Bad Librarian

2012-02-10T11:07:00.000Z

It was about midnight and The Officer and I had dozed off on the sofa while watching a film. All the lights were turned off and I was drifting in and out of sleep when I opened my eyes for a moment and saw a man, dressed in black, standing at the end of the sofa. He swayed back and forth, grinned, and then slurred hello.

"Fuckin' hell!"

I quickly sat up and elbowed The Officer awake. My heart was pounding but my brain was foggy and slow-moving so it took a moment for me to recognise the man as one of The Officer's colleagues. They were friends and he occasionally spent the night at The Officer's house after being kicked out by his girlfriend for being drunk.

"I did knock," he said. "But no one answered."

He continued to stand there, grinning and swaying. I stared at The Officer who was looking a bit discombobulated. My eyes were hard, narrowed slits. Deal with this, they said. I got up and walked past his friend to go upstairs.

"How's work?" he asked.
"Fine," I said, leaving the room.

Funnily enough, I wasn't really in the mood for making work-related small talk.

2012-02-09T22:52:00.000Z

I never thought I would say this: I wish I had to wear a uniform to work. I don't like working in an environment where nearly everyone else wears a uniform and where it appears there are no rules about what civilian staff can or cannot wear. It is entirely my own judgement as to what I consider appropriate to wear to a prison and that's all a bit too relaxed for my liking. I assume the following would be considered inappropriate:

ball gown and tiara
pyjamas/slippers
orange jumpsuit
convict cutie costume

I have seen female civilian staff in short skirts, long stiletto-heeled boots, tight dresses and clacky-heels but I have never dressed like that for work and would never think of dressing like that to work in a prison. My 'uniform' is jeggings, a shirt and Dr Marten boots, trying to look as asexual as possible. But I'm a bit too curvy for that look and so wear a long cardigan over the top and hope no one notices my bum and boobage. Sometimes, I hunch my shoulders hoping it will make me look like I have no figure at all. When I recently went shopping for work clothes with a friend, she asked what I was looking for. "Deeply unflattering, baggy clothes that no one will notice," I replied. They were harder to find than you would think.

To some extent it is a losing battle: female staff in a prison will always be more noticeable. If you are young or attractive you will always get attention. I try to make a joke of it. When I walk through the wings with the library orderlies and someone wolf-whistles I always pretend they are whistling at the orderlies. "That must get embarrassing," I say to them, or "Wow! You're popular!" Then I wrap my trusty cardigan around myself and walk on, pretending it does not bother me.

2012-02-02T11:17:00.000Z

I organised a "gay display" for LGBT History Month which I expect to be terribly unpopular. I tried to pick some great books by gay writers but worry that it now means 'The Talented Mr Ripley' will not be read because it will be associated with being gay. I've possibly created a gay ghetto in the library that no one will venture near.

Later, I discovered the orderlies had added their own selections to the display, including 'The Lord of the Rings', which I quickly removed.

2012-01-30T18:44:00.003Z

I got the job. I was so thrilled that I spent the day grinning like a loon and went out in the evening and drank two whole pints of cider! The next day, John and I worked together and it was awkward. He gave me a congratulations card and then told me everything he would have done if he had got the job, in a way that made me think he expected me to do those things. When I tried to speak, he talked over me. An officer congratulated me on my new position while John was standing next to me and one of the library orderlies called me "boss" in front of him. I was feeling so embarrassed and unsure of how to act that I didn't give enough thought to how hard it was for John. This has effectively demoted him in the eyes of the people we work with: he has worked here longer and trained me when I started yet he was 'beaten' by a girl. The prison is such an odd masculine environment and ruled by a hierarchy. I need to support John more. He is a nice man and still my only colleague.

But I'm so excited about getting the job and realise now how disappointed I would have been not to get it. It means I can change all those things that annoy me about how the library is presently run. I've never had a job where I've been able to do that before. I've never had a job where I've wanted to stick around long enough to make changes.

There was a librarian here for many many years before I started and she obviously stamped her priorities and personality on the place. (I still don't understand her fascination with ferrets and why there are so many photos of them.) When she left, no one took over so everything ran the same - but in a random (ad hoc!) kind of way that didn't make a lot a lot of sense to me when I started, but I was still learning and working in a prison for the first time so there was a lot to take in and I didn't feel like I was in a position to make any significant changes. But now I do. I've grown in confidence and feel more comfortable with the prison environment: I'm used to being stared at. I'm used to unlocking and locking eleventy million doors everyday. Actually, I can now carry an index-card box, paperwork, a cup of tea and still unlock doors. But now I can focus on making the library better and create a proper learning environment. Also, I might get rid of those ferret photos.

2012-01-25T19:04:00.001Z

If they were awarding the librarian position to the person who spoke the fastest during the interview then I would be feeling very confident right now. Also, if they gave special consideration to the use of the term "ad hoc" my confidence would be off the scale. (I said it twice in forty-five minutes when I don't think I've ever used it before in my life). I cringed after the interview, thinking about the way I'd babbled on without really answering the questions properly. All the right information had been in my head from doing so much research but I could not translate that into an articulate reply.

It's now been five days since my interview and while that might not seem a particularly long time, it's been five days of mental torture as I replay the interview and my terrible presentation over and over in my head. I just want to know who got the job!

2012-01-18T18:59:00.000Z

I graduated from university in 1997 and moved into a house with Welsh Boyfriend and my cat, Oscar. Welsh Boyfriend and Oscar never liked each other and after a couple of months WB suggested that we get another cat, perhaps a kitten who would like him and not give him evil looks like my older, more characterful cat. I agreed because I like cats and because I didn't think about the consequences of bringing another cat into a house where an older cat already lived. Enter Eric: a super cute flaxen coloured kitten that only the most stone-hearted, cat-hating of beings could dislike. Oscar was that being. He took one look at Eric and hissed, fur rising along his spine. Eric wiggled his bum and walked towards him; Oscar lashed out at him. This would be repeated many many times until Eric went and lived with my parents and became my mother's third child.

Over the years, Oscar and I visited or lived at home for various periods of time. He would immediately revert to bullying mode: hissing at Eric, lashing out, commandeering all food, staring at him with undisguised hatred and disgust, so much so that we had to watch them constantly when they were in the same room. Occasionally, Eric would retaliate but mostly he looked confused. Over the last few months, Eric became seriously ill and yesterday my mother took him to the vets for the last time. She came back heartbroken and we all cried for that sweet-natured cat who always smelt like popcorn. Wiping her eyes, she said the vet had offered a warning.

"He said that we should be aware that our other cat might become depressed from the loss of his companion."

We looked at Oscar as he slept on the window-sill, snoring noisily.

"I think he'll cope," I said.

2012-01-11T20:22:00.002Z

I have an interview for the official librarian position at work. And so does my colleague, John. That's not weird, is it? Competing against your only colleague for a more senior position?

I'm sure it will be fine.

*buries head in sand*

Actually, I've been thinking it would be best all round if the other candidate, Mr Biggish, gets the job. I've never met him but he is more experienced than John or myself and I've heard that he's a nice guy to work with. The next best scenario is that John gets the job. It would mean spending more time at work with him (and he is not always the easiest of company) but he would make a very good librarian because he's smart and dedicated. He also has a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way which is mostly because he is a slightly camp Guardian reader and the prison is deeply distrustful of anyone different. I get on fine with him, although I wish he would not tell me about his marital problems.

The worst scenario is that I get the job. I will then have to run a library that the prison only half-heartedly supports because it has to. A library that my external colleagues have no knowledge or understanding about. And I will get to piss of my only colleague in the process. On the plus side, I would be able to put on events, develop and promote our services, try to increase support for the library within the prison, and be paid slightly more.

I still can't decide what I want.

2012-01-05T20:47:00.000Z

Mighty Mo and I had a slight altercation in the library after she tried to make me to do her job while she did mine. As my job involves making pretty displays and recommending books and hers involves unlocking big groups of men from the wings and bringing them to the library, I wasn't too happy with the sudden role-reversal. I refused to do it and then waited an inordinately long time for her to stamp a couple of books (again: not her job!) so she could make the point that if she had to go get the men then she would go when it suited her.

I've never had this problem with other officers who work in the library. They stay away from the books (as if you might catch homosexuality from touching them) and do security, while I do everything book related. I am very happy with this divide: I don't want to be a prison officer, and I'm definitely not paid to be a prison officer.

The situation is complicated because Mighty Mo and I are friends. Afterwards, I was in my office - seething with righteous anger - when she came in and hugged me. It was the kind of hug that makes you turn your anger in on yourself. I would have preferred to talk about what had just happened but suddenly felt I was being petty and over-protective of my job so pushed aside my annoyance, smiled, and pretended everything was fine. God, I hate hugging.

Basically, we're two very strong minded women who want to be in charge and it feels like we're engaged in a battle to be Queen of the Library.

2012-01-04T20:57:00.000Z

It finally happened: my hideous tea cup was stolen from the library. It cost me 50p from a charity shop and I hope whoever took it enjoys sipping their beverage from a china cup covered in pink flowers and butterflies.

2011-12-12T21:12:00.001Z

Back to work after my holiday and I discover that Marilyn - who covers for me when I'm away - has put up the Christmas decorations in the library, something I had been looking forward to doing on my return. A small matter but I sulk like a child. How dare she? She hardly ever works here. It's not her library. Worse still, she has chosen my favourite style of Christmas decorating: tacky old tat displayed at rakish angles. There is pink tinsel like a ratty old boa falling down from the corner of one door. Fairy lights that suddenly stop half-way around the room: some of them occasionally twinkling, the others never bothering; and two fake christmas trees laden with baubles and wonky stars.

I love Christmas decorations and have already decorated two trees at home. I don't need to do anymore decorating but I would have liked to decorate the library. The only upside is that when the prisoners complain about the decorations and not wanting to be reminded of Christmas, I can blame Marilyn.

There are few places less festive than a prison.

