To Leeds or not to Leeds...

The Country One and I have been discussing our future. Leaving university and re-entering the big bad world is a scary, daunting but exciting time. It's a time when you could quite literally do anything you wish. Go anywhere and become anything you want, but before I sound like some prepy Valedictorian I am slowly realising that this is in fact utter shite. Yes, you can do all those things if you have money, or a job offer but without them the prospect of living free goes right out the window and straight onto some other poor sap. 


I know that many people will know of someone who moved to a city with barely enough cash for a Big Mac Meal and is now living a very comfortable life but those people probably had talent; real talent. Sister has completely sucked me into a new program on Sky Arts called 'Art of Survival' which sees two teams of two travelling from Athens to Edinburgh with only the money they make from their art. One is a classical singer, one a classic cellist, one a jazz cellist and one a bloody amazing artist (painter). We are three weeks in and both couples have already raised thousands of euros (euro, aren't we meant to simply say 'euro'? That seems so very northern. You know what I mean 'It be 30 mile away'. Miles, mileSSS. It's pural!). However, I am not an artist, I cannot play any instrument (unless three Sigur Ros songs and the beginning of the Harry Potter theme on the glockenspiel count!? No! Shesh. Picky), I sing very ill and my dancing was only ever average and that was seven years ago. You can hardly go around the streets of Europe offering 'a free phonic' lesson and hope to get the same response as someone playing a beautiful rendition of Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro. Telling strangers children to recite 'OO, Poo at the Zoo' to help them remember their 'oo' phoneme will probably just get me a smack in the mouth.  


I can't even stumble on a city and just 'pull pints' for a wee while to make some extra cash. As a teenager I danced and would help my dance teacher teach the younger pupils as well as teaching them privately. It was something I enjoyed, I didn't have to learn a new trade and I got paid almost double that of my friends who were measuring old ladies bust sizes on a Sunday in Debenhams. I know which one I would rather be doing, and I bloody love boobies. The only problem is that it has left me as a 26 year who has never worked a till. I am sure I would pick up this skill in a matter of seconds but in these hard financial times you cannot blame a shop for thinking 'hmmmm...train up a 16year for minimum wage who will do as I say and be grateful for their first job, or this 26 year old who will have her own mind (and know how to use it) and fuck off the first sign of a teaching job'. It's no rocket science. 


I have recently signed for a teaching agency that will help find teachers supply and permanent teaching positions, - hurrah - they also have many links with special needs school - double hurrah! - however, they will only be able to find me work once I have a permanent residence in London. I can't move to London until I have a job. Catch 22. The bastard. I could of course, stay in my family home but with no room for even half my things (I have been away for four years and I like to be reminded of my past. OK, fine, my name is Josephine and I am a serial clutterer) which I think is sending my mother to an early grave, it just doesn't seem to be a very long term option. This on top of the fact that Sister, Dr Karl (brother-in-law) and niece also now live at home. Bringing up a baby is stressful enough without my possessions cluttering up the hall. The place is just not big enough for all of us without one of us having a meltdown and blowing up the house. This may seem dramatic but we're a passionate family with very different personalities, blowing up the house is a very real danger. Being told off for drinking too much Vimto or frowned upon for my choice in television viewing does not make for a relaxed home. 


So, The Country One has proposed that we move to Leeds. Only for a short time. Her brother lives there and it would be cheap enough to save while we look for more permanent jobs. The only problem is I have never been there and neither my friends nor my family live in the immediate area. For the first time in my life the crossroads that stands before me feels more like the Spaghetti Junction than the simple country lane crossroads that I am used to. I am usually yelling at my heart and head to pipe the fuck down and give me a rest but I would give anything for them to rise up and tell me what to do. In their absence I am going to go with the first one of them that makes even the smallest of sound. Yes, this could turn out to be a mistake of royal proportion but at least it would mean that I am doing something other than sitting on my derriere waiting for some wise soul to tell me what to do. That actually sounds pretty great; any wise old souls out there I'd love for you to make some noise...I'm all ears.    


Come to think of it, I'm sure Leeds isn't a hundred miles away from Todmorden where the statue of the Lucky Dog lives. Perhaps a weekly visit to this lucky dog is just what is needed. 


All I know is that if I do end up moving T'up North then I should warn you that my posts will be filled with 'By  Hecks' and 'Ay. love'. Actually, I think a northern twang may suit me.