Why am I not posting enough?

I don't really know why. It's not that I have nothing to say, but probably that I don't think I care enough about what happens day to day in my life to say something about it. That must be false, because I'm here, talking about it.

Last week I came to the end of a trial working in a second-hand book shop down on High street. It was the other one, the one with really rare books, you know, Rare, as in collectible, expensive and all that. I was managing the shop two days a week, doing mostly cataloguing and helping customers out. I hooked the job through my aunt who was friends with the owner. I think we all had doubts about my ability to work there because it was a sole-charge and that meant there was no one to answer the phone for me.

Honestly, the worst thing in the world after hearing a bus brake on a steep hill next to you is the telephone. I don't know if it is the cochlear implant, or it is universally horrible, but when you are the only person around to not answer the call, which is always going to be a business call asking for some book or another, it is excruicating to sit there and wait out the rings.

Anyway. I didn't keep the job for that obvious reason. Once more, stymied.

I thought perhaps I should load the blog with the previous pieces of writing I got published and liked enough to keep. Here we go.