Well hello there! My name is Mrs H.

First things first, let’s be clear that I don’t actually expect anyone to read this (perhaps in part due to the fact that I don’t intend to tell anyone about it). I don’t mean that to sound as negative or indeed “insolent teenager” as it does, but the point of this is rather more cathartic. You see, for the past two months I have been rattling around the house alone and have now reached that dreaded point where I have started talking to myself. With my mind flooded with images of crazy cat ladies, I figured I may as well talk to the Internet. Somehow it feels much more socially acceptable. Kind of like talking to God but with a slightly higher chance of getting a reply.

Perhaps I should explain. I am a newlywed. I adore my husband and his support is beyond compare. His ability to deal with the crazy is a constant source of amazement to me, but the reality is that I now spend my days dying white washing pink and making meals that my better-employed half describes as “a good starting point”. Two months ago, I was different. I had a job. I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I had a reason to wash my hair.

I am starting to realise that I had always been one of those smug individuals who flitted from one job straight into the next, leaving a trail of budding career paths in my wake. Waitress, estate agent, property lawyer. I inadvertently viewed jobs in the same way others might see relationships – when I’m done with this one, something better will come along.

But then it happened: I fell in love. As soon as I found translation, everything changed. I knew I wanted us to be together forever and I would do whatever it took to make that happen. Months working in-house turned into years, and then my next self-assured notion was born: translation and I didn’t need anyone else, I was going to work for myself.

Flash forward two months and here we are. I am a freelance translator. I am talking to the Internet because I can no longer afford to play out with my friends (and let’s face it, the lack of hair washing probably isn’t helping either). My days are full of unanswered applications to agencies and guilt-ridden binges of Homes Under the Hammer. I wander around the house looking for washing to dye in order to avoid clearing the cellar (the only productive task that remains. I can show you a neatly filed set of bank statements dating back to 2003 should you need further proof).

All jokes aside, I am assured by everyone I know that them’s the breaks. Apparently, it will be at least another two months before I get any work, and then another two months after that before I get paid for any work that I do manage to scrounge. In the meantime, and in a bid to stave off full-blown insanity, it will just be me and you, Internet. I can practice writing and spend time Googling phrases such as “them’s the breaks” to check the grammatical accuracy. I’m going to tell you a story, and it’s a story that I don’t know the ending to yet.

So here it is: The Tale of a Freelance Translator.

And hey, maybe someone out there will even read this. And that would be lovely.

Mrs H

 

 

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