In my case, I have my ex boss.
He refers to the Spanish pop star as 'Oh yea, your Take That man', the American as the 'Yank Wanc' (short for wanker. Bless.), the Italian gets more favourable treatment and the Scotsman gets the reverence of a proper name as he properly fucked me up.
Every girl knows that you can't make light of your first really broken heart - the one that makes you so scared to ever give it away fully ever again. Therefore, without significant signs of trust and worthiness, you just don't fully give your heart away.
My ex-boss, knows my sordid history, and laughs about it, hugs when appropriate and it feels nice to have an almost-father figure who can simultaneously recommend me to future employers.
I went out with, hmm, I'll nickname him The Square Mile, and had a lovely evening. We were due a night out as last time I saw him I was on antibiotics and unable to drink alcohol, and let's face it, I live in Britain. Alcohol is a social lubricant that cannot be denied, doing so is a major party foul.
Yes, a major party foul, even at 2 in the afternoon.
You must drink goddammit!
So, that was the order of the evening - strengthen that tie as now he is about to be my reference for a work experience with an auction house in Edinburgh.
Not that I didn't want to see him mind you, but I like to have some face time with people who are potentially recommending me to future employers, gives that sense of freshness to what they may be saying about me.
All of this urgency for an internship was heightened today when, on my way to the pub, I received a 'Thank you for applying but please, go fuck yourself now.' e-mail from an auction house associated with Christeby's I'd applied to last week.
Of course. I love the polite brush off...
Time to start chanting some mantras about life's and the ebb and flow blah blah blah...or humming tunes my Spanish 'Take That singer' wrote.
Both equally useless and grating, at least one has the pleasure of memory attached to it.
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