Well, that's being a bit hyperbolic, I'll be frank. But I've been headhunted for a new restaurant, being opened by, probably, the most premier restauranteurs in Belfast. Only problem is....I'm not sure I want it.
As the famous saying goes, this is a game of two halves.
Firstly, it was earlier this year, on a night I blogged about actually, that I met this restauranting couple. Having lent the wife a Vogue cigarrette, we proceeded to chat about work. Animatedly, I told stories of ridiculous customers, difficult providers and so on. I don't really know what happened per sé, only that they seemed to really like me. They told me which restaurant they currently ran (which caused me to emit an inward gasp of appreciation) and told me of their plans for the new one. We swapped contact details and kept in touch. Last week, I went down to the current restaurant to chat about the new build, was asked to be a part of it. IF ONLY IT WAS WHAT I WANTED!!
The second part of this tale was at a druid party this summer. Come on....It was a druid party. I kissed a boy. We've kept in touch and flip, he's really doing it, you know? Living the dream. He's a trained doctor and currently completing a diploma in tropical medicine with a view to someday working for an NGO or something. Jesus Christ. I am SO jealous of him. This jealousy, completely ridiculous, is what has made me readdress the dither dather approach I have been taking to my own life.
Hospitality no more. Even the finest of hospitality jobs.
I'm applying for some jobs with a very large and well known charity. I feel obliged to take the other job, but only out of politeness. Out of politeness, I mean, good God woman. Its just, is it not a bit like flirting outrageously with someone, then not putting out?!
Friday, 16 September 2011
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Hell Is Other People
So flying in a hurricane is childsplay. Turns out the real challenge presenting itself to me last night was the brutes I was sandwiched between. One chap, 50 if a day, a grey mullet (super styled, not redneck. Still shit obviously),a nice tight waistcoat and jeans combo (boke) was sitting beside me reading Nuts. What? Is it not solely seventeen year olds masturbating furiously in their bedrooms who read that?
Then,a businessman squished in the other side, and pulled out 'The World According To Clarkson'. Oh jeeeesus.
I had no book.
Hell is other people.
(n.b Nuts man also read The Daily Mail and Viz. Viz!!)
Monday, 12 September 2011
The Worst Chatting Up Ever
So this weekend, I trotted back over the Irish Sea to visit some pals in Reading and London.
I know I've been neglecting this blog, but it was broached by some on Friday that I ought to blog more, so...here we are. I probably could write about a lot of things, but in the spirit of reflecting reality, there's only one event that is sticking in my mind.
On Saturday, I went to London to see a friend's band play. They were called Move and Fire, and were super awesome, in The Good Ship in Kilburn, North London. Unfortunately, amid the sea of smiling waving faces when I entered the bar, one smiling waving face stood out. My stomach froze and my heart did the congo. I never react to people like such a geek, but this particular boy- I met him once years ago and just thought he was IT. I mean, he's a nice boy and certainly not unfortunate looking, but my reaction to him is totally irrational.
I mentally cursed that he was there on Saturday because I knew it would turn my (already slightly) drunk self into a gushing idiot.
Oh, how well I know myself.
Within very little time I had introduced him to my friend with what I can only imagine was a very loud stage whisper 'Yes, and this is the boy I will marry one day....'. These sort of stage whispers, coming from me, who is always such a quiet girl...yeah. Frig.
Were that not bad enough, we got to chatting. The stupid boy indulged me. Come ON! You never indulge the dickheads! We got to chatting about his course at uni- architecture.
Me: So, How's it going at school?
Him: Yeah, really well....*blah blah blah*
Me: (gazing earnestly and blearily up at him) You should work for Kitsuné though.
Him: Ehh... is that an architecture firm?
Me: Oh no. Its a record label in France. Very cool.
Him: ?
Cat: (lost in my soft focus view of him) Yeah. Definitely. You're....you're handsome enough to work for them.
I swear to God, I shouldn't be allowed out. I NEVER get on like this, its just this boy makes me go crazy. Frig. What a complete tosser I am! Surprisingly, this didn't sink like a lead balloon, in fact, it was only the following day when I remembered the word 'handsome', that I recalled with horror what a schmoozy tool I am. I also woke him up later that night at about 5am with the whispered words "Hey [ ]. I'm bored, tell me a story?". TELL ME A STORY?! Ugh JESUS. I clearly have ALL THE MOVES. Thank God he's English and so dealt with me politely. I know plenty of Irish lads who would've lobbed at pillow at my face and told me to piss off!
Wan
Ker.
Seriously. Thank God I only see him once or twice a decade. Maybe thats my lifetime quota filled, and for his sake, I hope it is. I don't like being a buck eejit!
I know I've been neglecting this blog, but it was broached by some on Friday that I ought to blog more, so...here we are. I probably could write about a lot of things, but in the spirit of reflecting reality, there's only one event that is sticking in my mind.
On Saturday, I went to London to see a friend's band play. They were called Move and Fire, and were super awesome, in The Good Ship in Kilburn, North London. Unfortunately, amid the sea of smiling waving faces when I entered the bar, one smiling waving face stood out. My stomach froze and my heart did the congo. I never react to people like such a geek, but this particular boy- I met him once years ago and just thought he was IT. I mean, he's a nice boy and certainly not unfortunate looking, but my reaction to him is totally irrational.
I mentally cursed that he was there on Saturday because I knew it would turn my (already slightly) drunk self into a gushing idiot.
Oh, how well I know myself.
Within very little time I had introduced him to my friend with what I can only imagine was a very loud stage whisper 'Yes, and this is the boy I will marry one day....'. These sort of stage whispers, coming from me, who is always such a quiet girl...yeah. Frig.
Were that not bad enough, we got to chatting. The stupid boy indulged me. Come ON! You never indulge the dickheads! We got to chatting about his course at uni- architecture.
Me: So, How's it going at school?
Him: Yeah, really well....*blah blah blah*
Me: (gazing earnestly and blearily up at him) You should work for Kitsuné though.
Him: Ehh... is that an architecture firm?
Me: Oh no. Its a record label in France. Very cool.
Him: ?
Cat: (lost in my soft focus view of him) Yeah. Definitely. You're....you're handsome enough to work for them.
I swear to God, I shouldn't be allowed out. I NEVER get on like this, its just this boy makes me go crazy. Frig. What a complete tosser I am! Surprisingly, this didn't sink like a lead balloon, in fact, it was only the following day when I remembered the word 'handsome', that I recalled with horror what a schmoozy tool I am. I also woke him up later that night at about 5am with the whispered words "Hey [ ]. I'm bored, tell me a story?". TELL ME A STORY?! Ugh JESUS. I clearly have ALL THE MOVES. Thank God he's English and so dealt with me politely. I know plenty of Irish lads who would've lobbed at pillow at my face and told me to piss off!
Wan
Ker.
Seriously. Thank God I only see him once or twice a decade. Maybe thats my lifetime quota filled, and for his sake, I hope it is. I don't like being a buck eejit!
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