I woke up at 6:00am on my day off.
Already a bad start.
Outside it was over 30 degrees. Inside my house looked like a renovation site because… well… it still is.
Today’s plan was simple.
Finish cleaning.
Do my interview.
Hopefully secure a job before my current contract ends in two weeks.
Simple.
Except absolutely nothing about the day was simple.
The man cleaning my drive knocked on the door.
“Bad news.”
My outdoor tap, apparently installed sometime around the Victorian era, wouldn’t fit any modern connectors.
Fine.
We’ll deal with that.
I started frantically looking for the connector I knew my husband had used before.
It has to be here somewhere.
Fifteen minutes later I’d emptied cupboards, searched drawers, and was sweating buckets in the middle of a heatwave.
Still nothing.
I rang my husband, praying he’d be on his break.
He answered.
“Yes!”
“Babe… the guy’s here but he can’t connect the hose. I can’t find the connector anywhere.”
His response was… a little snappy.
“I’m teaching!”
At the time I was annoyed.
Looking back… he was probably just as fed up as I was.
His school had reopened after closing for two days because of the heat, despite it still being absolutely baking outside.
Screaming kids.
Thirty-degree classrooms.
And now his wife ringing him because she couldn’t find a hose connector.
His patience was probably hanging on by a thread.
He told me to check the overhead cupboards in the utility room.
So I climbed onto a chair because I’m 5ft 2 and a bit of nothing…
…and what felt like the entire contents of my husband’s “bits and bobs” cupboard launched themselves at my head.
Screwdrivers.
Light bulbs.
Random screws.
Batteries that I still have absolutely no idea what they belong to.
I climbed back down.
Still no connector.
Then the washing machine decided today was the day it wanted to leak.
Not a little drip.
A proper leak.
Across my real wood floor.
I’m grabbing towels, sliding them around with my feet trying to convince myself everything is completely under control when the drive cleaner pokes his head round the corner.
“So… what are you interviewing for?”
I tried to dodge it.
“I’m agency… just looking for another contract.”
He wasn’t having it.
“No… what do you actually do?”
Damn.
“I’m a social worker.”
That one sentence unlocked approximately thirty minutes of his entire family history.
Friends.
Neighbours.
Life stories.
People I’d never met.
Who’d upset who.
Who lived where.
Meanwhile I’m silently sliding towels across the floor with my feet because my washing machine is still leaking.
The heat is unbearable.
The floor is soaked.
And just to top things off, the washing powder box chooses this exact moment to disintegrate in my hands because it’s been sitting on the floor in water.
Powder.
Everywhere.
By now my husband could clearly hear the stress in my voice.
He came home on his lunch break, searched every cupboard for the mystery hose connector we’d apparently bought years ago, failed to find it… then headed back to work.
The house somehow looked worse than when I’d started.
I had thirty minutes before my interview.
I washed the sweat off my face.
Tried to convince my microlocs to cooperate. (Seriously… does anyone else’s microlocs have an absolute mind of their own?)
Then I logged on.
And somehow…
I absolutely smashed it.
At the very end the manager smiled.
“I’d love to offer you the role.”
For one glorious moment…
Everything stopped.
After weeks of worrying about what would happen when my current contract ended…
I could finally breathe.
Then she continued.
“I’ve had this happen before. I’ve interviewed people, wanted to appoint them… but because of some agency reset rules they’ve later been rejected.”
My stomach dropped.
A few hours later…
The answer came back.
No.
Not because of my interview.
Not because I wasn’t good enough.
Because of a rule.
It’s funny really.
For months I’ve questioned whether I was good enough.
Yesterday answered that question.
I was.
The system just couldn’t say yes.
And that’s a very different thing.
Yesterday was supposed to be about finding my next contract.
Instead, it reminded me what I’ve been missing.
Social work pays my mortgage.
Writing reminds me who I am.
So tonight…
I’m still without a contract.
I’m still stressed.
My house is still upside down.
The washing machine still leaks.
It’s still ridiculously hot.
But one thing became crystal clear.
Social work drains me.
Writing fuels me.
And after yesterday…
I think I know which life I’m slowly trying to build.
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