your CV we can take it from there!’

‘Can I just ask, is it full time?!’

‘Yes, it is!’

‘And could you give me an idea of ... the pay?!’

‘Obviously if you send in your CV we can give you a call back and go through all that with you!’

Why are they so damn cagey about pay? Because it’s abysmal, I presume. ‘Ballpark?’ I gush.

‘As I say, if you just send in your CV, we...’

‘OK! Will do!’ I enthuse. Grrr. Still don’t have a CV. Must bite bullet.

The Domino Effect

Phone. It's Domino’s Pizza calling me back! I get straight to the point. ‘How much does it pay?’

‘That depends on how hard you are willing to work, the hours and all. Do you want to work part-time or full-time?’

‘Part-time.’

‘So you could start at 5pm or 6pm and work until 10pm or 9.30pm or 11pm, up to you.’

‘And do you pay by the hour?’

‘Yes. So you can do 2 days or 3 days or 4 days, like that. And the money goes into your bank account once a month.’

‘So how much is it per hour?’

‘That depends on your age. If you are under 21, £5.35. Over 21, £5.93.’

‘What if I’m 50? Does that pay more?’

He laughs. ‘Unfortunately not.’

There. My first job interview, practically. But £5.93? Worse than minding half a dog. I’d be better off being a home-based call centre. Maybe I could be a home-based call centre while minding dogs and baking American confections. That is the answer. I’m going to have to do multi jobs. Work all hours that God gives. Hard to change at my age, though. 

Jobseeking

It’s Monday morning and I am taking action steps towards my goals! Candlebury Advertiser. Search Jobs.  Right, let’s see what’s on offer.

Candlebury Primary School has two posts. Could be good. Longer terms than Lily, but we could work something out.

1. Female Teaching Assistant to support a pupil with learning difficulties. 12 noon to 3.15pm term time only. £8.15 to £8.72 per hour depending on experience. 

Yeah right, as Lily might say.

2. Temporary MDSA post [whatever that may be] to support NPA pupil [ditto], 12 noon to 1pm daily. Pay £6.63 to £7.04 per hour.

Forget it! Worse than Dogminding or Flexible Viewing.

Gardener - Grounds Maintenance team
37 hours per week. £13,190-£13,874 p.a.

This is laughable. How do people live on a country salary?

Owner Drivers and Store Staff
Domino’s Pizza are looking for motivated full or part time people [That’s me, a part-time person] with a positive attitude and a willingness to succeed. Duties include driving own vehicle to deliver pizzas. 

Yes! A pizza delivery woman. Maybe we get free pizzas too? And get to wear one of those jaunty hats. I call and leave a message. Am motivated! And positive! And, like Barkis, willing! 

Call Centre Agent - Home Based 

Imagine owning your own business where you can pick and choose your own hours and you choose your clients from our portfolio? The world’s leading provider of virtual business services is growing rapidly in the UK, and you can be part of this success.

£6.40-£10 an hour, though? Even being a home-based call centre isn’t worth getting out of bed for. 

Trainee Estate Agent  Ah, now this could be the one.

If you are looking for a career in an exciting sales environment where you are rewarded for your hard work, look no further. All you need is the drive and determination to succeed and a clean driving licence.

Hmmm. One out of three ain’t bad. Oh God! Do they count 3 points for doing 37 through the 30 limit when we were late for school last term? It’s spotless otherwise. Will call later when up to feigning drive and determination. 

Flexible viewing

Lily and I are in Candlebury. I'm idly looking at cards in newsagent windows, to see if the perfect job is there, calling me. It is not. Instead, there's the perfect maths tutor, the perfect Shaker-style bunkbeds and several perfect babysitters.

'I'm hungry!' Lily announces for the third time. We divert to a pâtisserie. I choose a pain au chocolat, Lily a chocolate chip swirl.

‘Let’s share them both,’ I suggest. I break Lily’s swirl in half and offer her the choice. She takes the bigger half.

‘I knew it!’ I say.

‘Well it is mine!’ she retorts.

