It's this dogged stubbornness that, as a short, chubby bespectacled child, made me carry on playing football for my local club, despite being bereft of any discernible natural aptitude and spending several years as a super-less sub. Fast forward to teenage years and aided by a growth spurt and contact lenses, I developed into a distinctly non-spectacular but altogether solid full back who was on the fringes of the first team, albeit in the amateur Swedish lower leagues.
It has also proved rather handy in my decidedly topsy-turvy professional life. For a variety of reasons that include necessity, boredom, greed, ambition, frustration and despair, I've probably applied for more than 50 jobs since leaving uni 13 years ago. Whilst I've had my fair share of Sugar-esque You're hireds I've more often than not been knocked back, largely thanks to my own special brand of interview 'skills'. They once manifested themselves in me answering a question with a mere "Pass" as though I was on Mastermind or something. Unlike Magnus Magnusson, the panel actually let me come back to the question in hand, having clearly seen straight through my diversion tactic. The bonus thinking time made no difference at all, I still had no useful reply. Dust yourself off and sheepishly head for the exit sign.
Said determination can also be found in my quest for splashing the cash. Exhibit A: a dark grey waistcoat in chest size 42, newly arrived by Asos next day delivery.
Disgruntled with my previous, midriff hugging waistcoat purchase (see the previous blog post) and the decision to throw the return slip in the bin before trying it on for size, I succumbed to the lure of 20% off everything and bought another one. A steal it was as well, costing £9 minus the discount. Cinderella will go to the bastard ball in a bleeding waistcoat. Sadly this one allows for an expanding waistline but is a tad too spacious around the chest area so unless my moobs expand rapidly over the coming weeks, I'll have to alter it if I have any intention of wearing it. Dust yourself off and throw a strop.
The second item in the Asos bag is more functional by nature: a card holder in grey and flourescent yellow canvas for £2.40. Having spent years barebacking my bank card on nights out (most of my cards start looking somewhat dishevelled after a few months), I figured I'd start wearing protection.
All I need now is an actual card to put in it. I did my usual routine of losing a debit card the other week. It could be in The Lescar, outside The Lescar, in a taxi from The Lescar or somewhere altogether different. On average I lose a couple of cards per year, usually when I'm not sober. Come to think of it, I also lose my keys on a fairly regular basis and I have been known for randomly losing significant chunks of money out of my pocket. My thumb and index finger might as well be permanently etched on my forehead.
There's probably an argument that one really should learn from past mistakes as a responsible 30 something, but then again I reckon I'll take solace in Aaliyah's wise words: "age ain't nothing but a number".
