To Market We A-Go

Ma and I are getting good at this marketting business. Or, at least, we were until we decided to do one in July, in Canberra, in minus conditions. I’ll tell you what, though, it was a good incentive for buying children’s beanies. The amount of parents who brought their kids out without a beanie on their head when the temperature is reading -0.8C at midday, was a little scary. Good thing they found our stall, because we sold nothing else, really, except for those beanies.

So, instead of blathering about the annoying bits and bobs, and the crazy lady who accused us of overcharging (we epically undercharge, so that was confusing) I’ll share one market story with you today, because this was adorable.

It was coming to the closing time of the market, and the already small crowds were dwindling even more. One mother wanders over to our stall, leaving her children at the stall across which is covered in dolls. “Sweetie, come over here!” she calls.

She beckons the eldest of the two over, who cannot be more than 5. This blonde haired little girl has this giant basket bag over her shoulder, sitting inside is a small pink wallet and two my little ponies. Everything a girl needs. Her mother points out a little coin purse I made a while ago.

“How much is that?” Ma asks me.

“Five dollars,” I respond. I stand up from my comfy camp chair of awesome, and make my way to the front of the stall. The little one is looking at the coin purse with concentrated effort. She reaches over to pat the little girl’s bags lovingly. “Hello sweetie,” I say.

“Hello,” she responds, but she’s not looking at me at all. She has a purchase to make.

“She has some money to spend,” her mother adds, a highly bemused expression on her face. I can tell this has been a long day of the little one trying to work out what she would spend that money on.

“How much is that?” the little one asks, pointing to the pink and green bag.

“Ten dollars,” I say. She sighs. It’s a big sigh. There’s serious shoulder drop and hanging head.

I crouch down to her level. “How much do you have, sweetie?” I ask. She has moved on to the hair clips and head bands.

“Five dollars. Can you sell that bag for five dollars?”

“I can’t,” I say with exaggerated care. “Do you like the coin purse?”

“Oh yes, I just don’t think it’s good value to just have one thing,” she asserts.

“Well, that’s certainly a good point. Maybe I can do something about that for you.” I reach across the table and grab my display frame of hair clips. “How about this, if you want that coin purse, I’ll throw in a hair clip for you for free.”

“Oh,” she says, like the clever connoisseur she is. She investigates the hair clips with a cunning eye, and selects the set of white bows. “Yes, I think that will be quite good.”

“I think so, too,” I say, marvelling at a child who articulates brilliantly and uses ‘quite’ with ease.

She carefully hands over the coins; via her mother as she ponders the silver pieces, not sure how to make them a full dollar. She gracefully places the coin purse and hair clips in her giant basket bag, and then dashes off to her father and little sister, purchase complete.

Mere moment later, I am joined by the little sister and her mother again. The three year old insists on her desire to have a flower by pointing at the hair clips. “You want a clip like your sister?” her mother asks.

“Flower,” the little sister says.

Her mother takes the flower hair clips, rather than the bows, and places it in front of the little sister, indicating for her to choose.

She points beyond the clips to the headbands. “Pink!” she announces. It’s the pink flower headbands she wants more.

The last I saw of that family was a little sister, whipping off her beanie to put on the headband, running off down the lane. Her older sister was walking more precisely behind, hugging her basket bag close and peering at the items in the other stalls with a careful eye.

And that is why I do my market stalls. Because those kids are awesome.

Lastly, though, I catching up on all my friends and family requests for knitted items now. Here’s a sneak peak of the wool I’m going to use for Bec’s fingerless mittens. They are going to be well awesome, I’ve decided.

Refugees and my brain frying

I have a moral dilemma in front of me.

The past few days in politics have been an interesting one; and one where it has confirmed to me that we really have a bunch of people there who will never, ever be able to use their power to its full potential. But that’s another rant for another time, which requires copious amounts of red wine to sate.

What I’m talking about today is more my… discomfort? Frustration? Anger? Some kind of word which sums all that up and directs it towards the handling of refugees in our country.

I am in a unique job. I really am. Talk to me two years ago and I would have had sentiment suited to what people term ‘latte drinking lefties.’ I generally hid it, but the hipster wankery was there underneath. I thought I knew it all because I was education and paid attention to politics.

