Rewind a few weeks, back to the dizzy heat of Easter Day...
Remember? Waking up to that warm feeling of sunshine and daffodils squeezing their heads up through the hard spring ground... Buds on the trees, bees in the breeze, the countryside on the de-freeze...

The excitement of tasting chocolate again for the first time since Shrove Tuesday was high up my list of Sunday's chores, as well as an epic bike ride over to The Bat And Ball (home of cricket! where all good cricket-widows, sorry I mean wives, should find themselves on Easter Sunday) and a top Easter Egg hunt as the sun set over the woods in the late afternoon.

But before all that could kick off we needed a little visit to the church, to think about the story behind Easter, to think about the real reason we have Easter eggs and the real reason for the Easter Rabbit. Surely this all comes from the christian faith?
(queue coughy-clearing-of-the-throat noise from Mr Cadburys...)

Over Easter we had some friends staying with us. North London friends with black hair, ipads and 2 pairs of wellies between the 4. Not being your usual church-goers, they being of the Jewish(ish) community, Mr C and his eldest daughter M thought it'd be educational to come sit at the back of the church with us for the Easter service.

With the church heaving with over-sugared children and mothers worrying about how long to cook their lamb, the vicar and organist set off at a good pace to get through the service before there was a collective melting in the congregation.

Meanwhile, at the back of the church on the last pew, sat me, Husband, Liz, Mol, Mol's friend and Mols friends' Dad Mr C. Mr C, who'd never been in a church before now.
Husband sits in the pew and rests his head in his hand for a moment of contemplation.
"What's he doing?" a fierce whisper in my left ear and I'm face to face with Mr C, who's looking anxiously at Husband.
"Why's he doing that?" Eyeball to eyeball.
"Um, praying? Maybe? Often people come to church and pray?"
"Hm" and a curious sideways nod of the curly head.
Out comes the iphone.
"?" I look at Mr C.
I see the vicar through the iphone view finder. I see the backs of the congregation through the iphone view finder.
We sing some hymns.
"Not the same sort of tunes at the synagogue."
We read from the service sheet. A lady with a reedy voice reads from the bible.
The vicar makes his Address and waffles about something for 5 minutes.
Then he (the vicar) walks to the rear of the church, metres from where we are sitting. He is standing by the font where I was christened, and where Liz & Mol were christened. Its nearly 900 years old.
"What's he doing?" another fierce whisper this time in my right ear (we've turned around facing the back of the church).
"Not sure."
"Do you think he can tell I'm Jewish?"
"I think you'll be OK."
"I feel really exposed. We're right at the front now."
"I know. Stop talking. You're drawing attention to your Jewfro and your very unHampshire North Face puffer jacket."
"Maybe I should stop taking photos?"
"Shut up."
The vicar starts talking from the service sheet again and it seems that we are re-newing our baptism vows (something to do with rebirth maybe?).
Suddenly out of nowhere, the vicar gets his hand in the Holy Water,
"Why is there water in that thing?" (pointing to the font)
"It's the Holy Water to baptise babies in."
"What's he doing?"
"Not sure."
And before another questions spurts from Mr C's mouth, the vicar is splashing water out to the congregation - renouncing the devil loudly he flings water out towards us.
The water splashes the North Face jacket.
It takes every ounce of bodily control to not let out a loud blast of laughter as Mr C hops back - service sheet flying, water dabbing his puffer...
"Ahhhhh! What's it going to do? What does Holy Water do? Is it going to burn my coat?" (It's like that moment in the opening titles of Sex in the City, when SJP gets splashed crossing the road...)
The vicar returns to the front and we sing hymn number 428.
Mr C looks wild eyed.
"Oh dear, you are really in a religious compromise now" I say... "What will the gods think of you now - a little bit of this, a little bit of that... This is the kind of stuff WARS are made of Mr C."
Mr C soon left the church, iphone in the damp pocket.
He hasn't been back to the church since. Hopefully he'll come again - maybe at Christmas and we can all have a play with the animals in the crib!

And the chocolate tasted DIVINE.

Job Hunting.

It is a somewhat deflated mothersruin contacting the ether today. Having just fallen at my 5th job interview I am feeling somewhat underwhelmed by myself... and am using this space to explore what is going on for me right now.
So.
I've watched interview techniques on linkedin.
I've researched the importance of body language - say the name of the interviewers when they introduce themselves, plenty of eye contact, open shoulders, sit upright, lean forward but don't slouch...
I've swatted up on the company I'm interested in working for.
I adapt my CV.
I write detailed covering letters, laying down examples of why I fit the spec.
I appeal to the interviewers that I am the one. I implore myself to be articulate and look confident.
I ignore my blushes and sweaty palms.
Lucky charms? Not for me. 
I convince myself that I AM the one, and fall into pace with the interviewers, feeling confidence build as the clock ticks by.
Yet, so far, 5 interviews later, I clearly am not the one.

I've been job hunting since September. The day Mol & Liz went back to school I sat down at my desk and pulled my thinking cap on.
What can I do?
What am I qualified to do?
Where do my interests lay?
What are my limitations?
How far away from home can I throw my net?
And so I begun to hunt.

Hunting is fun. I find myself being led down many internet trails, honing in on a target, clicking from one company to the next, one recruitment agency to the next, one council website to another, contemplating roles and companies and hours and pay and trying to imagine myself in that role, doing the job, looking the part, playing the part, becoming the part. Is this a jeans or a suit role? Lipstick or no make up? Mac or PC?

