Soapy

It is half past seven, and going dark.

This is partly because of the drearily wet weather we have had today, and partly because the season has slunk up upon us, and we are now almost in the autumn. The skies have been grey, and the air filled with the misty sort of drizzle that does not splash or create puddles, but clings to your hair and clothes, and leaves you feeling thoroughly dampened, like the towel in an old-fashioned public lavatory.

It has felt like autumn today. The house has been dark, and still, the sort of feeling where you would just like to pour yourself a glass of Highland Park and sit quietly in the corner, with a book.

I did not do this because of coming to work. You are not supposed to drink whisky before driving a taxi, even if it is single malt. Also I did not do it because of the tiresomely puritan work ethic that has spoiled so many otherwise promising opportunities for idleness.

Mark went into the yard and tidied his shed. He filled the yard with the massive pile of junk that he had dragged out of it, although when I peered in through the door the shed looked no different, so I do not know where the junk came from. He is planning a trip to the scrap yard. It is all going to take some time to achieve.

I went upstairs and organised my life. I wrote several emails that I had been intending to write for ages, and not written even despite the work ethic. I contemplated my dissertation for a while, and wrote my speech for the awards ceremony. This is in a couple of weeks, and I was profoundly relieved not to have to worry about it any more. I do not think that Boris Johnson will need to feel anxious about the competition, but it will probably be fine, and if not then I shall just drink too much afterwards and forget about it.

After that I applied for a job. This was for ITV as a scriptwriter. I will not get the job, mostly for the usual reason of being an unemployable weirdo, but also because they suggested it would be helpful to have a passion for Continuing Drama, by which presumably they mean soap opera. I cannot pretend to be passionate about soap opera. In fact I don’t think I have properly watched one since my school days, when  my friend and I used to rush off to her house at lunchtime, where over our sandwiches we were engrossed in some Australian twaddle called The Sullivans. Actually I don’t remember if it was twaddle or not, because I really don’t remember a thing about it, in fact I have a vague feeling that it might have been in black and white.

I have just looked it up, out of interest, and even reading the entire ten-year plot on Wikipedia has left me no wiser. Wikipedia does not mention if it was in black and white, so perhaps that was just the television, it was a different era.

Anyway, apart from having a couple of friends who shot to fame and fortune after appearing in soap operas, and in any case not being in possession of a television, my knowledge is limited to The Archers. I haven’t listened to this for ages because of it being written by boring young people these days. I explained that, added that I could certainly do better, which I could, and sent it.

I do not imagine for a single moment that they will entertain my application, even though the post in question is just about the most lowly and least paid in all of television, considerably less than the chap who sweeps the pavement and turns the lights off when everybody has gone home. I would have to keep on being a taxi driver just to pay the bills.

I do not know what I would do if I got an interview. I would have to start visiting people with televisions in order to find out what the soap operas were all about, which, if I am honest, might not make me very popular.

Still, it was interesting to fill in.

Also, it saved me having to write my dissertation until another day.

Maybe I will do it tomorrow.