Frankly, I didn’t. I can’t. I am white. I am Scottish-Australian, raised by two parents in a stable home. I have siblings I love dearly and have no problems hanging out with. My cousins are like my slightly more distant brothers and sisters. I can talk to growing up with no money. I can talk to living with a parent who has lost their job, and I can talk to being the bullied kid in school and moving from one school to the next. I can talk to a bunch of stuff like that. But I can’t talk to desperation. I can’t. I never have been desperate and unknowning of my survival. Past my father’s heart attack and other family related medical crap, I can’t tell you what it’s really like to wake up the next morning and know a family member was killed, stolen, raped. I can’t tell you what it’s like to expect that to happen because it’s happened to every other family in your community. I can’t tell you what it’s like to lose a home because I never have and it’s doubtful—bar natural disaster—that I ever will.

So here I am, unable to be an expert in what it’s like to be a refugee. I can only base my thoughts on what I have learned by talking to those who have had those experiences. Who know what it’s really like because for them it’s in some realm of normality.

This is why my job is unique, it provides me with those opportunities to try and understand. I thought before reading a journal article gave me excellent insight, listening to interviews, reading newspapers; well none of them can. This has been my steepest learning curve as a social worker. I can read everything under the sun and assume an understanding, and then you’ll meet the person, and everything, everything is different.

Being a politician is also a unique job, but they only meet who they want to meet. The majority of them would have grown up in households similar to mine. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had more money, considering some of their backgrounds. I wonder how many of them have sat in a room and really spoken with someone who is not of their background or not an exemplar of the people they represent. And I wonder of those who have, did they actually listen or did they just wait for the camera to snap? Everyone has a bias, and yet those who are worth their weight in gold are the ones who can see through them. Those politicians are few on the ground (and the ones I thought could have sorely disappointed me over the years.)

So where is the dilemma, you may be asking, other than my usual complaints about those who think to govern us. It goes something like this.

I don’t know if people risking their human rights is worse than dying and never knowing if there was another way. I listened to Sarah Hansen-Young, and nearly cried with her (I was at work; it’s my no-cry zone.) But I watch images of young children drowning after such a shithouse life and I cannot justify it. Nothing can justify that.  I do not understand why we are not doing everything possible under the sun to stop that. So while I hate temporary protection visas, while I despise the Pacific Solution in all its forms, while I think our refugee intake is appalling low and that detention centres are a breeding ground for serious mental illnesses; I cannot stand the thought of another child drowning in the ocean because of greed and power: politicians who are so removed from other experiences making decisions based on keeping a seat.

Can’t we just do everything? Can’t we just try it all and if it doesn’t work, try something else? Why do we have to have such absolutes? Why do we not have in our political language the word ‘try and try again’ because we can never know if something is going to work until it does or it doesn’t.

While I know the reasons why, I just cannot understand it. And that’s where I’m stuck. I imagine I’ll be stuck there for quite some time to come.

I promise, we’ll be back to knitting after this (to go back to less worldly important issues). I have a market on the weekend *crosses fingers it won’t be rained out* so more pictures of random things! Huzzah.

I suppose I should post, then.

I got a shiny award from The Katie, who writes a blog of awesome and is heaps better than myself at updating with interesting things.

Which does come with some obligations. Obligations I can’t really meet. Because, as with everything, I fail. I fail hard. All the blogs noted on Katie’s post are the ones I would pick.

So I’m going to hold onto my award giving and try to take up the task of finding smaller blogs by other people which may deserve an award. I really should. I really very much should.

In other news, have a photo of my latest creation:

Cannot wait to get that onto the head of a small child. Speaking of which, this is the nearly-finished hat using the last of that glorious wool I picked up in Melbourne with the Failboats. So far I have made 2 for 2 awesome selections while travelling with these girls, so it is a definate needs must I go road tripping with them again in order to increase my supply of cool crafty materials.

 

And to increase the level of photos on this blog and make it look like I’m actually doing something, here are more photos of my new shoes, another sketch, and a photoshopping fail at Target(seriously, with all that money why would you put a massive poster up where the hair looks like it has been sealed in wax before the photo was taken), plus another thing I’ve found during my search in my work’s cupboards for more space… I’ll let you work out which photo is which. I have a market coming up in June, so hopefully I’ll have more photos up soon. Especially when I found an awesome Angry Birds thing which is so on my list of what to make.

*slinks quietly into the blog and pretends this isn’t late at all*

I ah… yeah.

