The bags are unpacked, bond is returned and I've exchanged the sounds of cars beeping in the morning for magpies.
Instead of being shocked away with electronic beeping from my phone I now have a black wet nose from our family Labrador as my alarm clock, nuzzling me awake most days.
The day I arrived I went along to a local get together, it was a free bbq sausage sizzle and I'm not one to turn down free food or drink so I went along.
While there I got wind of some waitressing work at a newly opened restaurant and cafe and before long I was talking to the manager, putting myself forward for some casual shifts.
With a bit of personal PR I had somehow arranged to come in on Monday to have a chat about some potential work to supplement my savings while I write by day.
Definitely a step in the right direction, that is until he uttered his parting phrase, 'just bring along your cv'.
Normally I'd be completely confident with this, seven years experience in Journalism and PR? Got that. Client and staff management? Absolutely. Issues and Crisis Management skills? No problem. Social media campaigns? A walk in the park. But none of this showcases my ability to make a cappuccino, or make sure someone's meal is accurately delivered to their table. Neither does it promise that the wine I'll need to be uncork is not left with it partially embedded, forever tainting a $70 bottle of merlot.
Oh yes that. I can safely say I've never spent so long on a CV or agonised on how best to hide my skills. Not that I'd think they'd judge me on the fact I've had a corporate career, but I must admit it does look a little odd. So I pushed my waitressing skills to the top of the list and highlighted my days spent behind espresso and wine bars during my university and early journalism days.
I neglected to mention I hadn't made more than three espressos at once in more than 5 years, my plate setting is more than a little rusty, in fact I've been known to just give guests spoons and coffee cups for wine and the last time I wore a simple black and white number, it was for a cocktail event, not for serving them.
Not to mention the shoes, heels just do not do when it comes to waitressing. Something I learnt in my very early university days. I still recall my second shift at a tiny Italian restaurant in a pair of gorgeous black heels which I spent a small fortune on because they looked more smart then causal. I very ungracefully went A over T in front of staff and customers alike with a tray of red wine, turning my black and white ensemble into a pink and black affair. Lesson learnt. Smart and casual is a very very fine line to tread.
But all this was getting ahead of myself, he hadn't actually offered me the job yet. Prior to going in I ummed and ahhed about what to wear, smart casual is such an insidious term. No two words can a girl into fashion turmoil faster. It really should be banned from the English language all together.
So nerves aside I opted for flats, a black skirt and pink top, hoping I'd be more memorable if I wore colour, of course it could always go the other way with him remembering me as the silly corporate girl who tried to turn cafe. I researched a la carte place settings online, where knives and forks go (somehow over the years I'd forgotten this), what temperature the milk needs to be and most importantly if I should tie my hair back or not.
But it turns out Gympie is more casual than smart when it comes to job interviews. He took my CV, had a quick look and said he'd get me in for a few shifts next week. Just like that I've jumped off the corporate ladder and into the frying pan so to speak.
Everyone must think I'd be shaking in boots and plain mad for trading in a high paid corporate career for a minimum wage with an apron while I work on a pipe dream, but I've never felt better. The freedom of it is overwhelmingly liberating and makes me think perhaps this whole smart casual thing isn't so bad after all...
x
J
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