2011-12-10T17:08:00.010Z

We booked a holiday before my feelings began to change. It wasn't that I stopped liking him or wanting to spend time with him, only that my feelings were not as strong as his. He really likes me and tells me all the time. I know he will not be the one to end this relationship; still, I have to test this by behaving like a bratty, hyper-critical thirty-six year old: I don't like the area where we are staying because it is full of ex-pat Brits and Germans. There are too many Irish-themed pubs which I hate. I want to eat "proper" Spanish food but it's impossible to find anywhere. I'm getting over 'flu and have my period and this makes me Bitchy McBitch: The Biggest Bitch In Town.

But still he holds my hand, strokes my arm, kisses my neck, cuddles up to me in bed; holds doors open, makes cups of tea, brings me paracetemol and basically keeps being the lovely person he has always been.

It's so annoying.

There are even times I start enjoying myself. We drink cocktails and people-watch, listen to bad singers and do our own impersonations. He stands by the pool, naked apart from a sock over his cock. We splash about in the sea. He does crosswords while I read; our bodies are always touching.

"I really like you," he says.

"I like you too," I reply.

2011-12-05T18:16:00.000Z

I mention to my colleague, John, that I am on holiday next week and will therefore miss the staff christmas party. He does not consider it a great loss. "You can imagine what a group of prison officers out on the piss will be like," he says, sniffily. John is a metrosexual, Guardian-reading, intellectual and literary snob which means that at least once a week I have to explain to a prisoner or prison officer that being all these things does not mean he is gay. The prison is a rather traditional environment. It is partly because of this traditionalism (but mostly because of my innate nosiness) that I wanted to attend the christmas party. I've only attended library work parties before and they would make anyone long for a big, juicy, piss-up.

"I thought it sounded fun. It's always interesting to see what people are like outside of work, especially when they're drinking." He does not seem impressed. "Someone would probably goose you," he says, then laughs.

John often uses words that I don't know the meaning of or I've never heard before. He makes my vocabulary seem adequate at best. Sometimes I ask what a word means but mostly I don't, convinced that I should already know. I'm about fifty percent certain that 'goose' is something to do with bottoms but I don't want to ask because it might be something really rude and then I will be embarrassed that I didn't know and oh god life can be like being back at school sometimes.

I laugh along like a simpleton and then google the word when he has left the office.

goose: slang, A poke, prod, or pinch between or on the buttocks.

And feel even more annoyed about missing the party. There might have been goosing!

2011-11-30T15:04:00.066Z

"So what kind of vibrator are you looking for?" asks the sex shop assistant. Mighty Mo immediately begins describing her ideal vibrator, loudly and in great detail. I don't need to hear this and move away from their conversation, towards the back of the shop until I stop, slack-jawed, staring at the gimp masks. I look around nervously, checking for other customers. If anyone was to appear suddenly at my side right now I would probably scream, but Mighty Mo and I are the only customers here on a Wednesday lunchtime. It feels eery rather than saucy.

Masks have always scared me, as do most disguises. I don't like the idea of not being myself. I quickly turn away and am face-to-face with a mannequin wearing a straight-jacket, except I'm much smaller so it's more face-to-crotch. If the mannequin was also wearing a gimp mask, it would constitute my worst nightmare, especially if it suddenly started walking towards me. I move my arms because I can, feeling relieved. My arms are free! I'm not trussed and bound like an S&M turkey!

Visiting the sex shop was not my idea: I would have been happy with the greasy spoon cafe where we now spend most of our lunchtimes, consuming our body-weight in fried food and gossiping about our colleagues. But I was also intrigued by one of the very few shops near the prison being an Adult Shop, though even if I wanted to buy anything I would be too concerned that this would be the day I was searched as I entered the prison. I worry if I have a small packet of chewing gum in my bag, being found with a vibrating love egg amongst my possessions - whilst not against any rules - would be too mortifying to bear. There would be no option other than to leave and find another job.

"Oh, I don't give a shit," Mighty Mo replies airily when I mention this to her. I'm always amazed by people who don't care what other people think. A life without red-faced embarrassment - imagine!

I surprise myself and buy something. Not a straight-jacket, only slightly slutty underwear. Mighty Mo swings the animal print plastic bag containing her new vibrator as we walk back to the prison. I stuff mine in my handbag and pray we are not searched.

2011-11-21T16:20:00.005Z

The library orderlies made me birthday cards, which meant that this year a quarter* of my birthday cards came from prisoners. A year ago, I could never have imagined that by my next birthday I would have split with my long-term partner, moved in with my parents, started working in a prison, and spent the day with a new man, twenty three years older than me.

So much has changed.

*two - don't want to seem too popular.

2011-11-18T17:06:00.007Z

In the pub after work I burst into tears and The Library Officer looks at me like I'm a crazy woman. I've been trying to explain how I'm feeling and get the feeling that he would prefer if I kept my feelings to myself. I thought he might be different due to his previously passionate outbursts - and he has been very open about his feelings for me - but willing to listen to me talk about my feelings? Nah, he's a gruff Northern bloke who's not really interested.

I persevere through sobs, sniffles and occasional gulps of my drink, very much like a crazy woman who needs to stop talking or at least talk about this stuff with a female friend. But I'm stressed and tired from a long day at work, hungry and drinking alcohol, so my emotions come flooding out. Pre-birthday weirdness has already infiltrated my brain. A few days before my birthday I always start lamenting my life, looking back with sadness and despair at failed relationships and missed opportunities. I make myself feel like shit, dread the actual day of my birthday and can't wait for it to be over. This year, I have the added shite of remembering my birthday last year, spent with my ex, so I can torment myself with memories of previously happy times and wonder whether I will ever see him again. Instead of being with him, I will spend my birthday with The Library Officer, who I feel like I am using so I have someone to be with.

Yeah, I'm really enjoying being me at the moment.

Feeling so disgusted with myself, I can't put this all into words. I tell The Library Officer that I'm not over my ex-boyfriend, although it might have seemed that way. His expression moves from stony to sad.

"Our relationship can't be long term, though, can it?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I know you want things that I can't give you. I thought it would last a few months, hopefully longer that, and then we would always be friends."

"Whatever happens we will be friends," I say.

This relationship has made me realise that "a fling" does not really exist: there are always feelings involved. Wherever there is sex and friendship, there will also be emotion; otherwise, we would be robots. But it is terribly sad being with someone you like but who you don't like enough.

2011-11-16T19:46:00.010Z

The Library Officer no longer works in the library. He has known for a few months that there was a reorganisation taking place and he would be moved back to one of the wings. I am relieved as the tension made it difficult to concentrate on work. I still see him at lunchtime and at weekends and occasionally we see each other around the prison and exchange discreet little smiles. He has been replaced by a female officer, Mighty Mo, a pocket-rocket powerhouse with a dirty laugh and a filthy mouth. She is my new smoking buddy. We stand outside smoking and she talks, talks, talks. I am definitely her audience:

"So we were all in fancy dress and my friend had her drink spiked and I had to call an ambulance. But they wouldn't let me in the ambulance with her. They let our other friend in - the six-foot Superman. But they wouldn't let me - a five-foot Batgirl!

"That's discrimination," I say.

"They said I had to follow them in a taxi. So I said "You'll be seeing me in a few minutes when I've kicked someone's head in looking for a fucking taxi." A few minutes later I'm stomping down the High Street, McDonalds in one hand and mobile phone in the other, when I spot a group of rough looking lads up ahead. I'm on my own, late at night, so I'm a bit worried but they just part for me like the red sea. I stomp by, my cape billowing behind me..."

"Like something out of Only Fools And Horses," I say, laughing.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I looked a right cunt."

We are planning a shopping trip on our day off next week, where she plans to introduce me to the delights of lunchtime bingo. I can't wait.

2011-10-22T20:40:00.003+01:00

One of The Library Officer's daughters has moved back home with her boyfriend, bringing to an end our weekends of stripping off in the kitchen and having sex on the living room floor. Actually, I think we only did that once but the possibility of it happening again has decreased and the likelihood of having awkward interactions with 'young people' has increased. I am unhappy about this as I have no idea how to talk to an unemployed twenty-year old who hangs around the house with her silent, track-suit clad boyfriend, getting into Facebook 'wars' and cooking smelly late-night meals.

Thank god we both watch X Factor.

2011-10-01T11:39:00.005+01:00

I was nervous about working in a prison, worried that if I hated it I would not be able to sigh and sulk my days away as in previous jobs. If I hated it, I would have to leave, accepting that working in a prison was not for me. But I like it - phew! And on the days when I don't particularly like it - when I feel like I'm working in a weird boys' school - at least I still find it interesting. Interest can compensate for happiness, it's being bored and unhappy that I fear.

I like not knowing what might happen during the day. I like meeting people I would never have met outside of the prison environment. I like drinking tea, listening to the radio and chatting to the orderlies and officers. I enjoy making the library a welcoming space for people that have never used a library in the outside world and trying to make it relevant to people with poor literacy. That's a proper challenge. It amuses me when big, tough guys apologise for swearing in my presence. I'm more comfortable with the banter, the prison vocabulary, being called "Miss" all the time and having doors (literally) opened for me by male officers because I am a woman.

In particular, I like the wide variety of subjects and books I'm asked about: conspiracy theories, secret societies, fighting dogs, origami, calligraphy, The Krays, Charles Bronson, Chopper Read and David Ike are all very popular. I don't like looking through new books to see if they contain images of young children that might be inappropriate for some prisoners to borrow. And I don't like feeling physically vulnerable due to my sex, size and height. I still think it's a weird environment and will be worried if I ever stop thinking that. I'm more convinced than ever that locking up poor, homeless, uneducated people with alcohol and drug problems is nothing to be proud about.

It's only been a couple of months but I feel that I made the right decision to take this job.

