When I grow up I would like to be a writer and drink coffee by the cafetierre. I would smoke if it was fashionable, cross my legs and ponder. I would look out of my window which would perhaps be in Tuscany, or Seville, or somewhere remote sounding like the Peak District. I would have a dog who rests at my feet and a couple of cats, we would walk to the local shop to buy bread and I might even go to the pub in the day. I see myself spinning yarns with the locals, seeing stories in the trees, imagining complicated novels while eating olives, to then return to write some fabulous prose. Yes, when I grow up I would like to be a writer.
"But you're already grown up!" whined P when I told her of my aspirations. "Shush...." whispered A "Mummy doesn't like being told she is old!"
I'm not old A, I'm just ready for my next goal. Or career.
Early years worker
Play scheme play worker
Groom - riding schools, show jumping year, dealing yard, private yards, private schools..
Equine laboratory assistant
Farm shop and cafe assistant
Project coordinator on a city farm
Because after this crazy C.V it's time for a change.