Mama and I did another market, it was spiffy. We were in a much better position, and despite the fact the last hour was a pathetic attempt at being rained out, we nearly doubled our sale rate. Though we also nearly doubled our selection of stock. Now we have hair clips and headbands and little girls bags. But the two things I am thrilled about are the kiddy beanies and woollen toddler cardigans that my Mama made.

You have no idea how much fun those beanies were. My market was made the minute a kid put them on. My first one was a rainbow beanie, which was from wool I picked up in Melbourne with the Failboats. A beautiful little one picked it up and dumped it on her head with glee. This little girl was also prancing about the markets in the most wonderful rainbow tutu. It was like it was meant to be.

The downside was with the increase of foot traffic came an increase of people who really don’t seem to understand that you put a lot of bloody effort into knitting something. One pair of adults thought it would be amusing to try and put on my beanies for children and didn’t seem to think it was a problem if they stretched. Another happily let her children touch our things with icecream all over her their hands. Then they look at you weirdly when you suggest, maybe, they don’t damage your stuff.

But that was a minor point. The rest of it was fantastic. Mama got some orders for her cardies, and I got a lot of compliments for my weird and wacky beanies which were way cooler than some of the other beanies on sale. Our next market is in June, when I hope Mama’s knee will be in working order. An I have PLANS for this market. Namely to do with a book on knitted fairies I picked up during one of my self-care shopping trips. Just wait until you see them. That is… if I remember to post them.

Safe travels, all.

Really? No, Really?

This weather is soul sucking.

I woke up this morning and I think I had a little mental break. I heard the rain and went immediately to my phone, to the BOM website. I was determined to look for a place of sunshine, point my car in its direction and keep driving until I hit it. Yet, the radar was in these funny shades of blue. There be no sunshine. This brings much sadness

My markets have also been cancelled this weekend because the land has been flooded, so I intended on updating about that, but find there’s nothing much to write about. Maybe I’ll go take some photos of drowning things instead.

But there is something I have been meaning to get off my chest, because it’s increasingly being drawn to my attention.

Now, I said I wouldn’t ever discuss social workery things, and this really isn’t, in a sense. I’m not talking about clients, or my work, or my work colleagues. It’s more a frustrating trend I’ve noticed clients tell me about when I ask them about previous counselling experience.

So this is a public service announcement.

When is it a therapeutic challenge, and when is it a poorly handled/misguided phrase?

Counsellors have a tool at their disposal called the ‘challenge’. This is when you take a phrase or a story that a client has told you, and you present it with a different perspective. This can be done as retelling, or as a question, or a combination. It has to be used really carefully. If you challenge at the wrong time, you badly destroy your rapport, destabilise the client, or get yourself punched in the face. When a client is in crisis, it is the wrong time. When it’s your first counselling session, it’s the wrong time.  (There are also exceptions to the rule, usually when someone’s in a real low cycle, like threatening suicide.)

When someone discloses something pretty damn massive, it is so badly the wrong time unless you’re doing it to point out a strength. If you’re doing it to correct your world view, you should be shot really should do some serious reflection and retraining.

A challenge, is also typically done in a roundabout way. It needs to be grounded in language the client has used.

Saying, “Are you sure that’s what happened?” is not a challenge. It’s a judgement.

Saying, “It appears to me you’re having trouble understanding that event, do you think it might be helpful if I tell you there’s another perspective and you can decide if that’s useful?” is.

If you have a counsellor that uses language that feels judgey, they probably are. If you have a counsellor that questions your perspective, and doesn’t invite you to join in exploring a different perspective, ask for your money back. If you choose to disclose a sexual assault and they in any way blame you, or make you feel at fault, get the hell out that office, now.

Granted, not all bad challenges are deliberate. Sometimes you have to make a hard call and if you’re client is doing something illegal and/or dangerous, you have to call them on it, which could result in damaging a rapport. But the line between keeping someone safe and making them feel as if they deserved to be abused is apparently too fine a line for some.

What frustrates me the most in this job is meeting someone who really needs help, but who refuses because of a counsellor who thought they were challenging had failed horribly, or were jaded judgey burned out scary counsellors who shouldn’t be talking to people.

Remember you have rights in every single counselling session. Even if it’s a free service. If it’s not working for you, or they make you feel you’re in the wrong, you can always ask for them to refer you to someone else. You can ask to see your notes and get copies. You can report them.

Sadly there are some epically suss practices out there, and until there’s some form of professionalisation, there will continue to be.

