Wet day in November

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Wet, November days have always been a sort of gage for me.  Whenever I’ve been faced with a major, life decision, I always stop and ask myself: “How will you feel about this on a wet day in November?” So here I am on a cold, wet day in November reflecting upon the choices I have made. Okay, not exactly reflecting, as much as sulking.

I spent the morning sulking in bed, after making the firm decision—wet day or no—to stay in bed and sleep my life away. But, I suddenly sprung to my feet at 9:00 AM, lest I risked the danger of becoming with the British call a “lay about.” Although, I think I have good cause to lay about today.  

I didn’t get “the call.” During my interview on Tuesday, I was informed that: “the successful candidate will receive a phone call within the next 24 hours, the rest of the candidates will receive a letter informing them of their status, in about 7-10 days.”  May I just say, it seems to me to be a bit of a waste time, energy and paper to send out letters to all of us losers, since we will (obviously) have a very clear indication of “our status” when we our phones remain silent.

And silent my phone remained. Except for the calls I received from the D.E.B., and the Lost and Found Office at the Stratford-upon-Avon Bus Depot. In the flurry of my interview day, I left my cute, pink, Motorola flip-phone on the X18 Stagecoach from Barford to Stratford. Apparently, there are no Good Samaritans left in all of South Warwickshire, and my phone has not be handed in. Just one of my many joys of Big Pearls & Cashmere Tuesday...

I spent all of Wednesday (yesterday) waiting. And waiting. I wanted the call to come, and I didn’t want the call to come. As the afternoon waned it became a matter of strident pride: “How dare they not call! How dare they not pick me?!”

The D.E.B. has done his best to keep my spirits up. Tuesday night, he took me up to The Granville my favourite restaurant these days, “for a meal” to congratulate me on my interview. Yesterday, when it became clear that “the call” had not, and would not come, he left work early, and phoned me from the car to find out if I needed him to collect “a bucket of chicken” from KFC on his way home. (He knows me.)

The bucket of chicken was not needed yesterday– though I think I may need it tonight. To avoid sitting, quite literally, by the phone, I busied myself by doing laundry, hoovering and cooking.  I was fine, I told myself, in the midst of my cleaning frenzy. But the minute the D.E.B. walked in, I fell to pieces. Little, tiny, broken pieces, that he gathered up, gently, and put back together.

It was a night of comfort and treats. I'd made a huge vat of Sicilian sausage pasta, enough to feed the entire village, that went down beautifully with the Chartreuse de Bonpas the D.E.B. had brought home for us. After dinner, there were “pressies” a gift set of Champney’s spa collection, my new favo(u)rite bath and beauty products. (Their ‘rose’ stuff is to die for.) And a night out on the town to see the new James Bond film! And at proper cinema! The D.E.B. booked my favourite seats (dead centre, close, but not too close, to the front), ordered luscious, Brazilian red wine in the cinema bar, and insured that I had chocolate, and the largest bucket of popcorn available. (It’s all about the popcorn.) And the movie was fabulous! Daniel Craig is growing on me, and is slowly winning me over as a convincing Bond. 

In all, a wonderfully restorative evening, topped off by the D.E.B. whispering the words: “I think you might need to be ravished,” as he led me up the stairs. The only thing better than a bucket of chicken for a sad girl on wet November day.