2011-09-28T19:37:00.016+01:00

The Library Officer and I are kissing in his office during our lunch break. I keep listening for colleagues returning from lunch. Thankfully, there are so many doors and gates to unlock in a prison that no one could ever take us by surprise; but I've never had a relationship with anyone I've worked with before and worry about our colleagues finding out. Prison society is like a medieval village where everyone knows everyone else's business. I've not worked here for very long to have embarked upon a relationship with someone, and being a civilian, young(ish) and female, I'm more noticeable around the prison than uniformed staff.

"We're not doing anything wrong," he whispers, kissing my neck. "It's not like we're having sex." He raises an eyebrow, hopefully. "Oy!" I gently slap his face. When a key rattles in the door, we jump apart. I become super awkward around him and can't even look him in the eye or respond to him in a normal manner with our colleagues around. Later, trying to concentrate on my work, I'm conscious of his twinkly gaze following me as I walk around the library and my movements seem disjointed as I randomly pluck books off the shelves only to put them back a moment later. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I sneak a glance at him, he winks at me and I duck behind a shelf.

2011-09-19T19:42:00.001+01:00

At work, I can hardly stop smiling to myself. I dreamily shuffle books around as I remember the weekend: cooking dinner together, slow-dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin, having three orgasms. It all seemed so easy. I had forgotten what it was like to be like that with someone - to laugh and fool around - without arguments, pained silences and simmering resentments. I think about The Library Officer placing a hand on my breast and saying, "I love you." Then he placed his hand on my other breast. "And I love you too," he said.

He has told me he loves me during sex and before ending a telephone conversation. He says it all the time to his daughters. He easily expresses his feelings yet this also removes the power from the sentiment, making it seem so casual. I've never said "I love you" without really meaning it and I wonder now whether there was a point to hoarding those words like a fancy teacup that you never use.

They're just words.

2011-09-12T19:36:00.002+01:00

I have spent the last five nights at The Library Officer's house but need to go home and get my clothes ready for work, do some washing and let my parents know I'm still alive. Before I leave, while we're cuddling on the sofa, he says how much he's enjoyed the last few days. "I can't remember the last time I was with someone I liked so much. You're intelligent, beautiful and fun," he whispers into my ear. I stroke his face then kiss him. "I wish you were the mother of my children," he murmurs. I freeze, stunned by his words. "That's quite intense," I finally reply. "Especially as that's not something we will ever get to do." I can't believe we're having this conversation. I've known him for a month and we only went out for the first time less than a week ago. He can't have more children though, and I was surprised by how sad that made me feel when he told me. "If that's something you want to do one day then we will have to deal with it," he says. "I will be thirty-six in a couple of months time, " I point out. "I should be making that decision now before I get involved with someone I can't have children with." He looks sad and I get an idea of the serious issues surrounding a relationship with such a big age difference.

"You wanted a fling," Mrs B had texted me earlier. "Enjoy yourself!" I did want a fling, an ego-boosting sexual relationship but it's obvious that he wants more and I realise I would have been disappointed if that's all he had wanted. But the sensible part of my brain thinks this is all we should have. Too more is too complicated.

2011-09-11T19:34:00.004+01:00

I am in the shower at The Library Officer's house when I hear voices from downstairs. I take my time getting dressed but can still hear him talking to someone and there is only so long that I can hide in the bedroom pretending to do my hair. Finally, I walk downstairs and am introduced to one of his daughters, Daughter Number 3. It's awkward but he seems oblivious. "You can both chat while I have a shower," he says before disappearing upstairs. We don't chat: she sits at the kitchen table using his laptop and I sit in the living room, texting my friend, Mrs B. "At least he didn't make you hide," she writes, trying to console me. The Library Officer reappears after a few minutes and I'm so relieved he doesn't take showers for as long as I do.

I wonder what his daughter must be thinking. I haven't known him for long enough to know whether there has been an array of women through his house and bedroom. It's not the feeling I get from him. He seems so surprised and pleased by what has happened between us. But I feel so young compared to him, and even more sensitive to looking younger than I am. It's something I try talking to him about after Daughter Number 3 has left. "Did she mind me being here?" I ask. He looks unconcerned and shrugs. "I have my own life as do they," he replies. That seems fair enough and I don't know what else to say. I've never dated anyone who had children, let alone four grown-up daughters. I try putting myself in their situation and find myself more judgemental than I hoped to be.

2011-09-10T19:41:00.005+01:00

We are in a pub and The Library Officer is stroking my leg when a woman walks past our table and flashes us a look that really surprises me. She looks disgusted. I've never been so openly judged by someone before and mention it to The Library Officer. His fingers touch the back of my knee as he whispers in my ear, "When we leave I'm going to tell her that I'm taking you home for a good shagging."
"And I'll say "Okay, Dad," I reply.

We laugh and hold hands under the table.

2011-09-08T19:32:00.015+01:00

I've only slept for a couple of hours when the alarm goes off. I turn towards The Library Officer and he is staring at me, smiling. We kiss and cuddle until finally dragging ourselves out of bed. He has to work and I am on a Ninja Training course that starts at 7.30am and need to pick up my gym clothes from my parents' house. He drives me to their house and waits outside while I change and discover the gym shoes I need are in the loft. It is only 6.30, everyone is asleep and I have to pull down the creaky metal ladder to the loft and climb up and search through all my possessions until finding them. This is what happens when you don't exercise and are a dirty stop-out.

Bleary-eyed and big haired, I am the first person to arrive for the course. We are being trained to deal with physical threats from prisoners and I am partnered with the only other girl: a tall, thin basketball player who is about fifteen years younger than me. Fuck, she is strong. We are taught kicking, punching and blocking moves that involve us having to kick, punch and block each other's blows. Fuck, they hurt. I am shagged out and alternating between dreamy smiles and yelps of pain. When the course finishes, The Library Officer leaves work early to meet me and drives me back to my parents' house so I can pack a bag to stay at his place. He waits outside and my mother asks if my "friend would like to come in." I think it's a bit early for introductions, especially as I have no idea how my parents' will react to my "friend" being so much older than me.

Back at his house, I shower and dress and we go out for lunch and drinks. He holds my hand as we walk through the small market town where he lives. It seems too soon for the intimacy of hand-holding and I feel self-conscious. He has lived in this town for most of his life and seems to know everyone so I feel like we are on display. But I also like that he wants to hold my hand, that he's affectionate and open about his feelings and really happy about us being together.

I feel a mixture of emotions. Half happy, half sad.

2011-09-07T19:31:00.003+01:00

I text The Library Officer asking how his day has been. Instead of texting back, like a normal person, he actually calls me and asks if I would like to go out for a drink. A couple of hours later and we are sitting awkwardly on the sofa in his house, both slightly drunk, when he kisses me. "I should have done that hours ago," he says. He stares at me, twinkly-eyed and smiling. "Please stay the fucking night!" I'm surprised by how attracted I am to him. We kiss more intensely and I straddle his lap." "Stay the night, stay the night, stay the night," he repeats like a demented mantra. He holds my hair in his hand and begins kissing my neck, finalising my decision.

I stay the night.

2011-09-06T19:27:00.002+01:00

The Library Officer offers me a lift home. In his car, I chat more normally than yesterday as I'm no longer hungover and tired. He asks if I would like to stop for a drink on the way and when I say yes he looks surprised. I, too, am slightly stunned. He parks and we walk past my old workplace on the way to the pub. I wonder what my ex-colleagues would think seeing us together. He is twenty-four years older than me and wearing his prison officer's uniform and looks very self-conscious.

We order drinks and sit by the window and after a hesitant start, I start to feel more comfortable. He actually asks questions: What kind of food do I like? What music do I listen to? Would I live abroad again? Do I like flying? Nothing groundbreaking, nor too personal, but I like that he's interested. I've always found it bizarre that some men will talk to you as if you're a sponge on legs, willing to soak up their interests/experiences but not interesting enough to be listened to or be asked about your own. There is no flirting - I think we are both too conscious of having suddenly moved from a work relationship into something undefined - but we chat and laugh and it's nice. We move to another pub nearer his car and he asks if I would like to do something on Friday as we both have the day off. I say that I'd like that and he looks pleased. He drops me near my house and I ask for his mobile number so I can text him my number. (I really must memorise my number or carry my phone with me at all times.) "Don't lose it," he says, handing me the slip of paper which I stuff in my purse.

At home, I leave it an hour before texting him. I have some vague idea of not seeming too eager. He replies immediately and we arrange to meet on Friday morning at 10.30am, which seems awfully early for a date. Perhaps it's not a date? My head is buzzing with all kinds of competing thoughts and I can't stop grinning. I confirm our meeting and don't hear back from him and start convincing myself that he has changed his mind. But I still go to bed grinning like a fool.

2011-09-05T19:24:00.003+01:00

I must stop turning up to work on Monday with a hangover. It is a truly shit way to start the week. The day drags as I spend my time yawning and occasionally shuffling books. The Library Officer gives me a lift home and it is obvious that he is being friendly rather than interested in me. I sneak glances at him, trying to work out why I find him attractive, when he is my parents' age, has a wonky nose and a bit of a belly. But he also has a smile that transforms his face and gives him a certain rascally charm. Also, I've never had the most conventional taste in men.

Hungover and tired, I struggle to make conversation and stare out of the window at the world zooming by. When I arrive home, I'm disappointed that I didn't try harder to talk. I'm enjoying having a crush on him and don't want reality to get in the way of my fantasies.

2011-08-30T19:20:00.003+01:00

I think I have developed a crush on The Library Officer. It is possible that I want to have a crush and he is the first man I have met since the ex and I split who I have found attractive and is single. I enjoy the tummy tingling sensation of walking towards his office to get to my own, wondering if he will be there and if we will get to chat. It's a nice distraction after the heartbreak and misery of the last few months.

We were talking and I mentioned that I was struggling to find things to do in my lunch break. "There's the gym," he suggested. "I'm not very active," I replied. It wasn't quite what I meant to say but he laughed. "I used to go to the gym years ago," I continued. "Back in my twenties..." "That can't be too long ago." "Well, I'm thirty-five now," I mumbled.

