"Gráinne, you're leaving us!" I love the receptionist at work, she always notices when I get my hair cut. Though she has been calling me by the wrong name for three and a half years now. "I am" says I, emptying a tin of beans into a dish with a splat and staking my claim on the microwave. I've one eye on the toaster and one ear on Christina, who is congratulating me on landing a three year contract during a recession. She's delighted for me. If I wasn't so scared of new people and hard work, I'd be delighted for me too. I try to mirror her enthusiasm with some mmm noises, and wonder that I'm not as thrilled about it as she and everybody else seems to be. I think I'm just anxious. The beans go *bing* and I excuse myself to sit and eat alone, glad not to have to talk about the plans I haven't made for the next fortnight or the job I have to make my own once those two weeks are up.