Stabbing away at the keyboard as though making a kill, I click "APPLY" and download another 12 page application form... Sighing at the thought of it, but thinking of the possible exciting end result, I galvanize myself into action and put my head into gear.

As the Personal Statement takes shape I begin to convince myself that I really do deserve the job. Surely, how can they resist me? Look at my experience! Look at my strengths! How honest I am!
I know where my downfalls lay, I'm happy to admit them and crawl out of my comfort zone.
God! Training to be a counsellor drags you kicking and screaming out of the comfort zone once a week (at least) for 2 or 3 years... I'm OK with the comfort zone challenge.
Of course I can keep myself organised and prioritise my workload - I'm a mother for goodness sake! Have you ever tried being a mother? I dare you to look down your nose on the trials of organising a family.

So, having checked for typos, grammatical hiccups, repetition, incorrect national insurance number, no I'm not a lesbian, yes I'm white British, no I'm not an illegal immigrant, no I haven't committed a crime recently (other than blasphemy and going 35 in a 30zone) the "SEND" button is clicked with a flourish of the hand and I breath again in the knowledge that my application is as fat and juicy as a worm to a blackbird.

And honestly, I'm not surprised to receive an invitation to interview. It is obvious. I fit.
Is that arrogant? But why would I apply for a job unless I felt I could do it and had the qualifications? It would be a pointless waste of time.
But then something happens.
What is it?
And here is where I am under a spaghetti of confusion: why can't I nail it in the interview?
What more do they want?
They see me on paper. They see me in the flesh. They hear me twittering away about my experiences "I'm excellent under pressure... If I'm confused by something I refer to a colleague before making any decisions... I've never missed a deadline... I'm used to working with people at all levels within a company..." We smile at each other, and shuffle paper and legs cross and un-cross, water is offered, time slips by. We shake hands and tell each other it was a pleasure, and thank you so much for your time.

24hours later I receive an email telling me that it was (still) a pleasure to meet me, and they enjoyed my interview... But that unfortunately they are not offering me the job.

So then I'm left feeling bereft. WHAT? But we were smiling and having cerebral brain-stretching chats only 2 days ago... what happened?

Do I have a false image of myself?
Or, is it that I am actually for real life a dum-ass-brain-dead-wine-soaked-woman who has been out of the official work-force just a couple of years too many?

Having told my most recent interviewers that I take knock-backs with magnitude, and that I am quite a dogged sort of worker, today, I feel flattened and very (what's the opposite to dogged - catted?) like - well, what good was my University Degree, and my Post-Graduate-Diploma, and my 12 years of marketing work?

I am so tired today. "Get back on to a new quest" says my dad sensitively! "Suck in the grief and go out there again" he carries on, clearly forgetting that I've just spent 2 years training as a counsellor and sucking in grief is not a healthy option.
So today I am grieving for the 5th time in 3 months.
And Monday, I shall put my thinking cap on again, and try, try, try again.
Amen.

(Oh, happy mothers day to all you gals out there!)

My little gal is ten...
And I feel as wrinkled as a hen...
And I I remember when
She was as tiny as a grain of rice and as delicate as a little wren.

Anyway. Here's the story of Mols birthday party on Tuesday. 

...so...
We rock up to the cafe (up in London, for the crack) where I'd booked tea for Mols birthday, and there's a frickin' film crew in our space taking up our places... Lights and cameras and cables and all that rubbish.
None too pleased, thinking I have 6 children to feed and water, and a couple of old-parentals too, I'm stormy faced with the barman, and a bit like 'but I BOOKED this...?'...

The Producer appears, a sweet smily lady in flat shoes...
'I'm soooo sorry, we should be finished in 15mins, please have a drink on us, I've got a tab running...We know it's your daughters 10th birthday, I feel so bad... but you know the problem is Tom was running late and...'
I'm like ok - yadda yadda enough of the blurb, cheers, but ok, so order copious hot chocolates & lemonades & a bottle of wine, and some beer and see if I can book a holiday whilst they're not looking, etc.

Then I peer around the corner to see the lights shining on this bearded grey haired man... Hmmmm. I recognise him...

'Yeah, sorry, Tom was held up in Arsenal traffic... ' says obliging producer paying for our drinks (and summer holiday)...

Small lightbulb clicks in my head.
Ah, Tom. Grey hair. Bearded. The look of a legend about him...
As in...
Jones.

(I sneak a glance at the Grandmother to check she's not about to have a hot flush and throw underwear about the bar, but she's taken underwhelmed position...)

And then...
So the woman who is interviewing him (Cerys Matthews, Cattationia, with a fine head of hair) pulls out a small guitar from under the table and starts to strum a few chords.

And the producer comes up to me and pol and says...
"Oh, listen I think he's going to sing..."

So we stand in the door way and swizzle our ears Tom-wards. It's kind of fun being so close, I guess.

Tom the bearded wonder looks up and asks Mol 'what's your name?' Mol squirms, "Mol mumble mumble",
'What?'
"Mol, mumble squirm".

And, oh, this is a familiar tune I think...
Hmmm v familiar...

And, oh, this is BRILLIANT!! TOM JONES strikes up a jolly rendition of Happy Birthday to Mol, guitar Cerys Matthews!

Well. That's quite good. Even I couldn't pretend to be cool about it.

London has its plus sides sometimes.

Even though Mol had no idea who he was.