Having nearly resigned myself never actually finding anything meaningful in Aussie, the only job I was offered in Melbourne was being back in the sink, I forced myself to abandon the wonderful life of a North Carlton bohemian and here I am in Wellington (for those of you at the back).
Now, while the first while was a mad scramble to get myself into a decent pad, get on the rock and roll, and squeeze out yet another (near) final edit of the thesis, the last two weeks have been pretty staid. This is because my CV is a bit weak, to say the least, and I signed on to a few different agencies. But before I knew it that blue suit was being worn regularly for the first time ever!
Somehow my first job has been working for the Police, sorting through mountains of files in relation to one of the Commissions of Inquiry. It is Just that my first theft of stationery should be from the Police National Headquarters. Even better news is that my security file must be squeaky-clean, or else I wouldn't be reading privileged documents. Plus, I learnt two new tie knots from senior Police members!
So, 'ladies', if you need a reliable source of Police envelopes, I'm your trust-worthy man.
And so there it was. Eight working days after the first Monday be-suited, a paycheque. Not some dodgy, bludgers money. Not some shifty under-the-table backhander from a restaurateur trying to save money by avoiding the PAYE tax bill. And not some miserly hourly rate from providing some schmuck with 'service'. But a paycheque of genuine taxpayers money spent to have me sifting through thousands of pages of highly difficult materiel.
And thank Christ it's ending tomorrow.
The main stress has been trying to work extra editing of the thesis around the 8am starts and a bit of 'background' research worked flicked to me from a consultant mate. Then there's trying to keep you lot entertained and trying to keep up my news intake in a house inhabited by Shorters watchers (although two characters introduced since I left New Zealand are particularly alluring). Geez, this working lark is for the birds.
Fortunately, I'm finding ways to take the piss out of myself and amuse others at the office. The latest laugh began with me being drawn into me into the Farmers (of all places) last week when I realised that two business shirts from 1996 and one suit just weren't going to cut it.
It turns out that Farmers had these cheap wash n' wear trousers and some shirt/tie specials that will do the trick till I can afford some flashy Armani suits and Yves-Saint-Laurent shirts. Not.
What you may not know about wash n' wear things, only recently discovered myself, is that they're usually plastic. Polyester that is. 100% polyester, so that besides being a little shiny, they're also kinda clingy. And the shirts, well they're only 20% cotton but not too bad, with a slim fit in the torso, and almost the right length in the arms (I have arms like an orang-utan and hands like a gorilla).
Next was shoes. I bought some good Italian leather interview shoes a few years back, but I don't want to wear them out trudging to work and back, so I got some ones that compared to what I'd normally get have the biggest damn heels. But, only $40. Sweet as.
As a bunch of work-gear I had a weird shock about my purchases though. Firstly, I was dropping my 'Police National Headquarters: Temporary Staff' badge into the top pocket because the chain was bothering me. But, I then I noticed that my shirt was (dark) brown. Jesus... I thought. I'm wearing a tightish brown shirt, black, clingy, shiny polyester trousers, shoes with big heels, a bad tie, and a chain with a badge.
MOTHER-F@#KER!! I AM THE 70s!!
I wonder how that will fly when I start at the Treasury on Monday?