Little Bleaklers (a.k.a. my not-so-little sis) has managed to snag a job running Coca-cola no less. OK, the last part might be a lie but the job title was so fancy I just assumed it came with a gold-plated name, an assistant and free tickets to the opera. So, she is upping sticks for Atlanta, America in January and reader, I have to say I turned a pale shade of green when I heard the news; the job sounds amaysing! Whats more, she's basically BFF's with her new manager after a very chummy phone interview in which he mentioned that his son will help her find her bearings (why did I get a flash of Lil Bleakers as a 'hockey mom' in 10 yrs hopping into her Volvo, driving lil Chuck and Randy to their baseball game?) I've practically booked my flight over to see her already - its guaranteed the girl will have an American accent within 2 weeks of hitting US soil.
In a random moment this week, i've realised my 'normal' walking pace is way too fast for my fellow humans. I'm the one that decides a destination and promptly marches like something demented in order to get there as quickly as possible. There's no cash prize for getting there 2.50mins ahead of everyone else (unfortunately), but i may have ask for membership to the 'its the journey, not the destination that counts' school of thought lest i incur the wrath of the slow coach friends I leave in my wake. After all, if it means I avoid that awkward shuffle to try and overtake someone in the street, so be it!