Friday not the 13th

Mrs jean Dick

My 'thunder bell' alarm rings; my heart pounds with fright and I squeeze my eyes open to a new day. It's Friday so the hamster wheel slows down; no calories in anything I eat today; wine without guilt day and somehow Fridays feel different, don't know why, I just like Fridays.

My 'morning person' husband, is asking the cat "would you like your breakfast sweetie pie?" This worries me a bit, but then the cat's far more likely to answer him than I am. What to wear? - Yes, I do look fat in everything, because I am, and tell myself to get over it.

Today has a bit of an edge as I have an Interview for a new job.

It's 7am and the Paracetamol and coffee have kicked in now. I scan the jargon filled job description, with its three letter abbreviations and I'm thinking that this Interview may be a mistake. As the man said, "I have no idea what I should know or what I don't know I should know". What I do know is that, in 90 minutes time, I will be giving Power Point presentation on 'My first six months in post.'

I've arrived and the perfect hair and face of a snooty receptionist tilts to one side, asks me my name and says "I think they are ready for you Joanne" - who the hell gave her permission to be so familiar? and what does she mean by "ready"? Am I that unusual? Have the panel had to prepare themselves mentally and physically because they may find me terrifying or overwhelmingly intelligent? - I think not.

She power walks me down a long corridor and I trundle discreetly behind her. The Interview has begun and a bemused row of panellists look earnestly and expectantly in the direction of the overhead. I immediately loose control of my mouth which babbles indiscriminately and out of sync with words that zoom and whoosh across the screen.

Rewards, Challenges and Issues, appear in blue red and purple; prompt words that made sense 10 minutes ago are meaningless now. Frantically I click, press and stare at my notes. A 'ready' panel member glances at me and says "press escape", oh God I really want to.

Crest fallen, and back in my office there's a scribble on a post-it note carelessly placed on my P.C. telling me to phone my neighbour. I phone her - she slurs, she has a drink problem, "the Police have been at your door three times this morning". "Oh thanks" I say, trying to act all confident and calm. A second of sanity occurs during which I wonder if she has visited her garden shed and found the same bottle of booze that caused her to hallucinate that squirrels were performing trapeze acts on our phone line last year. Unfortunately my somewhat overactive imagination decides to instruct my, by now proven, limited intellect, to enter a world of blind panic. I limit myself to imagine only the most ghastly scenarios; whilst a small but omnipresent brain cell is trying to shout above the din that it may have something to do with that amber light I jumped yesterday?

I phone the Police. Police - "Are you Mrs. Joanne Dick"? Me - "Yes" Police "do you have a brother called James"? Me - "Yes", I mean no, I mean I have a brother but he is called Robert" Police "Is he ever called James", "Do you call him James"? Me- "No" Police "Were you a Dick before you were married" Very long and embarrassed silence Me - "No" Police - "Sorry we have the wrong person"

The Day continues and apart from a short lived, but dramatic incident in the office involving an exploding fluorescent tube and the Fire Brigade my morning has passed without further incident.

Lunch - who needs it? - I'm fat anyway.

I have an appointment with my G.P. this afternoon 'a female plumbing problem' I tell my boss, who looks at me in a pitiless but meaningful way. "Will it take long" he asks? "Don't know", I say, "something's falling down and I thought I should maybe get it checked out". He grimaces and can't get away fast enough.

Amazingly, I arrive on time.

A bad tempered receptionist scowls at me; She drags her lip up into a nasty smile and shouts "Name Date of Birth". A young Victoria Beckham look-alike stops reading her magazine to gloat. I'm forced to say my name and whisper 24/10/51.

The waiting room isn't busy, just 'Vicky', me and young Mum with a small child who keeps wiping its green nose on her coat.

"Joanne Dick- Room 3", bellows the unpleasant receptionist. Everyone smirks - I am used to it. My G.P. smiles in a tired sort of way and performs the usual professional pleasantries. She listens attentively then takes a look and exclaims in an alarming but jovial tone "You have the biggest Cystocoele I have ever seen" I wonder if this is something I can put on my C.V... God, I'm tired, but no magazines, wine and TV. soaps for me tonight. Tonight I have a dinner date with a friend. I ruminate about her life style; she is thin, composed, and fiercely independent and has a sensible surname. She is without doubt an all round Head Prefect type; no children, so no plumbing problems either.

She greets me with a kiss on both cheeks, how fashionable and liberated she is, how tidy her flat is, how utterly knackered I am.

We drink some wine and exchange news; hers is entertaining, interesting and exciting. I think maybe I should prefix mine with "guess what happened to me today" but decide not to tell her about it; she probably won't be interested.

I say, "you look tired" and ten minutes later her tears are still rolling into her Weight Watchers 'no point soup' Seems she envies me, God knows why - must be a masochist?