And if you’re a friend of mine and wish to see a counsellor and are having shit luck, call me and I’ll find you a good one. With aims to be highly professional I would never tell you, or write on this blog, the name/service/position of any person in a counselling role who I have heard has done something I disagree with. This, as always, is not the forum for that kind of thing, I am not the Daily Telegraph with a penchant for Naming and Shaming, because that never helps. I just need to stress that for my own sanity.

 

And that’s the end of my public service announcement.

 

Now if only this rain would stop and I can get a bit of sunshine back in my life.

I swear summer skipped us over this year and is therefore entirely to blame for my desire to make pancakes tonight. Because this weather is calling for pancakes. Damn you weather.

Finally, an update about the markets

Okay, I’ve been slack, I admit it. Can’t really help myself. There’s something about blogging that just creates this void of instant forgetfulness. I could blame the fact that I’ve been everywhere and doing everything, but I’m sure if I had just had the time to sit on my backside and do nothing I still wouldn’t have updated yet.

So is the way of Jen.

Anyway, as I’m waiting for pancakes, I thought I should fill you in on that market stall or two my mother and I have done. I can’t believe they were only in December, as it feels like bloody July to me already. Enough of my time warped mind and onto the stalls.

We were only initially going to do one, but were informed of a free one the following weekend and decided to add two to our list. Considering how we went at the first one, any extra money we could generate, and publicity, would be appreciated.

Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t do too badly at all. It was, if anything, a big learning experience. Like the first rule of property investment;

Location, location, location.

See the photo below? I do wish you could. This was our view. We were at one of the least used entrances to the market and we were first stall off the rank. In order for other people to see us who were not using this entrance, they had to walk down a side road.

This pole the handy arrow is pointing to, I will dub the Bitch Pole. The Pole of No Return.

Using my observation skills keenly fine tuned by my social workery training, I was able to develop the Theory of Market Invisibility Zones. When people enter a market, it is usually the fourth or fifth stall they will actually look at. When they are leaving, the third stall might get a look in. When they walk down a side road, they will never look at the end stall because their brain has already informed them to TURN BACK THERE’S AN EXIT NEAR AND YOU DON’T WANT TO LEAVE.

Thus, the first stall on the line generally is ignored. Not because it’s not of interest to them, but honestly because their eyes just do not ever go in the right direction. I observed a number of people not even being able to turn their heads. Now we had a fairly bright stall:

Exhibit A

Which is brighter than the stall next to ours, yet attention grabbing was frankly impossible.

The Bitch Pole was literally the turning point. Like there was something wrong with them if they would proceed further. I would be annoyed if I wasn’t so fascinated by the effect.

Actually, I was annoyed and fascinated at the same time because I’m a complex woman and can do both.

But then, if that positioning wasn’t bad enough, for nearly two hours we had to contend with this:

Band students and their parents. Now no one in their right mind were going to walk anywhere near us. Especially if they had a pram, which just happens to be our target market.

And we let those kids borrow our pegs… grrr….

Though you think that would be enough, the best part was when the parents kept knocking over our signs, our stands, everything. Giant Douche Alert.

My other paranoid state did note that the stall next to us specialised in everything chicken (except the actual animal, and animal care stuff. Think country garden fabrics with chickens everywhere) so I’m sure the chickens were out to get me, as she did quite well.

Though I can’t gripe because we learnt bucket loads by watching how she managed to make a little cottage industry over 2D, and sometimes 3D, stylised chickens.

With this new learning, the Mama and I took the opportunity to diversify our product and set up for the next stall the follow weekend. And ended up with something which looked like this:

I’ m proud of our new marquee. Tis very shiny. I also have to point out the stall didn’t stay looking like that. I cannot sit still and would be up and down every 30mins or so rearranging everything. I believe I have it how I want it now… though at next stall this is likely to change.

One thing we did learn a lot, was the fact we are building up knowledge of what we do out there in the marketty community. For there were a lot of interested parties with babies on the way in May and later months. A lot of grandmas (our biggest buyer) keen to see us back when they knew the sex of their incoming grandchild. So we have decided to keep going and see what happens on the horizon.

That, and I’ve just laid my hands on a new pattern for a toddler backpack and a twirly skirt and my Mama has knitted two of the cutest wool jumpers, and you should see the buttons I’m about to buy and…

Yeah, this addiction is not likely to end any time soon.

I’ll let you know when the next one is, and I hope to see you all there.

