Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

because I knew, maybe it was because she hadn’t had a drink in weeks, but she looked fabulous, a peachy glow illuminating her complexion. ‘
    Why aren’t you at work?’
    ‘Took a sickie,’ she said with a grin. I don’t think Ali has ever taken a sickie in her life. ‘If I’m going to get fired or sidelined anyway, I don’t see the point in working like a dog for those bastards.’
    ‘Talking of dogs,’ I moaned, ‘I have to get back to Clapham. I have a ten thirty with a pair of dachshunds.’
    I was very glad that the only dogs on my schedule that day were the smaller ones. It was a freezing day, a bone-chilling wind blowing in from the north, not a ray of sunshine to be felt. The Common wasn’t too muddy, thankfully, but there were treacherous patches of ice on the pavements and I didn’t fancy getting yanked left and right by some of the more powerful hounds on my rota. Particularly not with my injury, which was still very painful, industrial-strength Codeine tablets notwithstanding.
    After the dachshunds there was a series of other small, yappy, annoying little creatures and it wasn’t until after lunchtime that I got home. I collapsed on the sofa with a (home-made) tuna sandwich and flicked on the TV. Nothing on. That’s what happens when you get rid of satellite TV. I checked my emails for job news.
    Hallelujah! There was a message from a temp agency saying they needed someone to work Monday to Friday next week in a ‘mid-sized City investment bank’. Could I come in for an interview? Real work! I thought, ecstatic. I fired off an email saying I would be very happy to attend the interview on Friday morning. Then it struck me: I’d given away most of my City suits at the fated clothes swap. What the hell was I going towear? Then another thought struck me: Friday was two days away. I was under strict instructions not to shower for three days. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
    I skipped into my bedroom (as best I could under the circumstances), feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. This was it – this was the break I’d been waiting for. All I needed was to get my foot in the door. Then I could dazzle them all with how marvellously efficient, friendly and presentable I was, I would fetch the coffee, I would stay late in the office, I would go that all-important extra mile. I would make myself indispensable. And by the end of next week, I thought to myself, I could have a real job!
    I was right in the middle of trawling through my wardrobe for something decent to wear to the interview when I realised I was having a sense of déjà vu. Looking through the wardrobe for something to wear . . . I had done this recently . . . very recently. Oh, shit. Jake. In less than five hours’ time I was supposed to be standing in the foyer of the Ritzy cinema wearing something casual-yet-sexy, preferably with my hair washed and blow-dried. I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh, God. There was no way I could get away with this. I had to cancel.
    He picked up on the third ring.
    ‘Hey. How’s the washing machine?’ he asked when he answered. ‘No more floods? No more severe head injuries?’
    I laughed weakly.
    ‘No, no, everything’s OK. It’s just . . . I’m really sorry to do this to you at such late notice, but I was wondering whether we could reschedule?’
    Silence on the other end of the line.
    ‘The thing is . . .’ I really ought to have written something down before I made this call. Lying, I’ve found, is usually the best idea in these sorts of circumstances. ‘The thing is that I’ve just been offered a job interview – it’s tomorrow morning and I really need to focus, you know? I need to think about what I’m going to say and it would be a good idea to get an early night. I don’t think I’ll be able to relax if we go out this evening. I won’t be any fun. Could we do it another night?’
    ‘Course we can,’ he said. ‘That’s great news on the job interview. Good luck with it. Give me a ring when you’re done, let me know how it went and we can set something else up.’
    ‘That would be brilliant, Jake, thank you so much.’
    Crisis averted.
    I returned to the job at hand, which was to find an outfit for an interview and, assuming that I would get the job, trying to find a way of mixing and matching things so that I didn’t look as though I was wearing the same clothes all week. I was still in a frenzy of outfit consideration when Jude