Ah, work experience.
A week where 16 year-olds the length and breadth of the country come into offices to learn what a real job is like. At the age where they are at their most gangly, awkward, shy and pimple-ridden they are thrust into the working environment to spend a tedious weeks of making tea, filing and fending off office juniors who try to either shag or bully them.
The result of the week is that everyone returns to school declaring that they don't want to be stuck in an office all day and they want a job that means something. This is something they soon forget only to wake up 10 years later have a quarter-life crisis and go do voluntary service abroad.
Last week I got a call asking if my eldest Goddaughter/cousin could come and do work experience with me. Once the smelling salts had bought me round - I'm far too young to have a 16 year old goddaughter - I said yes.
And now I am worried.
She is coming the last week in July. She lives in the middle of the countryside so she is staying with me in London Town. 9.30am that Monday morning I am having the coil removed so she will a) have to be told at least an approximation of why she won't be starting until mid-day that day and b) if it is bad news I will have no option of calling in sick, going home and spending the day wrapped in a duvet of self-pity. (Maybe that is a good thing).
And then I have to decide what sort of project to give her. Because let's face it, I want her to finish the week thinking I have a cool job. And I do have a cool job.
Well, I work for a cool company, but maybe my over use of the word 'cool' makes me like some sort of dork. Do the kidz nowadays even use the word dork?
Oh my god. The pressure. Why do I even care what a 16 year old country bumpkin thinks?
Fuck it, she can clear out the stationary cupboard.