Tired

Last night, I went to dinner with a friend – a mostly lovely friend who has done things like organize my birthday drinks (and insist gently on my having them in the first place) after BN2 and I split up.

We were wandering up Marylebone High Street looking for somewhere to eat, and she was fairly tactful about choosing something in my price point (her own is somewhere in the stratosphere). But over dinner, she started asking me things like: "So what are you doing all day?" to which my answer amounted to "not much besides scrabbling around trying to find work." She quizzed me about what my former colleagues where doing. "So they're in the same boat as you?" she said, making it clear what she thought of that particular boat (going the way of the Titanic, in case you couldn't guess.) Finally she said: "So what are you going to do?" (emphasis on "do," so it practically sounded like "doom.")

The questioning about my work had been going on for what felt like forever, and I could feel myself getting cranky and defensive. I decided to say something before I snapped out an answer I'd regret. "This is stressing me out. Can we please not talk about this?" I said, immediately feeling crummy.

"Sorry," she said, and immediately began chirping away awkwardly about a work trip to the US she has to take next week.

Later, she – as many people do, and I know they mean well – started suggesting stories I could write. Except like most other people's suggestions, they are about as helpful as Lauren Graham's grandparents. I had breakfast with Graham – pre-Gilmore Girls (a show I actually never watched), -- and I'll never forget her telling me about her grandparents watching her (failed) TV show called Conrad Bloom: "You know, honey, your show is cute, but why don't you get on that Friends? And I was like, 'What a great idea! I'll just call them. I'll be the seventh Friend!"

Sigh. I know I'm being a bitch. Or maybe just an, erm, Richard – now that the PC police apparently staged a bloodless coup in England.

We said goodbye at the Tube, she making me the standard US expat offer of bringing back any clothes I need from Banana Republic/J Crew/Anthropologie/etc. I smiled and thanked her politely. She doesn't know I'm about to get my act together and eBay a chunk of my clothes -- and the proceeds won't be going to buy any more unless I'm somehow gainfully employed or with a fantastic contract to write for, say, Vanity Fair before the end of the auction. Not likely.

I walked home from Warren Street – partly for exercise; partly to avoid the Tube fare. A row of cabs with their lights on seemed to glow in the dark by Kings Cross. There was a chill in the air – at the (free) kickboxing class I took today, someone told me she'd just spotted a conker, something that usually doesn't appear until October – and I told myself to try to appreciate that the weather was still warm enough to walk without being miserable.

When I arrived home an hour later, I found all of my post from the past couple of days had been thrown out or stolen – something that's happened once before. In that post was supposed to be a £250 voucher I can't replace and a tiny check (it's about $20) from the US that literally would end up costing me more in long distance phone calls to get reissued than it's worth. I wanted to cry. I wanted to eat. But mostly, I wanted to sleep for a year. And then to wake up with my old life. Or at least, my old bank account.