As we walk along the road, with me surreptitiously munching from the brown paper bag like a drunk with his bottle of meths or whatever it is they keep in their brown paper bags, I spot a job ad in an estate agent's window. Flexible Viewing Assistant: evenings and weekends. Organised, well presented, enthusiastic and friendly. Yes!  I go in and, wiping the last flakes of Lily’s chocolate swirl from my lips and powder-blue cardy, present myself enthusiastically.

The girl looks me up and down. I am aware that, in contrast to her, I am devoid of make-up. Nor do I have home-highlighted hair. ‘You need to speak to Carole, our HR manager, but she isn’t here at the moment,’ says the girl, flashing her red nails. ‘Can you email her your CV?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say brightly. Argh.  Haven't done a CV yet. ‘Could you tell me how much the ...’ Oh God! What do you call it? Salary? Wages? Pay? ‘Er, how much does it pay?’

‘I believe it’s £10 a viewing. And if it’s two viewings, one after the other, £15. Plus mileage.’

‘OK, great,’ I say, with my Enthusiastic, Friendly, Flexible Viewing Smile. ‘Bye, then!’ I add as we head out of the door. ‘Nearly as bad as looking after dogs,’ I mutter to Lily, delving into the paper bag and breaking the pain au chocolat in half.

‘You choose,’ says Lily.

I take the bigger half.

‘I knew it!’ says Lily.

‘Well it is mine!’

‘Cor blimey!’ she says. ‘Hypocrite!’

We laugh and as we fall in step, she grabs my arm, throws it in the air and jumps under it. We walk back to the car arm in arm. All thoughts of job-hunting evaporate.

Learning from Lily

‘Darling?’ We’re barrelling along the road back to school. 


Lily pauses Great Expectations. ‘Yes, Aged P?’

‘Do you think I should get an eye lift?’

‘Nowuh!’ 

‘But my eyes are almost closing up.’

‘How are they closing up?’

‘Because the lid above is falling down.’

She leans in to scrutinise my eyes. ‘Yeah, that’s happening to Mrs Wordsworth really badly.’

‘So you think I should have one?’

‘Maybe on this one.’ She taps my left cheek.

Bloody hell! She was adamantly against it until I pointed out the defect. I move the conversation on to Meredith. ‘She’s so not a Gray! She always leaves something on her plate. I can’t bear the waste. It makes me wince, like squeaky chalk on a blackboard. It’s almost as bad as littering.’

‘It’s foodering!’ says Lily.

‘Yes, you’re right! It should be outlawed.’

Hmmm. Suspect complaining about one’s friend’s foodering habit not congruent with Niceness. ‘I’ve been working on my Personal Mission Statement,’ I tell Lily.

‘What’s that?’

‘Well it’s a kind of um, statement about what you believe in in life – and once you’ve written it, you’re meant to live your life according to it. Mine's a bit of a blank, frankly, which is rather like the way I’m leading my life, but it’s something to do with being true to yourself and Niceness.’

‘So you’re going to be nice to everyone, including me for the rest of your life, are you?’

‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm in there?’

‘Are you?’ she taunts.

‘Well I’m going to try. So what do you think yours would be?’

‘Getting rich…’

‘Really?’

‘Richish.’

‘Is that it? Your mission for life? I think it’s meant to include your values. For example being caring to other people, such as your Aged Parent… What about being positive, looking on the bright side, looking forward, having no regrets…?’ Honestly, I should be a life coach!

‘People always have regrets,’ says Lily.

‘Do they?’ I’m not used to my daughter philosophising. ‘What sort of things do you think people would regret?

‘Not getting rich.’

Oh God. This is all my fault. Must stop talking about money, especially now I’ve identified that it is incongruent with my value system. 

5 Things I Can't Live Without!

This blogging lark is marvellous. Can spend half the day power-gossipping without guilt, knowing it’s all potential grist to my mill. Mind you, the sooner Mind to Blog™ is invented the better. So. Have signed up for Google Ads and applied to become member of Mumsnet Bloggers Network, which means soon I will have thousands of readers like Dooce, and small ads will be queuing up to attach themselves to me, and the postman will have to hire a pantechnicon to deliver the goods being showered upon me for review! Right. Think products, products. Must apply same principles as for goals. Must not put in nappies as don’t want to attract nappies. Want to attract zippy cars and possibly a campervan. Oh yes, a list!  

