I know I need to blog about the trip home, but the further I get from it, the harder it is to catch up, to just sit down and do it. If I don’t blog something, did it really happen? And why am I writing in questions as if I flounce about Manhattan in crazy clothes and answer when you call, “Hello, Sarah Jessica Parker”?

In the week since New York, I swooned around sleepily, got over jet lag, entertained out-of-town friends, very unexpectedly got strong-armed into a cheap ticket and went to see Spamalot at the Palace Theatre – “Lancealot, he likes to dance a lot,” they sang, at the knight’s coming-out – baked a banana-chocolate fondant cake, and attended a birthday party with a funny, lisping Frenchman in attendance. “I don’t remember his name,” I said to Olive the next day, “but he sure was funny.” “Something like Gareth?” he said. “Garth?” “Those are not French names,” I said, although Mr French Boyfriend With Four French Names should have known it. “Maybe Barthes,” I said, “in honour of Roland?” “No,” Olive said, and he was firm. “No one would name their child Barthes in honour of Roland.” “They would,” he said, and you cannot argue he is without logic, “name him Roland.”

This morning I completed a reader’s report for a scouting agency. No, you in the back with your hand raised, not reef knots and bonfires. Literary scouting. As in, “Ahoy there, look what I’ve found. Here, read this and tell us if it’s any good for our Dutch publisher clients.” I was waiting for another freelance gig to come in, so I took the job. It was the first time I’d done something like it. I read the book and sent in my report in under forty-eight hours. The agency loved it and paid me the grand amount of £30. Then I found out, too late, that other places pay £60. I know, I should have done my research into the industry pay scale before accepting the job. But if everyone would just do the decent thing, workers like me wouldn’t have to scrounge around and guess what to charge. I know the point of companies is to make a profit. But that shouldn’t mean taking advantage of people. It’s rotten to not pay your workers an honest wage – no one needs to be told that. I know it’s a small company I was working for, and I sympathise with small companies. But I’m a small company, and I’m in no position to afford working at £4 per hour. Ouf. Little paychecks make me rant. In any case, I was glad for the experience and the woman who hired me was nice and immediately wanted to give me more work. I said, politely, Please pay me £60. She said, politely, No. So I said, I will have to get back to you on that. I don't want to be a snob about accepting work, but I hope that I will never be in a position to desperately need £30.

Meanwhile, Olive dug up a bunch of work opportunities on Gumtree, an online bulletin board. Not all of these involve nudity. He sent me a link for a company needing a proofreader and copy writer, which of course necessitated me then sitting in front of the computer for too long, following all manner of links on the website. I have now submitted my photograph to take part in a promotional photo shoot for a company that organises chocolate-making workshops. If I am selected for the shoot, I will be able to (a) add “model” on my CV, and (b) take home chocolate from the workshop. I don’t think any money is involved in this exercise, but I’d like to think it is not always about the money. Hm. Maybe I should call that literary scout and sign up for another manuscript to fund my extracurricular chocolate-making activities.

“I can’t wait to hear where this goes,” Laureen e-mailed, when I told her about it. “It sounds like something David Sedaris would do!” “Really,” she e-mailed later, after she’d had some time to take in the enormity of the situation, “it sounds more like something Amy Sedaris would do.” I couldn’t tell which made me more pleased. If ever there were a reason to do something, the Sedarises would be it.