Ah, the best laid plans of man and mop…. Suffice to say that the floors are not mopped. My grand plans were derailed by the lack of bleach, and having been bullied thusly out into the rain and cold, I changed tack and went for the Internet cafe, to print out a few more letters. This inspired further movement and I spent the rest of the afternoon traipsing the town as originally planned and dropping said letters into various establishments, looking for travail. In each place, I fully expected the staff to humiliate me and laugh me out of the place, but surprisingly they all seemed to take me seriously, and consider that they might in fact have a look at my CV before dismissing me outright. However, the smiling and nodding skills that I have so keenly honed may have finally gone too far and caught up with me. I can’t be sure of exactly what happened in Cafe Hippopotamus, but I am now in the precarious position of not knowing whether or not I have been offered a part time job. I BELIEVE the nice man to have told me that he has 24 hours a week he can offer me, but just has to run it by the director (he seemed to be some kind of a manager), but I genuinely don’t know. I am now half hoping and half dreading that I will get a phone call, but with every passing minute I become more convinced that I must have misunderstood. In any case, he must never speak on the phone with me, and the action plan is to let any calls go to voicemail. However, in the event that I foolishly answer the phone, in some ill advised fit of bravado, I plan to pretend the line is bad and offer to present myself toute suite. It will be like Cinderella summoning the fairy godmother. He rings the bell (phone), and Presto! Here I am! I am sure to bedazzle him with my prompt appearance, which I am hoping will distract him from the fact that I understood about two words of our earlier conversation. Unless, like I said, got the wrong end of the stick altogether. Highly possible. As they say here, on verra!