I felt like I was trying to make the point that I'm older than I look. Why would I do that? Unless I was conscious of him being significantly older than me.

"You can always bring your lunch in here and talk to me while I work," he said.

Which is what I did the next day. And he didn't talk to me! I did have a book with me so perhaps he thought he would be disturbing my reading. He did sudoku while I read the same page of my book over and over again. I sat there for about ten minutes, silent with embarrassment, until finally fleeing to have a cigarette.

For the last six months I've felt abandoned and have been grieving the relationship I had. Now, I feel single; properly single for the first time in nine years. But engaging in the world as a single woman, talking to men, flirting (yuck) and revealing your interest without looking a fool is a complete mystery. It's like an old-fashioned dance and I don't know the steps.

2011-08-26T19:39:00.005+01:00

It is one of the library orderly's birthday and I am asked to write in his card. I always want to write something witty or personal but usually end up writing: "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a fab day!" Unthinkingly, this is what I write in his card and then spend a long time afterwards cursing my stupidity. He is in prison. How fab can his birthday be?

2011-08-18T19:19:00.011+01:00

I wear a prison issue belt to work that holds a pouch for my keys which are attached to a very long double chain, with a whistle attached to another chain. The whistle slightly confuses me: faced with a difficult situation should I play a jaunty tune and lead the prisoners away like the Pied Piper of Hamelin? It feels strange to be wearing all this stuff at my waist. I have already managed to get my key chain caught on a shelf as I was talking to someone and nearly pulled the shelf off the wall as I started walking away. (I like to think no one noticed).

Today, I got part of the chain wedged onto the end of one of my important keys and was unable to pull it off. The Library Officer had to lock the library door for me and then asked about the problem with my keys, staring at the knotty bundle of chains at my waist.

"I don't know what's happened," I admitted. "It's all a big mess and I can't work out what's supposed to go where!"

He unwedged the chain from my key and then began untangling the rest of the chains. He was standing over me, closer than someone would normally stand, his fingers on the belt at my waist. I held my breath, unnerved by our physical proximity and conscious of a frisson of attraction on my part.

"This reminds me of getting my daughters ready for school when they were little," he said, slightly ruining the moment.

Blushing, I felt like a child.

2011-08-17T19:40:00.002+01:00

The library orderlies make me cups of tea and it feels a bit weird, like having serfs doing stuff for me. They have a tea-making rota and lock away all the tea bags and cups so no one can steal them. In the library they can make tea when they want and drink from 'proper' cups so it is viewed as one of the perks of the job. My manager advised me to bring in my own cup, preferably one that no one would want to steal. I bought a cheap one from a local charity shop, covered in flowers and butterflies, it's pretty hideous and I'm quite embarrassed to be seen drinking from it. No one has tried to steal it though.

I asked my colleague, John, if I should be offering to make tea for everyone as it's something I would normally do. He said not to bother, that the orderlies consider it their job. It is definitely one of the perks of my job to be drinking tea in the library. At the last library I worked in, we had to hide our bottles of water under the counter because a manager or customer might complain about them, and we were definitely not allowed any hot drinks as we worked.

The prison library feels so civilised in comparison.

2011-08-15T11:34:00.009+01:00

When I arrived at work this morning, The Library Officer asked if I'd had a good weekend. "It was okay," I replied cautiously. I dread being asked about my weekends, convinced that everyone else has had much more fun doing whatever they've been doing. As I spent the weekend sleeping and recovering from the first week at my new job, this was probably true.

"Do any partying?" he asked.

Partying? Either he thinks I'm younger than I am or I'm unintentionally giving out some kind of party girl vibe. I just shook my head and laughed.

Later, as I was being shown around the prison, an inmate shouted, "Miss, do you want to party?" I was wearing trousers, a shirt and Dr Marten boots, hardly clubbing gear. I'm a quiet, bookish librarian who has never been confused for a party girl.

I'm starting to feel paranoid about my appearance: the men looking me up and down, the smirks, the second glances, the blatant staring and suggestive comments. I knew this would be an issue when working in a men's prison but actually experiencing it is so confronting. I've always been physically awkward and never liked being stared at so this is probably the worst place for someone like me.

2011-08-09T19:11:00.005+01:00

I will never start a new job with a hangover again. My hands are trembling, my mouth is dry and my stomach lurches like an ocean. There is a lot of information to process and people to meet and I had hoped to make a good impression. The impression I am probably making is of a shy, pale-faced, baggy-eyed weirdie. My new manager is full of energy: chatty and bouncy like a three-year old and I want her to calm down and talk in a quieter voice. My face is frozen into a painful smile. Later on, she apologises for having to leave me on my own because she has an emergency to deal with. Relieved, I stand around wondering what to do with the afternoon. The Library Officer is leaving at 3pm and I think I am supposed to work until 4. He convinces me that I should also leave and I don't have the energy to refuse, especially when he offers me a lift home.

"Are you married?" he asks as I'm getting my bag out of my new locker.

"No."

I wonder if I'm supposed to say more.

"No, I'm not," I add.

There is a long silence. I've always hated being asked personal questions, preferring to very slowly volunteer information over a period of years. Admittedly, this can take a bit too long for most people.

We walk to his car. I feel guilty leaving early on my first day and try working out how my manager could find out. The Library Officer would have to tell her. He apologises for his messy car as all car drivers seem to do. It's hot and stuffy. I wipe away my sweat moustache and stare out of the window.

"Where are you from?" he asks. "I can't work out your accent."

No one ever can. It's a weird hybrid that I hate and feel terribly self-conscious about because I don't sound like any of my family or friends.

"I grew up here," I tell him. "But moved away to university, and then lived near London before moving to Australia."

He asks about Australia, whereabouts I lived and why I returned home. I tell him that I missed my parents and my father's poor health made me want to live closer to them. I mention that I'm living with them at the moment but don't explain why. It's too personal to be talking about with someone I've only just met and I already feel embarrassed by admitting to living with my parents. He asks where I want to be dropped off, I tell him and then he drives past the place. I finally say, "You can drop me anywhere here," because if I leave it any longer I might end up at his house. He stops the car and apologises, while probably wondering why I didn't mention that I wanted to get out earlier. Red-faced, I thank him and hurry away.

As first days go, it was not the worst I've ever had. My hangover was brutal but at least I didn't find out that the person I was replacing had been fired and her best friend was now my boss, which did once happen to me. Being able to compare your current situation to much worse experiences in your past is one of the great things about getting older. Yay!

2011-08-01T18:05:00.001+01:00

[insert three months of post breakup heartsickness and sadness to explain not writing during May, June and July]

2011-04-30T20:27:00.001+01:00

"Here's some stuff I found upstairs," The Boy says, handing me a pile of crap. "It's just letters, cards, photos, some flyers, not sure if you want to keep them." I look at a couple of the photos. There is one of us with our arms around each other in the garden of The Empress pub in Melbourne. "You're giving me back photos of us?" "They're your photos," he replies. "I've kept my photos of us," he adds, defensively. "Thanks," I say and close my bedroom door. I hear him sigh and walk upstairs to his study. This is our last weekend together before he moves back to Australia. We are spending it dividing up our stuff and packing. There has been nothing we've argued over. I was sad when he packed a painting he bought when we last broke up and then became so used to that I thought it was ours. But it's just stuff. There is nothing - the painting, the xbox, or the Japanese dishes he bought before we met each other and which we have used for nearly every meal we have cooked together - that I will miss like I will miss him.

My packing has come to a standstill. A week today I will be at my parents' house, in my old bedroom, and he will be on the other side of the world. Everything I've packed is suffused with memories of us; nearly ten years of being with someone will do that. There seems to be very little that I owned before meeting him. My fear is that I let someone take over my life, tried to change to please them but never enough because I never really wanted to change, and all I'm left with is a pile of crap.

2011-04-29T05:29:00.000+01:00

Is he wearing pajamas and a waistcoat? I think as a middle-aged man approaches the counter. Noticing his confused expression, I ask if I can help with anything. "That is beyond my remit of understanding," he says, gesturing theatrically at the photocopier. I offer to show him how the strange machine works; most people who come into the library are terrified of the photocopier. "I've just popped out of the hospital for five minutes," he tells me. "And want to make a copy of this." He holds up a newspaper article showing a large photograph of a fish. Of course you do, I think. For what other reason would someone leave hospital and visit a library dressed in their pajamas. His phone rings as I'm showing him how the Machine of Terror works. "Just a minute," he says. "That will be my dealer." I stare at the photograph of the fish and try not to look like I'm listening to their conversation. He apologises after the call ends and I resume showing him how the photocopier works. "And it is 20p for an A3 copy," I say. He opens an enormous bag containing an array of technical equipment and finds his wallet. He searches through it for a moment before saying, "I'll have to go back to the hospital for some money." I feel mean that I can't photocopy his fish for free but my manager is already giving me pointed looks for spending so much time with him when there is a queue of people waiting for their books to be issued. Before leaving he shows me his Bang and Olufsen earphones. "The most amazing earphones ever! Save up and buy yourself a pair, you won't regret it."

Ten minutes later he's back, greeting me like an old friend and clutching one single twenty pence piece. "Why are you copying this?" I ask. He rummages in his bag, pulls out his ipad and iphone and places them on a desk near the photocopier, then pulls out a long piece of wood. "Have you heard of marquetry?" I shake my head; although I've heard of it I don't know what it is. He explains that he will put an image of the fish on the piece of wood. I still don't understand how it works but I'm more concerned that his shiny new ipad is sitting on a desk a couple of feet from us and all unattended belongings in this library are stolen within minutes. I tell him this and he's shocked. "You mean I can't leave my computer, phone and earphones over there and no one will take them?" He grabs his high-end electronics while complaining about the state of the modern world. As I hand him his newspaper and photocopy he produces a bus pass from his wallet. "That's how I used to look just a couple of years ago." In the photo his hair is dark and long and his face full and round. "Never get cancer," he says. "I'm sorry," I reply. "I wasn't looking for sympathy!" he says sharply. Then his face softens. "Thank you for your help. You've been lovely. What's your name?"

