The molehill of doom

A few weeks ago I realised I was hilariously poor. Having just moved to the middle of nowhere there are very limited options for such an eventuality as pretty much every shop is independent and staffed by family of the owners and I have no skills. And I guess you could also throw in the fact that I am scared of the whole entire world and everything it contains.

So I joined the job center. This was a massive step as it meant leaving the house, direct interpersonal communication, and also that I have to get a job at the end of it. I am still not sure if it was the right decision, I’m not convinced I am fit to work and would probably be better off on disability, but I’ve never really been one to take the sensible option..

Anyway. I have to leave the house in half an hour to go to my first proper appointment. This means dicing with death at every corner (especially considering my means of transportation is a motorcycle I have owned for two weeks and ridden four times) and probably breaking down in tears in the Tesco car park at the other end of the 10-mile journey.

So today’s molehill to climb is making it to the next town (which is over the border into Wales so I am actually going on an international expedition) and back fully intact and functional, and hopefully with minimal crying. And then I get to bake cupcakes and return to my dent in the sofa and shiver for a while.

And to distract me on the way there, I shall be trying to think of a name for my valiant mechanical steed.

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