Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.
I was wearing shorts and sandals, and a big sheet of plastic. I looked massively ridiculous and I did not care.
Is it a bad thing that I am participating in this process, even though I now know that I realistically do not want the job, even if offered it?
It had to be an early night, and you aren’t allowed to touch the local moonshine. It’s an early train up in to the mountains to the next flat. Everything has to be packed up again.
If you find yourself listening to the words which someone has used, and saying “obviously, what they meant was…”, chances are that you did not listen to what they said.
Full disclosure: I am an incredibly angry person, but that does not mean that I hate. The two are too often conflated.
The dead do not care what we think of them; they do not care if anyone walks on their graves; they most certainly do not care if they win some award for the stuff they’ve done.