"Polly"
"I'm Carlos"

I shake his hand and notice how swollen it is. "Thank you," he repeats. "You're welcome," I reply, meaning it. As I walk back to the counter, he shouts "And don't forget to buy yourself those earphones!" I smile at him. "And a Mac Book Pro," he adds before walking away. He's the smartest man in pajamas I've ever met.

2011-04-21T04:28:00.000+01:00

We are in the office and TB is typing next week's staffing rota. "Is there anyone you don't want to work with?" she asks. "I don't mind," I quickly reply. There are always two members of staff timetabled to work at the library counter and mostly I get on with whoever I'm working with. Of course I have my favourites but don't think the rota should reflect this as it then becomes personal and can lead to cliques. However, as I think about TB's question, I start regretting my pomposity.

"Maybe not Colleague C," I admit, feeling guilty. Since returning from her holiday, Colleague C has been following me around the library and suddenly launching into twenty minute monologues about "decluttering" her house and the benefits of feng shui. Her face gets closer and closer to me as she talks and so begins the awkward two-step shuffle: I move backwards, she moves forward. This is repeated until I am unable to move further back without kicking down a wall or hurdling a book trolly. When she stands next to me at the counter and a borrower approaches, we end up greeting them like a two-headed library beast. She will not leave me alone to deal with a borrower but interjects with her own particular interpretation of the library service: suspicion of all borrowers. Sometimes, she just stares at me from afar, glassy eyed and adoring. She has also started showering me with random compliments and the occasional pep talk.

"Okay," TB says, laughing. "But she really loves you!"

Increasingly, I am spending my time at work hiding from strange borrowers, odd colleagues and unsuitable suitors. The best thing about this library is the number of exits, secret corridors and passageways. It means there is usually an escape route.

2011-04-19T06:47:00.000+01:00

"Do not shout at me," I tell Crazy Customer in my strictest librarian voice. "I'm going to call a manager to speak to you." He has already accused me of "stealing" his computer time when his session on a PC ended. As I walk towards the telephone he continues to rant at me and a young guy standing in the queue tells him, "Don't speak to women like that." Crazy Customer turns on him, shouting "Devil! Devil! Devil!" As I'm ringing around trying to find a manager, I hear people telling him to calm down but he continues ranting. Another borrower walks towards him and shouts, "IF I HEAR YOU TALKING TO HER LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL PUNCH YOU'RE FUCKIN' HEAD IN!" He is enormous but Crazy Customer squares up to him. Pushing and shoving each other they fall against the stone pillar next to the Enquiry Desk. My colleague, Prince, presses the panic button. My hands begin to shake as I shout into the phone, "We need help down here!" Suddenly there is a crowd of borrowers involved, some trying to separate them, others pushing forward to watch the fight. Crazy Customer is punched in the face and falls to the floor and we press the panic button again, hoping security or the police will arrive before it gets even worse. Borrowers finally separate the fighting pair as a manager arrives and leads Crazy Customer away from the counter. Prince and I are stunned but continue serving customers as we hear further shouting from the other end of the library. My hands are still shaking and I have to ask customers to repeat themselves as my mind tries to process their enquiries. When my manager returns, I am ushered away from the counter as apparently my face is pale with shock.

In my six years of library work, I have never experienced anything like it. I hope it is the first and last time I have men fighting over me.

2011-04-15T04:04:00.000+01:00

Due to a grotty cold and throwing up during the night, I am forced to phone work to tell them I won't be in today. I hate my 'phoning in sick' voice: croaky, feeble and self-pitying. Because my manager cannot see me I need to at least sound ill. After the phone call, I am not sure what to do with myself. I would love to sleep but seem to have pulled a muscle in my back from all the coughing so lying down is painful. I cry for a bit: big, snotty sobs that make me blow my nose even more. I watch an episode of True Blood. I read a few pages of my current book. I doze sitting up until my head drops forward jolting me awake, only to discover it is still not even midday. Minor illness appears to exist in an entirely different time zone: a very long, boring one. Thank god for my friend the internet. In a feverish daze I start buying Bobbi Brown makeup until I eventually close my laptop, scared by the possibility of spending all my money without leaving the house.

I can't sleep or eat. Instead, I pace around the house, blowing my nose, coughing and occasionally running to the bathroom to be sick. My mother calls and talks about her garden while I cough and roll my eyes which is quite hard to do at the same time. Later, I lie in the bath for hours until I am cold and crinkly-skinned then I put on one of The Boy's old baggy jumpers. I watch The Crimson Petal And The White and finally fall asleep, propped up by pillows and surrounded by tissues like a Victorian invalid.

I can't wait to get back to work.

2011-04-12T18:09:00.000+01:00

At break-time, Tech Guy asks a question and the only way I can respond involves mentioning that The Boy and I have broken up. I was hoping he would never find out. "It doesn't surprise me," he replies and I want to punch him for his insensitivity. He then spends the afternoon hanging around the counter trying to engage me in conversation. A couple of days later he sends me a Facebook message. "Feeling crap. You around on Saturday for a beer? Could do with someone to rant at." He wants someone to rant at and thought of me. Bless him. And perhaps after he's finished ranting he could then shag me. I've seen him do this with other girls: a raptor swooping in after that they have broken up with someone, preying on their weakened defences.

There is no one who annoys me more than Tech Guy. He also thinks we are friends because shouting YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND is the only way of making him think otherwise and I can't bring myself to do that. Oh, and that I accepted his friend request when I first met him. I ignore his message, hoping this sends its own message. The next time I see him he asks if I got his message. "Yeah, I was a bit busy," I reply. He ignores this and proceeds to moan about his life. After work, he asks to walk home with me. I have never been able to think of excuses under pressure. No, I want to walk home with only my thoughts for company is what I want to say. Instead, I listen to him ranting as he uses the entire twenty minute walk to whinge about a girl who cancelled a date with him because she had a half price restaurant voucher she needed to use with someone else. After my prison visit, he sends me a message asking how it went. I don't reply. A couple of days after that I receive an invite to his birthday drinks. I don't reply.

I am never this mean to someone and it feels awful but I don't know how to deal with him. I am too much of a coward for brutal honesty and the signals I have been trying to send are not working or are then confused by agreeing to walk home with him. People at work start teasing me about him. Advice on how to deal with him includes unfriending him on Facebook, pretending to hate the things he loves ( e.g. World of Warcraft), leaving the country and inventing a new boyfriend.

Prison is starting to look like the perfect escape.

2011-04-11T17:38:00.000+01:00

I am asked to help with the Easter event for children. Unfortunately, I don't really do children and always end up talking to them as if they are educationally challenged dwarves. We are making bonnets. It might be a controversial opinion but I think the Easter bonnet thing is a bit naff. If it wasn't for Irving Berling the tradition would have died out long ago. However, these children are very young and seem to enjoy it. A wee boy shows me a picture he has drawn on his pink bonnet. I'm not sure what it is. "It's a man with one eye, one nose and one leg," he tells me proudly. He is mesmerised by the hole punch I use on his bonnet so I can thread ribbon through it. After that the bonnet rarely gets a look in as he gleefully hole-punches coloured scraps of paper. I make myself a bonnet covered in garish glitter flowers. It keeps falling off my head and hanging around my neck. A baby points at me and laughs. I sit on a tiny chair and wonder if a day will come when being around children will be normal. I still hope to have children but am not tormented by any great maternal urges. It could happen, it might not.

I am glad when the event ends and I can return to the adult world of big chairs.

2011-04-07T15:24:00.000+01:00

I stand outside the prison waiting for my manager. I'm so nervous that my hands are sweating and shaking. This is my first visit; finally, I will get to see what it is like. As my manager unlocks a door, she warns me that my first time inside might be "confronting." She continues, "and it's okay if you want to leave or tell me this is not the job for you. I've known people have panic attacks once they get inside." I still follow her, my mouth dry and heart thumping. Inside, it is a tower of iron bars and gates. There is a cacophony of noise: prisoners shouting, doors clanking, whistles being blown. But the library is quiet and I meet the other staff, prison guards and orderlies. There seems to be a lot of staff for such a small place. I am told a great deal of information about the prison and library but my head is spinning and I find it difficult to take it all in. I don't understand all the prison terminology and I'm unsure of the right questions to ask. My mind is shouting: I'M IN A PRISON! Truthfully, I just want to gawp at everything and everyone.

It is the orderlies that I most worry about working with. They are essentially my staff, but also inmates. In any other library they would be my colleagues. I wonder what we will talk about and whether I will have to prejudge or censor everything I say. I am warned that they make lots of cups of tea and I will have to get used to drinking about twelve cups a day. And that I should bring "a really girly" cup so that no one will want to steal it. (This one should be perfect).

I am taken for a quick tour of the prison. My manager warns me not to look in any open cells or the shower rooms "because you don't know what you might see!" Cocks and porn, I think, and then wonder what else I might see. I don't look, though. As we walk across gangways with the prisoners standing below, I curse my decision to wear a skirt. All the female staff are wearing trousers. Getting dressed this morning, I had put on my usual work clothes: knee-length skirt, blouse and boots. Now I feel a fool for wearing a skirt to a prison. As I am leaving, I take a copy of the national newspaper for prisoners. It is filled with articles about corrupt prison guards and all the adverts are for legal firms. Outside the prison, back in the sunshine and space of the normal world, I feel glad that I have finally seen where I will be working. Now I can stop imagining what it will be like. It was as exciting and as scary as I expected it to be.

2011-03-29T18:58:00.000+01:00

TB shows me a book she is considering reading at the next Storytime for children. It contains a number of nursery rhymes, mostly about food. "Can you imagine naming your food before eating it?" I ask, turning the pages. She giggles, before saying, "Only my boiled eggs." I'm quiet for a moment. "You name your boiled eggs?" She nods. "What kind of names do you give them?" "Old fashioned ones," she replies. "What? Like Ethel or Maud?" They are the only old-fashioned names that spring to mind. "Yeah, old fashioned names like that." A borrower interrupts us and I never discover the reason she names her boiled eggs yet no other food.

