Ok, ok, violins out – my chosen career path is, well, dead. Withered. Mothballed and shoved to the back of a cupboard in the spare bedroom next to the Nordic walking poles.
Apart from the fact that there’s a distinct lack of translation jobs in Cardiff, not many companies are inclined to convert their English brochures into Norwegian. And why would they?
And that’s fine. Honest. Gulp. Takk, and all that.
So now, who exactly am I in the grand scheme of things?
Well, pull your Ikea chair closer, for I have The Answer.
I. Am. A. Writer.
I know, strange, huh? We had a new peep on board this week at our latest project. He took in my overalls, my notepad, my, ahem, probing questions about the job. And then he asked me what I did in my real life. Hmm. I stumbled. I stuttered, ‘well, I, like, you know, erm, blog?
‘You’re a writer then.’
‘Erm, ah, no, not really, I, you know, blog, kind of…..’
‘You’re a writer then?’
*Pauses for a very, very long time to let this information digest, totally forgetting that I am enrolled on an MA in Creative Writing*
‘Erm, Yeah, s’pose. Never thought of it like, you know, ‘Writer’.
Eek. A writer?
A seductive thought. The clouds, they are very dark and they are bright. And dark! And light again.