5 Things I Can’t Live Without!

1. My Mini Cooper S Convertible

2. My vintage VW Type 2 Splitscreen campervan in turquoise and cream

3. My regular professional highlights at Daniel Galvin’s marvellous London hair salon

4. My Georgian rectory  My chateau in the South of France

5. My frequent trips to sun-kissed destinations, eg Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Burma, Hong Kong, India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Australia, South Africa, Madagascar, Morocco, the USA, South America, Central America, France, Italy, the Balearic Islands, the Greek Islands, Croatia (enough destinations - ed)...


Right, off to pick up Lily.

Great inventions

Phone is ringing as I open the door. It's Dan, wondering how the job-hunting is going. I tell him about Meredith and the number-crunching and how a job isn’t going to earn me enough. 'What I really need is a get-rich-quick scheme. I need to invent something indispensable. A widget or a chip or something that gives me royalties for life.’ 

‘The best invention of all time, I think,’ says Dan, ‘is the dustbin smell remover. You go to the shop, you buy it, and the minute you get home, you throw it in the bin! Isn’t that inspired?’

‘What about caustic soda?' I suggest. 'The minute you get home you tip it down the drain?’

‘Yes, Lize,’ says Dan, the superiority seeping from his voice. ‘Hasn’t someone already invented that?’

‘OK, what about this? Crow poo remover. I could call it Guano-gone™.’

‘Or Dropping-out™.’

‘Yes! In fact, I've just remembered, I had a brilliant idea when I was walking Dusty just now. Mind to Manuscript™!’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, instead of having to dictate or type your ideas, you just think them, and no sooner has the thought been formed, than this piece of software translates it onto the page. It’ll bring me fame and fortune! I’ll set up the Eliza H. Gray Foundation on the proceeds. I’ll buy an old people's home and we can all live in it. And a twilight home for canines with a hydrotherapy pool and grounds with rich country smells and doting staff befitting noble octogenarians such as Dusty and possibly Digger…’

Dan is laughing his Am I Actually Related To This Woman? Laugh.  

‘You may well laugh, but I bet, 200 years ago, some woman was up on Mistle Hill, tending her sheep, when she had this sudden brainwave about a device that would enable her to speak to her mum down in the village, and she came running down full of enthusiasm, and all the villagers and particularly her brother mocked her mercilessly and put her in stocks and threw wet sponges or wellies at her, but, you see, she was a visionary. We visionaries…’

Dan emits a sort of wheezy hiss that might signal his imminent demise.

‘… have to wait for technology to catch up. I must get someone onto it in Korea.’

‘Talking of vision,’ stutters Dan, ‘how about a musical staircase for the blind so they know how far up they are?’

'Ha ha!' 

‘When you speak to an inventor, each one will have a string of bright ideas that didn't make it until – bingo! Have you thought about a staircase with different lights for the deaf ones who couldn't hear the music?’

Dan really is a card. As I put the phone down, the names for the staircases pop into my head. Sound Steps™ and Light Steps™. Maybe I could be an Invention Name Copywriter?

Profound thoughts

15:24


Great writers and thinkers are always banging on about having their most profound thoughts while walking in nature. And so it is with Eliza H. Gray®. The problem is, the thoughts fly out of my head before I can write them down. Hence, am walking along the top of Mistle Hill, watching the skylarks ascending while talking into my iPhone. Except I… Why does Dusty keep stopping? Come on Dusty! Maybe it’s because I’m talking to myself. She thinks I’ve turned into a witch or something..

Anyway, as I was saying, the thing is…

Boom!


What the hell was that? They can’t be shooting up here. It’s common land. Surrounded by farmland. Maybe it’s one of those modern scarecrows. What’s wrong with a stick man in an old hat?

Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve discovered this brilliant new app, Dragon Dictation, which means my blog will literally write itself. All I do is tap and dictate! For example: ‘Dusty’s catching flies with a snap of her jaws.’ Press ‘Done’ and bob’s your uncle: ‘Dirty catching lines snapped Rachel is.’ What? OK, try again. Tap and dictate. ’Dusty’s catching flies with a snap of her jaws.’ Done. ‘In my knee catching flu live music snap of her she walls.’ Honestly. This is hopeless.

Anyway, I’ve been walking o’er vale and hill, creating my Personal Mission Statement in my head. Meredith says it should capture who I am and how I should live my life, through my values and beliefs. It will give me a sense of purpose and direction, she says. Damn. I had it earlier. Something to do with Being True to Oneself and Niceness. You see, I have these profound thoughts, but the minute they come out of my mouth or the end of my fingers as words, they go all misty, like when you’re trying to recount a dream. What I need is something that reads your thoughts and transfers them direct to the page. Yes! That would be the most brilliant invention! Mind to Manuscript!

Race down hill full of enthusiasm and glass-half-fullness. Can’t wait to blog my brilliant invention! Arrive breathless and about to kick sticky front gate open when set eyes on car. You can’t read the rear number plate for mud. Meredith says everything I do should be congruent with my life purpose. Hmmm. Is washing the car congruent with Niceness? Yes, it’s a service to other road-users.


16:12

Marvellous. Decided it was only going to get dirty again, so just cleaned number plates and lights. 

Third Post. Two Goals. No Vision.

Meredith and I are lunching in the spring sunshine before she catches her train back to London. A great tit and a robin are twittering their hearts out, possibly in protest about my never filling the bird feeder, while a couple of moorhens squawk in the stream that curves around our pocket-handkerchief garden. 

'So have you thought about your goals, Eliza?' asks Meredith, cutting herself another wedge of goat's cheese and sundried tomato tart, even though she's left all the pastry from her first slice.

'Can I get you something different?' I blurt. Meredith pathologically has to leave food on her plate. I pathologically have to eat every scrap. Whatever pathologically may mean. 

'No, no, this is fine. I'll just leave what I don't want.' She waves her fork at me. 'Come on, let's focus. You've only got me for another half-hour. Use me. Goals.'  

'OK. 1. Find rich husband, not closet gay this time, 2. Get rich, through amazing invention or get-rich-quick scheme. Or windfall.'

'Sweetie,' she says, 'these are wishes, not goals. Goals are realistic, specific targets towards your long-term vision. What's the bigger picture?'

Oh God. Life purpose? Bigger picture? 'Umm,' I say, trying to think of something that won't make me sound like a Miss World contestant.

She sucks on her teeth. 'After I've gone, I want you to spend some time working out what you want to achieve in your lifetime. It would help you to write a Personal Mission Statement. Meanwhile, you need money and you'd like a partner. These two things are not interdependent. So let's reframe your goals. No 1. I choose to be in a mutually loving relationship with a partner - and let's make this time-specific. By when?'

Yikes, am I on? 'Um... As soon as practicably possible.'

'Time-specific, Eliza. Three months? Six months?'

'OK, let's give it six months to actually be in the relationship, which means I need to meet him by the summer. That's realistic. I always look better in the summer.'

She rolls her eyes skywards. 'OK. I choose to be in a mutually loving relationship with a partner by the 17th of September.'

'Yay!' I feel a little shiver of excitement. I'm going to be in a relationship in September! 

'No 2. I allow myself to be worth - let's be conservative, one million pounds by ... shall we give this one a year?'

'Yup, sure,' I say. Honestly, who is she kidding?

'So now, action steps towards your goals. You can work on these after I've gone, but I'll start you off.

1. Join a dating agency. Today. 

2. Apply for three jobs. Today. 

'Except,' I butt in, 'I've got to take you to the station, take Dusty for a walk and pick up Lily. Today.' 

'OK, by the end of Monday.     

3. Keep writing the blog. At least two posts a week. And look into monetisation.

4. Put an ad in your local paper for the things we talked about - dogsitting, etc.

5. Work on your goals and your Mission Statement.

6. Skype me. One week from today. 6.30pm, your time, is good for me.' 

Aaagh!