Living the dream

In hindsight I grew up in the greatest country in the world. At the time however, it wasn’t good enough. Having spent many holidays during my childhood seeing the corners of the world, it seemed to me that foreign pastures were greener than our own and from that observation a desire to live somewhere other than South Africa was born.

In October last year my chance came. It was not entirely my doing, however Tom’s appointment in New York was as good a reason to pack my bags as any. It may not have been my hard work and effort that got me there, but sometimes life throws you a curve ball. My dream had come true, only in a different guise.

And perhaps that’s where the problem lay. It was my dream come true but through someone else’s realisation of it. I was riding on Tom’s wave when in fact, it wasn’t my turn to live the New York dream – no matter how badly I wanted it. I am however still nurturing the hope that if I do what I can to make it happen then it will.

Anyway, that isn’t what my post is about. Rather, it’s about life’s little ironies and how sometimes when you get what you wish for, the version that you get is not the one you wanted, or worse still, it’s not what you wanted at all.

Like right now. Here I am, in a place that had once seemed so me. On previous visits to the UK I had imagined myself settled and happy, living a ‘European life’ that I had effortlessly created. Much of my dream centred around a white picket fence: good job, great man, fabulous house. I have always thought that if I believe it, it will be so. How misguided I was.

After being jobless for close on three months, I was under the impression that I would fall into something wonderful within minutes of my arrival in London. Sadly, this has not been the case. Not at all. The market is dry and, it would seem that I am not entirely suited for the London business scene.

After many visits to job agencies and much feedback from would-be employers, it transpires that two years worth of experience in design and a sexy portfolio aren’t quite enough. It’s a blow but one I must stomach. Pride needs to be swallowed and I have to go back to the drawing board and rework things so that I am, once again, saleable. In the meantime however, temp work is the way forward. I need money, I have skills, so the next best thing is to put them to good use. Easy? Not so much.

My problem is that despite my solid upbringing, my excellent tuition, my drive, my personality it would seem that I am not suited for even the most mundane of jobs. Because I have been immersed in an industry that has me behind a computer all day, agencies find it hard to believe that I am capable of doing anything else. Like answering a phone for example, or even making an appointment on someone else’s behalf. Apparently the mental cross over does not exist and in order for a secretarial position to be filled it needs to be done by… a secretary.

Stupid recruitment agents. Silly, vacant, unimaginative people.

When I started signing up with them I set my temping sights high. I truly believed that I was a shoe-in for all but the more technical roles. Sadly, the past two weeks have proved me a fool and I lower the bar by the day.

My faith in agents shattered, I have also enlisted the help of Gumtree and the Guardian, in my quest for work. Every evening while looking for jobs I get a little more adventurous with my searches. Days gone by have seen me go from browsing for office administration positions to telephone answering, to waitressing but I am now so desperate that I am contemplating applying for roles under the heading ‘household and technical assistant’. Although, I’m now so demeaned that I’m worried about my ability to do even this sort of work. Does my CV reflect credentials that make me worthy of being a maid? I’ve never spent any amount of time in a toilet stall. Will this hinder my chances? Can I scrounge up anything from my previous lines of work that I can use as ammunition to convince people that I am not only able, but also smart enough to clean peoples’ houses or public loos?

I can just see Ms. Mops hunched over my CV wondering to herself whether or not my ability to switch on a computer also means that I can use a vacuum cleaner. ‘Hmm’ she thinks to herself, ‘she says that she can design a magazine, but can she also make a bed with hospital folds? I’m not sure. I’ll put this CV at the bottom of the pile, maybe come back to it later – if there isn’t another, better Mavis on offer’.

It’s not looking hopeful. If Ms Mops wont have me, then who will? Where is my place in this land of grey?

Sadly, what this lowering of standards has meant is that the picket fence is fading before my unemployed eyes. Furthermore, if it does in fact turn out that I am only worthy of doing the most menial types of work then it will lessen my chances of snagging the wealthy man so firmly fixed in my imagination. Because, who in their right mind wants a lady who looks good in a pair of rubber gloves and a hairnet?

L