Come Tuesday, and I’ll be officially jobless for a good 3 1/2 months, however, I have to inform you that I was in London on holiday for the earlier 2 1/2 so technically, I’ve only been job hunting fervently for the past month. And for the past month, every time I send out a resume, I can feel beads of sweat running down my forehead. Evaporation, you come in so handy. To my credit, I have been under voluntarily house arrest since my return, primarily because it’s all about dollars and sense. It’s only wise to stay at home when you lack the funds. Word. Of course, in my world, house arrest is altogether another definition, as I have since been heading out at most four times a week, spending money from the contingency fund, and throwing the due dagger stare and frown at passengers that I suspect to be giving out potent farts that smelled of rotten cai po. For the love of Ali Baba, please seek help from a dietitian and meanwhile, kindly avoid public transportation, merci.
In other news, as I continue to be a verbal Zorro swashbuckling the various insensitive, intense and incessant remarks on being jobless from the mum, she was generous enough to sponsor me a fancy pair of footwear from Camper for the cousin’s wedding. Woot! My I-love-you-and-sometimes-I-hate-you-but-most-of-the-time-I-love-you relationship with her. And, and, and!, I. Dig. My. Brogues.