BTW if you have any little ones yourselves and would like anything you see here, please just drop me a line. I’m happy to customise anything, or even make something new if it’s in my skills. We are aiming to have a store up on Etsy, when I’m not a slack cow I’ll do that. But in the mean time, happy to arrange via emails. Esp. considering I’m sure it’s just family and friends reading this.

I am not a gamer…

…I’ve just been glued to my shiny new PS3 for the last… err, um, I can’t even remember when I bought it. This is terrible. Is that all to do with the games, or all to do with the fact that I haven’t had any routine since November 18, I cannot be sure. Whatever it is, I have a shiny new PS3, and bloody hell, when did games get this addictive?

Okay, I’m displaying my epically lacking gaming credentials as I discuss this, but happy with that. I gleefully selected the “very easy” (not just easy, but <i>very</i>) option on my first game (Uncharted 3) and still got my arse handed to me several times. I not that terribly good. Nor will I ever be, even after a week (pretty sure it’s been a week) I think I would struggle getting through on easy.

Back to the discussion, when I was studying media way back in 2006, I came across this article that stuck with me. It was discussing the potential future transitions of video games. It spoke about two forms, the ones where it’s about action and the other where it’s about story. So, you’re pong versus your Zelda. Basically the argument of the article lay in arguing how the average gamer doesn’t require a story because their enjoyment came out of the action rather than the telling. He (and I wish I had kept the damn article, I may have it somewhere, buried about here…) stated that the gaming creators were wasting their money on writers because at the end of the day we all just want dance party and something to shoot.

I cried bullshit back then, mainly because of hours spent watching my brother play games over the years. I enjoyed watching them not to see my brother’s skills, but because those skills would unlock pieces of a story I wanted to know and I epically failed at getting to. (I still can’t play Halo, and I do know what it is, the damn plaguey-Alien-inspired-face-sucky-crawly-things make me freak out every time they appear. I need to work on not thinking what’s on the screen is in my living room with me. The things are fast enough to take advantage of a person when they freak out and throw a controller into the air.)

Though I did question whether this was just me. So I would question actual gamers and they would all come back with the same response. Then again, all the gamers I know are also writers on the side, so this could mean they’re biased, like me.

However it is, though, I am so damn glad they kept employing writers. And good writers. And writers who know how to have a bit of fun. Because I’ve just been playing Assassin’s Creed and they have just gone to town. The way they’re weaving the story into the game play is something I wasn’t expecting. Keep in mind, my last two experiences with this type of game play was probably Broken Sword and Zelda. Which is more point and click and shrug your shoulders, or spin about really quickly with a sword. This one really plays with history in such an amusing fashion. (What they’ve done to possibly my favourite historic figure, is downright hysterical. It makes me laugh every time he pops up on screen, or I think about it. I missed a whole cut scene when he showed up because I was crying with laughter… as I am now.) And that’s why I’m stuck. There’s currently four of the games out there, I have just finished the second, and I need to know how it ends. It’s seriously like a book series except I just have to keep pressing damn buttons to get the end.

If this was a book, it would be easier, though it certainly wouldn’t be half as fun.

So, yeah, gaming has come a long way since I last bothered with it. And because of this, I have to keep playing this pretty little game (because it is very pretty) with the knowledge that there is one more game left to be released, which means I really won’t get an ending, and I’ll just have to cope. And maybe wonder why I didn’t wait until all of them were released before buying a PS3… but then again, I didn’t know how much fun this would be.

Basically what I wanted to say was: farewell interwebs, I’m sure I’ll be back with that marketty post sometime in the next week.

I Want A House

Okay, I should be writing about the market stall my mother and I ran on the weekend, but we’re about to dive into another one on Saturday, so I’m going to wait until I’m completely exhausted on Sunday to stammer out some kind of post. Maybe on Monday. Only I’m possibly working on Monday…

Those are other stories. Today, I’m just going to natter. I’m going to natter about silly thoughts. Thoughts like; I really want a house.

No, I really want a house. I’d really like the million dollar house in the picture above, it’s a cute little blue one with an amazing garden in this cute little village, and I want it so badly.

I never thought I’d want one this badly, but I suddenly have a plaguing desire to get my arse onto the property ladder, even if the effort may very well dislocate my shoulders.

It has me thinking Thoughts. Thoughts like:

Why don’t I spend a year in a remote area getting paid a heap, working with the extreme end of the social worker’s client base, and then I’ll be able to afford a house?

Should stay at home two years instead of one, because then I would probably have enough for a deposit?

