(My guestbook doesn’t appear to be working. Apologies to all of you who are burning, I’m sure, with the urgent desire to tell me how great I am.)
This just in: RECRUITMENT AGENTS ARE THE FUCKING DEVIL. In related news, I’m still unemployed, and although I’m very much enjoying my life of leisure, it kind of sucks not being able to leave the house because I might trip and fall into a pub which would be bad because beer costs money. And hey, if Capital One asks if you’ve seen me, tell them I’m dead, OK?
At least I have lots of time to perform the frustrating, menial legwork that I need to do to change my name. Yes, that’s right, I’m single-handedly undoing the hard-won progress of feminism by taking my husband’s name. Score one for the patriarchy. Actually I’m very pleased that long ago, hairy lesbians burned their bras so that I would have the right to keep my own surname, but when it comes down to it? ‘Smith’ is boring. I want a different name. And while I’m at it? Aerosol hairspray just works better; and you know, I really can’t be bothered to save tin cans for recycling. That’s me: part of the problem.
So anyway. I’ve photocopied my marriage certificate a thousand times and queued up in the Royal Bank of Incompetents and filled out forms and practiced my new signature (OK, kind of fun) and sat on hold with my credit card company for a minor eternity while my life trickled slowly into posterity. You’d think after all that I’d remember that I’d changed my name, but no – I’m still introducing myself as “Robin Smith…no! Um…”, which garners some odd looks in job interviews. (Did I mention I’m still unemployed? I totally blame the recruitment agents.)
I’m debating whether to tell you my new name – I’ve certainly learned the hard way recently that hey! Sometimes anonymity is good! For now I’ll just give you a hint: my new surname is a five-letter verb. Entertain lewd possibilities as you will.