I really like TB. Occasionally, she wears peddle-pushers to work which combined with her cropped hair make her look like a Spanish Dickensian Tom Boy. She flies birds of prey, owns a tractor, loves speedway and would not be seen dead in a skirt or make-up. She is the most un-girly girl I know and when I first started working here, I really wanted her to be my friend. But she is only interested in boys! Her interest, energy and charisma is always directed towards male colleagues. She loves male attention and she loves flirting. And there is never any fake eye-lash batting coyness with TB, if she is interested in you then you know she is interested in you.

Unfortunately, I am not a man and she is not in the least bit interested in being my friend.

2011-03-26T18:36:00.000Z

After work, I go for drinks with five of my colleagues. We are all single. Sipping my pint of Estrella, I realise that I was a student when I was last out with this many single people. My observations on being out with (this particular group of) Single People:

we can talk about people we fancy
no one talks about babies
there are weird sexual dynamics within the group
the men make a bit more of an effort to look good

Otherwise we talk about the usual shit.

Anthony joins me for a cigarette and moans about TB: the signals she has been sending him, the attraction, and the weakening of his No Women resolve. It is probably the most we have ever spoken, and the leap into intimacy is startling.

"But how do you cut yourself off from...love?" I ask, drunkenly.
"You can't" he says. "I've tried and it doesn't work."

Perhaps you stop looking for it, I think. That's all you can do, and yet it stills beats against the door, wanting acknowledgement. The rest of the evening is a mish-mash of further confessions, colourful drinks, random photos and stolen beer glasses.

2011-03-22T10:16:00.000Z

Spring has arrived and the shimmering blue sky and bright sunshine is all we can talk about. Most of us have been caught out and are still wearing our winter clothes, only without a cardigan or jumper. As I am shelving the Westerns in a cool dimly lit corner of the library, Tech Guy sidles up behind me and shouts 'Boo!' I jump, shriek and then cover my mouth. "Don't freak out," he tells me, laughing. Twat, I think, biting my tongue. I hate being made to jump, especially when I am holding a copy of a book that has a cowboy on the cover who looks exactly like Tom Selleck and I am happily lost in memories of watching Magnum PI as a kid. We talk about my new job, which he describes as "eye candy for the lifers." He moans about his job. I look at some photos on his phone. I shuffle cowboy books until a borrower rescues me.

I think the clement weather has done something to our brains. Every borrower seems to have forgotten their library card. No one knows how to use a library. I keep dropping things. At lunchtime, as I take my purse out of my bag to pay for my sandwich, I drop the purse and all my change scatters across the crowded floor. If it hadn't been quite so much change and if I didn't need it to pay for my sandwich I would have grabbed my food and run away. Face burning, I scrabble on the floor while people pass me stray coins. This is what happens when you don't wear a cardigan, I think. My clumsiness is the weather's fault for jolting my still slumbering winter brain. Obviously.

2011-03-21T11:13:00.000Z

I've felt quite impatient at work recently, specifically with our borrowers. It is not all borrowers just the ones who are unable to look for a book themselves. I think if you know the author of a novel and understand that we shelve books alphabetically by author surname, then there is nothing stopping you from looking for the book before approaching a member of staff. If you can't remember who wrote the book, if it's non-fiction and you don't know the class mark or if you have checked the shelves and can't find it then I am happy to help. I will become Book Detective, hunting that book for you, not happy until I have searched every last corner of the library. Perhaps, once I've found it, you will say "Oh, I think I've already read it." But it's still less annoying than the people who march past the rows of bookshelves, straight to the counter to join a queue of other people who don't want to do anything for themselves.

"You're so patient," I say to Film Guy after he has spent twenty minutes with a particularly demanding customer.
"It's because I'm still new to all of this," he says. "I haven't used up all my patience yet."
"I use all mine up at work," I tell him. "Then I don't have any left when I leave. I walk home kicking kittens and swearing at elderly people."

I think about working here for another five years, or for the rest of my working life as some of my colleagues will do. I'm impatient and annoyed by things I had previously accepted as part of my job because I know I will be leaving, though still not when it will happen.

2011-03-19T20:26:00.000Z

The Boy and I arrive at the restaurant at 7.30 and there is some confusion, apparently the booking is for nine people at 9pm and the staff look suspiciously at the two of us as we clutch my mother's birthday presents and claim, "That can't be right. I don't think we know nine people!" My mother, father and brother arrive. Mum hugs me for a long time and tells me how much she has missed me. "I think I remember you," my dad says as I kiss him on the cheek. He is looking so well, no longer the frail old man of the last year. My mother is giddy, she loves celebrating her birthday. She unwraps our presents: a long purple cardigan that she immediately puts on despite it clashing with her animal-print top, a copy of The C.S. Lewis Bible, and a hat made out of photographs of beer. My mother's two favourite things in the world are God and beer.

The nine people is explained when my parents' friends and their two teenage daughters arrive. We eat, drink and chat. The eldest teenage girl makes snide comments whenever her sister speaks. "Thanks for sharing that with us," she says, her words deep-fried in sarcasm. "Now get back in your box." I never spend time with children or teenagers and feel like a social anthropologist, studying their behaviour. They both obsessively fiddle with their mobile phones and radiate the world-weariness of seventy year olds but are also chatty and funny. Photos are taken. More drinks ordered. A huge amount of Chinese food scoffed by us all. I bask in the warm glow of being with my family when no one is arguing or sulking; it's a lovely evening.

2011-03-18T18:51:00.000Z

Last night, The Boy and I argued after he told me he had booked his flight back to Australia for the beginning of May. We didn't argue about that but about my inability to move on and start trying to be friends. "I'm still mourning," I told him. It is such an inadequate word to describe how I am feeling: stuck in this post-breakup trauma that I can't seem to shake off. We shouted and swore at each other and then didn't speak for the rest of the evening. I call him on my lunch break and he immediately apologises for last night. "I don't think it has to be like this," I say. "I want to be friends." But the issue is not being friends - we are and will continue to be - it is trying to manage the time until we are no living together; when the proper separation begins.

I'm so tired and the afternoon can't go quick enough. As I'm working at the counter, I see Book Guy browsing the graphic novels and feel unnerved. I continue issuing books and think about what it would be like to go on a date with someone new, to kiss someone for the first time, to sleep with them, to fall in love again. When there is a lull in borrowers, he comes over to the counter and gives me a leaflet with the details of his book, to replace the one I lost. "Thanks," I say. "I'll try not to lose this one." He tells me there is a Facebook group for his novel. "Are you on Facebook?" "Sometimes," I reply, hoping to seem wary rather than enigmatic. He writes down the details of the group before I'm interrupted by another borrower. He's probably a fanatical self-publicist, but right now, my ego likes to think he's besotted with me.

2011-03-17T19:17:00.000Z

A few weeks ago I borrowed a lovely brand-new copy of this book, put it on my bedside table and then forgot to read it. Returning the book today, I open it and discover water damage on the first few pages, ensuring that ink from the red inside page has spread on to the rest of the pages in a big pinkish smear. Shocked, I quickly close the book. I have never damaged a book before but no one else has borrowed it: I am the only culprit. The number of books I have read in the bath, at a careful arm-aching angle, so that not a single drop of water has touched their pages. All my hard work ruined! A couple of days earlier, I had told Film Guy that book damagers should be punished by having the mistreated book thrown at their heads. When I show the book to TB, she says it's not in that bad a condition but I think she is just being nice; Film Guy, quite rightly, offers to throw it at my head.

2011-03-16T20:21:00.000Z

While shelving, I notice a guy glancing over at me. I remember speaking to him a few weeks ago about a book he had recently self-published on Amazon Kindle. After telling him I owned a kindle, he gave me a publicity leaflet and I promised to look at his book, but I lost the leaflet and couldn't remember what the book was called. I keep my head down, continue book shuffling and hope he doesn't talk to me. He moves nearer and asks, "Did you get a chance to look at my book?" Instead of inventing an excuse, I say, "No, I lost the leaflet." It's true but sounds lame. We chat for a bit about writing and self-publishing. He asks if I write and I become embarrassed. "A bit," I admit, starting to blush. I get like this when I talk about writing: stammering as if confessing to an unseemly propensity for solitude and self-indulgence. He asks what I write and my mind goes blank. "Weird little stories," I finally reply. My cheeks are burning and I'm so grateful when another borrower interrupts our conversation. I swear, once again, to never admit to writing.

My late night is quiet. There is so much work I could be doing but instead I read about what is happening in the Fukushima plant. I google the many thing I don't understand about nuclear physics, despite being surrounded by thousands of books. As I'm leaving work, Library Dude asks if I want to go for a drink with him and Pedro. I make an excuse and feel relieved. They will have fun and I'm not in the mood for hanging out with boys at the moment. I can't cope with all the irony.

2011-03-15T19:01:00.000Z

Colleague C has bought a new bed! She has been talking about buying a bed for the five months I have worked in this library, and according to other colleagues, for a long time before then. She doesn't announce it with any fanfare but I feel like celebrating: it finally marks the end of the torturous bed searching stories. I am expecting a continuation of Bed Talk after the bed is delivered but at least it will be different to what I have heard many times before. Also, I will be starting a new job at a still unspecified time, and can manage to be patient for a bit longer. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

While emptying the book bin, I find a water damaged book that a borrower has snuck in there thinking no one would notice its condition, despite the crinkly pages, mold and bad smell. They obviously did not expect library staff quite so eagle-eyed as me. I put a message on their account and arrange for a stern letter to be sent asking them to replace the book or pay a replacement charge. Busted! (This is probably as exciting as my job gets.)