Would anyone like to buy my left leg, it’s a little used, but for $1,000,000 I could be tempted?

I always thought I’d work for a year and then either run down to Melbourne, or run off overseas. But the overseas job market is looking a little horrific, even for social workers, and I’d rather run down to Melbourne if I could buy a house down there, rather than pay rent. The idea of working, say NT or WA, is also slightly tempting, as the experience would be pretty amazing.

Huh, maybe I’ll just write a best seller already and use the proceeds to buy a ridiculously stupid house. I could also sell my left leg. Both have the same chance of occurring, I think.

Anyway, I’m going to go back to plodding on, just thought I’d share my house desires with you all. And no, it has nothing to do with shows like Grand Designs, Location, Location, Location or any other such program. None whatsoever…

GISHWHES has taken over my life

Click Misha's face to find out why

In a little over three hours, I hope to get it back. Or at least be able to shave my legs again (see rules).

For the past nine days I have been dancing like an idiot, walking chickens across roads, gold leafing toilet plungers and drawing like a woman possessed. Why?

It’s hard to really explain what the GISHWHES movement is. It’s community development, bundled with charitable acts and a good dose of sock monkey hat and fake moustaches. I’ve been following Misha Collins for a while now, the man who plays Castiel on Supernatural. I don’t follow him though just because I’m a mad fan girl, but also because of this bizarre thing he’s trying to do with the internet. Something more than just a place to scream and yell at edjits, download tv shows and view other such things that my friend discovered her work colleague looking at during work one day which has left me horrified + carrying around a bottle of alcohol wipes. *Shudders* disgusting work computers. What Misha Collins and the GISHWHESIANS are doing is something a little more, it appears. Something that has meaning and a shared sense of silliness.

And this shared sense of silliness is what has had me running about like an utter lunatic, waking up at 5.30-6am every morning, and asking vets to look serious while administering their attention to a sick balloon animal. Because, you know what, other people have been doing it to. So while I’m convinced that my team won’t win the big prize, as everyone else appears to be going just as mad as we are, I’m actually kind of thankful and will never regret the experience. I’ve managed to realise that there are other people out there who are hopeful, who aren’t so convinced the world is epically fucked. I do have friends here who aren’t doomsayers, but the online world can sometimes get a little dark. What with trolls and douche canoes in their dozens. I haven’t felt that comfortable wandering about there for a while. So it’s good to see others who are willing to be just as daft, just as helpful, and just as inspiring as I had hoped the internet might be when I was first introduced to it when I was 12*.

What have I got out of this? An interesting experience, hopefully a few new friends, and I can now proudly say, I can make balloon animals… the easy ones… the ones that look a little ill…

Anyway, I can’t share any of my photos just yet. We’re not allowed to blog them. But I have been informed by the OVERLORD that items 8, 147 and 170 can be released. As I contributed 170 to my team’s effort, I have it for you below. It involves my sister, three other Failboats and a douche whistling. That douche is me. It needed atmosphere, honestly.

*Okay, maybe it took me until 14 to think it should be that way, at age 12 I believe all I wanted to do was to get onto the Spice Girls website, but dial up was such a bitch.

Multi task Fail

My next post was supposed to be a media analysis I’ve been amusing myself with the past few days. Procrastinating from writing several things by writing another article… I believe I may have problems. Though this writing habit I’ve picked up has actually raised an issue I feel like imparting to everyone.

Writing a literature review on centralised intake service, a report on developing a practice framework for early intervention with emergency service personnel with trauma-stress disorders, a novel, and several selection criteria in search of jobs has caused my brain to become a bit befuddled. I’m not sure what I’m meant to be writing this morning. I sat down at my desk to revise the fourth draft of my literature review and became annoyed at myself for poorly handled dialogue… wait, no. That wasn’t…? Huh? Last night I was working on the presentation for my report and started slotting in information on centralised intake. I wrote a whole paragraph before I realised what I was doing.

Let’s not get started on the dream last night wherein my character Jess started to lecture me on the importance of present tense when framing my selection criteria and I needed to sell myself more. I mean, what’s going on in my head right now?

I can multi task well, but there’s a word limit, I think.

After Friday, though, I’ll be one report down, one literature review (cross fingers) and only have a novel and… oh, a personal framework, and evaluation report and a portfolio to finish.

I can see more interesting dreams in my future.

15 days until I’m a proper social worker. Be afraid, be very afraid.