One of my dream jobs is to work at the British Museum. There is not a role I would not happily do there. I would love being a janitor. I would clean displays. I would do, quite literally, anything. It is my great ambition one day to call them an employer. I don’t love London, not by any means, but I love that museum with passion. I have applied innumerable times in the past, but I have received so many polite rejections that I have given that up.
The blizzard was not nearly as severe as all the weather forecasters had predicted, but the fact that I had to suffer in this insufferable way was simply too much for me. Forlornly, I made my way to the little cafe in the lobby of the Jane Hotel. I glowered at the freshly painted walls, signed wistfully at the memory of the Café Gitane’s lost nearness, scowled when I was told that they didn’t have an espresso machine, haughtily accepted drip coffee, and took a seat beside the windows whilst waiting for overpriced avocado toast to arrive. I was insufferable. The toast was actually great. I love a seedy bread.
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