2011-03-14T19:24:00.000Z

Cry in the shower, my howls drowned out by the water. I think: the person I love most in the world is leaving me. I still wash my hair, which probably means something positive about life continuing and being a survivor and all that shit. Get dressed: knee-length skirt, black blouse, cardigan with flowers on the pocket. Make my curls really big so I can hide behind them and apply red lipstick to distract from my eyes. Arrive at work and thank the god I don't believe in that Colleague C has today off, then switch into Work Me, all chatty, friendly and happy.

In the evening I finally call my mother. It's been about five weeks since we last spoke. We don't do small talk in my family and she immediately says, "I thought you and The Boy had split up." I'm exasperated already and it's only taken a few seconds. "We have split up. You know that!" "But you're still living together." She sounds genuinely perplexed. "People can break up and still live together," I explain, like I'm talking to a fragile child. "We're still friends."

"But it's been so long since I spoke to you, I thought things might have changed."
"Well, nothing's changed."
"Okay, so I'll see you on Saturday night."
"Fine."
"Bye."

I throw the phone across the room after she hangs up and then rush to pick it up, worried that I've broken it. I understand my mother is unhappy that I've pushed her away. I've not returned her calls or been to see her, yet I still hoped she would be relieved to hear from me and want to know how I was doing. I'm not even sure I would have told her the truth.

2011-03-13T17:30:00.000Z

Wake up and cry, thinking about The Boy going back to Australia. My head feels completely fucked: I don't want to be in the relationship we had, where I often felt like a lonely little freak, but the break-up was not my idea and I would have kept working at our relationship, refusing to admit defeat. What does this say about me? I blame my parents for being married for thirty-seven years and giving me the crazy idea that diametrically opposed people could love and support each other despite their differences.

In the early evening, we go to our local cinema to see Animal Kingdom. I find all talk of Australia painful right now and seeing a film set in Melbourne was probably not my best idea. At one point there is a shot of The Victoria Hotel, a place I have happy memories of visiting with The Boy and his friends. My breath feels tight in my chest and when I finally breathe again it's like exhaling the past. When the film ends we go to the pub to discuss it. We're both slightly disappointed, despite it being a a good film with powerful performances. It was also a bit slow, allowing my mind to wander, and I think my expectations were probably too high, which is my usual problem.

2011-03-12T17:16:00.000Z

Delilah is 'working' with us today and spends the day sitting at the enquiry desk and texting on her phone. The fastest she moves is when her phone rings and she disappears behind a bookshelf to have intense whispered conversations with her on/off boyfriend. I try to reason myself out of annoyance: she is young - thirteen years younger than myself - and her life is chaotic and drama-filled. At twenty-two, I had graduated from university and was living with Welsh Boyfriend. We drank too much and argued a lot, and mostly I was a crazy, angry, unhappy person to be around. I probably wasn't too much fun to work with either.

I am supposed to be meeting Miss P and Dr G after work but Miss P is ill and I don't hear from Dr G. Walk home, feeling sad and dwelling on the past.

2011-03-11T17:01:00.000Z

When not being interrupted by borrowers, I spend the day reading news websites about the earthquake in Japan. Get home and turn on the television: footage of houses and people being swept away, boats lost at sea, buildings collapsing, nuclear power plants burning. I watch people in a supermarket as the building begins to shake and shelves begin to collapse; some of them run, others are shocked into inertia or try to shield themselves. I have no idea what I would do in such a situation: it is so alien to me. Run? Stay? Where would be considered safe? I live on a tiny island without any predators or extreme natural disasters and my mind strains to put itself into the situations faced by the people in Japan.

I keep the news on as I make dinner. It's odd to be watching the rolling footage of the disaster while pottering around my kitchen, chopping vegetables and pouring wine.

2011-03-09T19:50:00.000Z

Spend the morning reading a synopsis of the latest book for the reading group, The Senator's Wife, which is being discussed tonight. I'm disappointed with myself for not reading it and hope no one turns up for the meeting and then feel guilty for making it all about me. Arrive at work, avoid Mr Tickle, and plunge into issuing books and answering all manner of enquiries. I am asked to recommend tourist attractions, how to upgrade a mobile phone so the owner can watch YouTube videos, if I know who wrote Brideshead Revisited, and would I be kind enough to write the word FABRIC on a piece of paper. I also have the following conversation with a borrower:

"Can I bring these books back?"
"Sure."
"They're not from this library. I was given them on World Book Night and I'm not sure what to do with them."
"You read them..."
"I've already read them!"
"And then, if you want, you can give them to other people to read."

The borrower looks around the library with a panicked expression. "Pick anyone," I tell her as she moves uncertainly from the counter and into the throng of people, clutching her pristine copies of Love In The Time Of Cholera. Sometimes giving things to people can be really hard.

In the evening, I join Library Dude for the reading group. Eight people turn up and are keen to discuss the book. There are a few times when I cringe as we both try to give the impression that we have interesting thoughts and opinions about a book that neither of us have read. I've always wanted to join a book club and meet people who love reading and want to talk about books, but I also hate having to read a book that I have not chosen. As punishment, I tell myself that once I start my new job and no longer have to work on Wednesday nights, I will join this group and force myself to read the books and accept not being in control. Walk home and think about my ability to turn potentially fun things into a learning exercise or chore.

2011-03-08T18:19:00.000Z

I've had so much sleep that I wake up almost jaunty and decide to wear my favourite top to work, a fifties-style, thin grey sweater with a poodle motif. It is a beautiful morning: cloudless blue sky, grass covered in frost with the occasional snowdrop and crocus poking through. By the time the bus arrives, late, there is a crowd of people at my bus-stop. Only one person gets off the packed bus and the driver lets only one person on: me. I was at the front of the queue so it's not special treatment but I do feel it is a good sign for the day ahead.

Today is International Women's Day as well as Pancake Day and the two combine in my head to become Women Who Eat Pancakes Day. My colleague TB is Spanish and far more concerned with upholding British traditions than most Brits and has therefore brought in a stack of pancakes for us to eat with various toppings. I would usually just have them with lemon and sugar but she has brought chocolate spread and I can't resist. My appetite has returned and it is such a relief; my skirt being a bit looser was nice but enjoying food again is even better. Eat pizza for dinner, followed by a packet of sweets and start to feel slightly sick.

2011-03-07T20:03:00.000Z

My prediction was quite correct: I do feel terrible this morning. Dehydrated, baggy eyed and not at all like I've just had eight days off work. Arrive at the library: TB and Anthony say hello and then continue talking to each other. A different kind of person would muscle their way into the conversation, unaware of or ignoring their unrequited love for each other; a person like me sulks and shelves books instead. Colleague C arrives and has obviously been storing up eight days of conversation that she unleashes as I steady myself against a book trolley. At one point she complains about the stress involved in our job. "It's worse than being a fire fighter," she moans. "At least they know what to expect." Before I can reply, another colleague asks about my interview. I feel guilty telling people that I have got the job, even though they know I had to apply for it to get a permanent position.

By the time I walk home, I'm so tired that a couple of times I consider taking a wee nap at the side of the pavement or on a particularly comfortable looking patch of grass. The Boy cooks dinner: Thai red curry. We watch University Challenge and then I get into bed. It's so early that I hold a copy of the new Sophie Hannah novel in my hand for a couple of minutes, pretending to read.

2011-03-06T19:34:00.000Z

In preparation for being back at work tomorrow, I wash clothes and move the books, diaries, bags, hair products and tights that are taking up most of my bed. Being single again seems to have released my inner slob, which was never that far from the surface. In the early evening, I meet Bob and we go see The Black Swan. It is terrifying: dark, bleak and violent. We come back to my house, drink and smoke a wee bit of waccybaccypot (as the kids call it) and discuss the film. Bob is a complete film buff and although I like watching films and talking about them, I am left stumped by references to French new wave cinema or silent films and try to steer the conversation towards books, politics and gossip about our colleagues.

It is about 2.30 when I get in bed, drunk and slightly stoned. Before falling asleep, my last thought is: I'm going to feel really bad in the morning.

2011-03-05T23:37:00.000Z

Today is The Boy's birthday and I feel very emotional. It might be the last time we spend his birthday together; certainly, he won't be around for my next birthday. I cry as we are making breakfast but hide my tears, though he does ask if I've got a cold. "It must be an allergy," I reply, husky-voiced with my head down as I butter the toast. After breakfast, I check my email. There is a message from Bob's partner, June. He has told her about my new job and she suggests that I adapt my appearance for working in a prison. She recommends baggy clothes, ugly sensible shoes, glasses, and tying my hair back in a bun. I think about the clothes I normally wear: duffle coats, biker boots, long cardigans, knee-length skirts, baggy trousers and blouses and they don't seem particularly provocative. It's interesting that a number of people have mentioned how I look after I've told them about the new job. The inference seems to be that upon seeing me a prison full of sexed-starved men will fling themselves against the bars of their cells in an uncontrollable lust-filled frenzy. Flattering, of course, but not very likely. There will actually be female staff - other female library staff, a female librarian, and the prisoners will probably have seen female caseworkers, solicitors, police and other support staff during their time inside. I doubt very much that there will be men who have not seen a woman for the last fifteen years. But I've never even been inside a prison so what do I know?

In the evening, The Boy and I go out for drinks and dinner. I drink a classic martini that makes me wince, a mojito and a fancy gin and tonic. We eat Japanese food. It's good that we can do this - chat and laugh together - but it also feels like we are prolonging the inevitable, until we are no longer living together and no longer living in the same country. We walk home through the city centre: marvelling at the girls wearing very few clothes in such cold weather; avoiding the blood on the pavement from a recent fight; stepping around the police van and crowds of drunk people; jumping out of the way of speeding taxis. It's a relief to get home and close my door to it. Saturday night in an English city centre is not a pretty sight.

