ENTHUSIASM UNCURBED
A muggy Sunday afternoon in sleepy northwest London. Gangs of huggable hoodies play among the scaffolding and the litter-strewn streets outside my home. The washing machine churns interminably, squeezing out the last drops of water from my cream, Jonnelle hand-towel. And my Powerbook beams out a cornucopia of Jewish singletons, all just a click away.
A not unattractive, blonde girl lands on my profile. She tries to strike up a conversation. I decline. And think nothing of it until later that evening.
In the outer-reaches of the Metropolitan Line, a friend mourns the loss of a loved-one. I get a ride to the ceremony to pay my respects. My friend's father speaks movingly. And after all is said and tears have been cried, a not unattractive blonde girl is introduced to me.
"This is the girl I was telling you about," my friend says. She's a mover and a shaker at the company I had a job interview with the next day.
She looks familiar, but then so does half of northwest London. But before long it dawns on me: my friend's friend, who has the power to hire or fire me, is in fact the same blondey whose advances I shunned earlier that evening.
What if she's a misanthropic bunny-boiler bent on revenge against loveless superficial rejectionists like me?
The interview itself goes well - very well, in fact. My phoenix has finally started to flap its wings. At the back of my mind I wonder if blondey has twigged that my online alias and my real life self are one and the same.
She does. But it's all okay. She tries to begin a conversation with me. This time I accept. She makes no mention of yesterday. And nor do I. She tells me, "jokingly", that it's a shame she doesn't mix business and pleasure. I "laugh". That could have been nasty.
A muggy Sunday afternoon in sleepy northwest London. Gangs of huggable hoodies play among the scaffolding and the litter-strewn streets outside my home. The washing machine churns interminably, squeezing out the last drops of water from my cream, Jonnelle hand-towel. And my Powerbook beams out a cornucopia of Jewish singletons, all just a click away.
A not unattractive, blonde girl lands on my profile. She tries to strike up a conversation. I decline. And think nothing of it until later that evening.
In the outer-reaches of the Metropolitan Line, a friend mourns the loss of a loved-one. I get a ride to the ceremony to pay my respects. My friend's father speaks movingly. And after all is said and tears have been cried, a not unattractive blonde girl is introduced to me.
"This is the girl I was telling you about," my friend says. She's a mover and a shaker at the company I had a job interview with the next day.
She looks familiar, but then so does half of northwest London. But before long it dawns on me: my friend's friend, who has the power to hire or fire me, is in fact the same blondey whose advances I shunned earlier that evening.
What if she's a misanthropic bunny-boiler bent on revenge against loveless superficial rejectionists like me?
The interview itself goes well - very well, in fact. My phoenix has finally started to flap its wings. At the back of my mind I wonder if blondey has twigged that my online alias and my real life self are one and the same.
She does. But it's all okay. She tries to begin a conversation with me. This time I accept. She makes no mention of yesterday. And nor do I. She tells me, "jokingly", that it's a shame she doesn't mix business and pleasure. I "laugh". That could have been nasty.
posted by David Cohen at 11:37 pm
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