I got up at 8:30, thinking it might take an hour to get here. And also, frankly, I never underestimate my power and ability to get lost. It took only 30 minutes, though admittedly I was walking purposefully and a bit cavalierly through traffic. It’s a quarter till 10 now – the moment of truth approaches. In my mad dash to get out of the house by 9 this morning I forgot to get my passport and PPS #. No time now to go back and get them. I should never put ANYTHING off. I should have done it last night while I was thinking about it. It’s not as if I was too busy – I took the time to write myself a not for heaven’s sake. Besides, I was just waiting up for Rafal and Kate (the Pole) to arrive. She is tall, thin as a rail, encased in denim, almost as if she’d been shrink-wrapped in sturdy blue cotton. She has the straightest long blond hair I have ever seen. It must have an incredibly high atomic weight to just hang there like that as if anvils were tied to each strand. I don’t think she understands English very well, but she has a remarkably clean, confident, comprehensible accent. QUITE in contrast to Raphael’s stuttering, babbling, tripped up accented English.
Water laughs louder in the sun, as the playful rays shimmer and tickle the silky surface.
I have the job! Today I trained with Angela for two hours until the new weekend girl Aoife came in to be trained at noon.
Got into a bit of a panic – I was, of course, there a full half hour early due to my use of Gardiner St instead of my usual O’Connel St. route. Then I sat by the old holding pen of the docks – a clean square of a stone enclosure holding dark still water. The stone was, of course, gray. Weathered and gray. Then, at five to 10 I got up and decided to walk around the pool and over to arrive neatly a few minutes early. Besides, I didn’t want to be milling around the lobby if she wasn’t in yet, worrying the staff and prompting an unfortunate confrontation. I do, after all, have the look of a foreigner about me so I must be suspect. I started circumnavigating the pool, then my watch told me my underestimation of its size would lead me to be quite tardy if I continued on my course. Instead I bore right to walk behind the building and around – I do so hate to retrace my steps. It makes me look either lost or like I’m stalking, neither impressions I’m keen to foster. I walk behind the massive long brick hall of the old dockhouse storehouse and am confronted by an entirely new building! Unfazed I walk past it to see a gate. PANIC! I did not get here 30 MINUTES EARLY only to be caught late by a gate! There was a walkway beside it though, and there I was behind Jury’s Custom House Inn. I was about to nip around to the front door when – WHAM! There was another gate! Quite locked without another little route beside it! And there was no outlet on the left-hand side of the building. Panic! I would be late and show I had no sense of responsibility before I’d even started and I’d show up, huffing and puffing with a torn set of trousers after getting caught on the gate as I clamored over it and she cluck her tongue and say, “No. I just DON’T think this will work out.” In true Irish fashion there would be no “sorry” or “I understand – we all make mistakes.” No. There would be no empathy. No sympathy. Just a blank stare waiting for me to remove myself from the premises. And I would most probably break down weeping. And I can’t buy a gun in this country so I’d end up on a church tower assassinating innocent passers-by with black puddings.
But, behind the tourbus, there was hidden the back entrance! My salvation, as usual, comes from behind!