2011-03-04T12:22:00.000Z

Thursday was spent lounging in bed, reading and eating hot buttered toast. Today, I get up late and faff around for ages: reading old diaries and posting snippets to tumblr. I am visiting Mrs B at work and have promised to bring lunch so walk to my local deli for turkey and avocado subs. Mrs B is so pleased to see me, having spent the entire morning in an empty library. It is such an odd little library to work in: quiet, dimly lit, wall-to-wall wood, crumbling ceilings and the faint smell of damp. It feels as if you are stepping away from the chaotic world outside into a lost, bygone era. We eat and talk about Mrs B's recent health problems, arguments we've had with partners about housework and what we were like as children. She is shocked when I tell her how my family reacted to my uncle reading my diary by ignoring me and then forcing me to apologise. "But you were only twelve!" I keep thinking about it, that it was such a weird way for adults to treat a child. My childhood diaries are proving terribly revealing about my home life at the time; stuff I've not thought about in years. At first it was quite amusing to read about my love of Jason Donovan, obsession with Sweet Valley High books and worry that I was about to die from AIDS at any moment; now, I'm not sure it's healthy to meet your childhood self again.

Come home, find another diary lurking at the bottom of a box of papers and start reading it.

2011-03-02T22:21:00.000Z

Wake up and think 'I can't do this!" Struggle out of bed, shower and dress and apply make-up with shaking hands. I arrive far too early for my interview and hang around the desolate industrial estate until spotting a burger van where I can get a cup of coffee. It is the cheapest cup of coffee I've ever had, but also the nicest as it prevents me from freezing to death. It is the first time I have not worn a suit to an interview (they always make me look really over-dressed for library interviews) and I don't regret it as I feel so comfortable in my grey tweed skirt, silk blouse, fitted cardigan and long black boots that I can actually walk in. Wait fifteen minutes until being summoned by a librarian wearing almost identical long black boots; take this is a good sign. There is a panel of three and one of the women says, "Don't worry, this won't be a scary interview" and I want to kiss her on the mouth. They each ask me three questions: Why am I applying for the job? What attributes will I bring to the position? How do I deal with unhappy customers? Can I provide examples of promoting the library service? How would I deal with discovering a colleague was bringing banned items into the prison?! How would I provide information with only limited access to the internet? Can you tell us about a book you have recently enjoyed? I love that question and tell them all about Factory Girls. One of the panel says "Ooh, that sounds really interesting!" They ask if I have any questions and my mind goes blank. They tell me a decision will be made today and that I am the final interviewee. I leave, feeling dazed, wishing I had asked if that means I will hear from them today.

Bus it into town and wander around shops, my mind still spinning. What if they phone now while I am trying on clothes in Gap, wriggling out of a dress while listening to Raspberry Beret playing on the overhead speakers? I need the loo and rush into McDonalds, desperately hoping no one phones while I am sat on the toilet. The librarian phones while I am back on the bus going home. I can hardly hear but catch the important words, "We would like to offer you the job. You did a really good interview." I am so pleased and relieved. Arrive home and tell The Boy who gives me a big hug. We go to our local pub to celebrate and I gulp down three pints in record time. Feel like I have earned them. We talk about what it will be like to work in a prison. The Boy suggests that I don't ask where the murderers are or if I can sit in a cell. And they were going to be my first questions! Start to feel light-headed and tired; come home and fall into bed: it is the deepest, loveliest sleep I have had for a week.

2011-03-01T22:27:00.000Z

I feel sick with nerves, unable to eat, smoking too much and generally doing my own head in. I start a new blog to take my mind off worrying about my interview. It momentarily helps but there is no getting away from the panic and anxiety. While looking for 'important documents' to take to the interview (and which I do not find), I discover my old teenage diaries which I last looked at a few years ago. Meeting your teenage self again is such a strange feeling. I am so surprised at what a bitch I was: the diaries are filled with snarky comments about family and friends. The first diary is from 1988, when I was twelve, and is written in the aftermath of a major falling out with my aunt and uncle after they read my previous diary. I had written that my uncle 'sniffed a lot' which I found disgusting and he was understandably offended. He and my aunt stopped talking to me and told my dad who also stopped talking to me until my mum forced me to apologise to my aunt and uncle. I wish I could find that diary. I would probably feel more sorry for my 12 years old self if the subsequent diary wasn't also filled with horrible comments about people. There is one entry where I drew a picture of a baby elephant and a picture of someone I call 'Fatty Claire' and then point out the comparisons. I don't even remember this poor girl and feel so shameful. I'm so sorry 'Fatty Claire'!

2011-02-27T16:10:00.000Z

Wake up, drink coffee and read online newspapers; particularly enjoy Rachel Cooke's The 10 Best Neglected Literary Classics in The Observer and plan to read them all over the next few months. I've already got a copy of The Wife by Meg Wolitzer so will start with that. Roast chicken and all the trimmings for lunch. Watch Inside Job in the afternoon. It would be good to watch if you knew very little of the causes of the 2008 financial disaster but I recently read The Big Short by Michael Lewis so it didn't tell me anything new. It still made me angry, though. The kind of frustrated anger that has nowhere to go so it stays and festers. At the end of the film, 'Congratulations' by MGMT is played as the credits roll, which reminded me of how much I love their music.

Spend the evening reading, writing and listening to MGMT.

2011-02-26T14:43:00.000Z

Delilah is supposed to be working with us today but doesn't turn up or phone in sick. She's a strange girl: sad and slightly scary. I chat to Miss P who asks if I've seen the latest photo she posted on Facebook. I say no, always quick to give the impression that I rarely use Facebook when I've recently had to limit myself to only looking at it five times a day. I just look and rarely post anything and it makes me feel like a strange voyeur, spying on the lives of people I barely know.

Come home exhausted rather than happy to have next week off work. I already know it will be spent worrying about the interview, having the interview, and then recovering from the interview. Lay down on my bed "for just one minute" and sleep through The Boy trying to wake me so we can eat dinner.

2011-02-25T19:25:00.000Z

My favourite skirt is a bit looser, which pleases me, but I would never recommend The Heartbreak Diet, though it is obviously effective. I am wondering whether to mention my interview at work when Colleague S asks if I have heard anything about the job. After telling her, I find myself telling most people: suddenly, I've become a big ol' blabbermouth. Telling people about the job probably means that I won't get it. This weird logic has ruled my life: don't tell people that you want something because you might not get it and then you will have to admit to failing.

Start to realise that I won't be able to think about anything else until the interview is over with. And then I will start worrying about not getting the job. Or getting the job and worrying about having to start a new job. I feel permanently worried. When I think about the last couple of difficult years, I have tried to console myself with the thought that things will get easier. But then looking further back, I realised that things have never been easy. There has never been a easy time in my life, because I have always been me: worried and over-complicating everything. I can't contemplate another thirty-five years of dealing with anxiety after anxiety and layer after layer of worry. It is too worrying.

Come home, have dinner and watch Catfish. It is a really creepy documentary: the hipster guys filming it annoy me, partly because they are young and good-looking, but mostly because they are making a film that involves exposing the strange behaviour of a woman, who, having given up on her dreams, wanted to be young again. Find it difficult to get her out of my mind.

2011-02-24T16:21:00.000Z

It's my day off as I'm working on Saturday but I am forced out of bed at 7.30 to prepare for the workmen arriving to fit the new windows. I never get up this early when I don't have to go to work and it feels like I should be going on holiday or doing something exciting. There are three window-fitters and they are an uncommunicative, well-oiled team that swiftly take over the house. The only room that is not having new windows fitted is The Boy's study/bedroom and that is where we hide, stocked up with sandwiches, drinks and laptops. I get in bed while he works at his desk. It is too noisy to sleep so I download a copy of The King's Speech to watch. The Boy tells me off and I feel a bit guilty. Usually, I don't feel guilty about downloading series that I would have to wait ages to buy or see on TV, but this film is showing at my local cinema and it is only laziness and cheapness that prevents me from going to see it. It's a really good film, makes me laugh and cry, which is how I like my films. All the talk is about Colin Firth's performance but it is Geoffrey Rush's long, malleable face that I find compelling.

The Boy brings up the post and there is an official looking envelope with my name on, which always scares me. It contains details of the interview for the job I applied for last week. It is next Wednesday morning which gives me plenty of time to prepare, especially as I have next week off work. After the workmen leave, we go to the pub to celebrate. I am already feeling nervous.

2011-02-23T10:24:00.000Z

Starting work at midday on Wednesday makes me feel like I have plenty of time in the morning to do other things, but in reality, I usually spend too long in bed and then rush around getting showered and dressed in the last twenty minutes before leaving the house. And starting work at the busiest time of the day is always a shock to the system: books everywhere, people clamouring for your attention, colleagues updating you on events, while your head spins from being in bed only an hour earlier. Mr Tickle always comes into the library on Wednesday afternoons and I have been very good at avoiding him or cutting short our conversations. It makes me feel mean because he has learning difficulties and all my colleagues like him, but most of my colleagues are men or older women and he doesn't ask them in great detail if they enjoy being tickled.

Herr Doktor pops in to see me and talks very loudly at the counter about our mutual friend, Bob, who visited him the other evening. "LOTS OF MUSIC, DRINK AND OTHER SUBSTANCES!"he shouts, while I look nervously around the library. He is very sweet about The Boy and I breaking up, but also talks VERY LOUDLY about it. It's a bit too much to cope with whilst at work but at least now I won't have to worry about telling people about it. I suspect half of Yorkshire knows by now.

In the evening, I help Library Dude with the Readers Group. I'm a bit nervous about having to talk in a group situation and at not having finished the book. But only three people turn up and one of them is my colleague, TB. Only one person has read The Lacuna; everyone else gave up on it. It is a fun hour, though, as we talk about the type of books we like to read. Modern fiction, crime novels, thrillers and historical fiction are unsurprisingly popular. Classics get a disappointing thumbs down. I would join this group if I didn't work Wednesday evenings: talking about books is fun!

2011-02-22T20:13:00.000Z

Fascinated by what is happening in Libya and it illustrating how our foreign policy reacts to events rather than ideology. Colleague S is more concerned that revolution in Africa presages the end of the world according to the Mayan Long Count Calendar. Not sure how to respond as it's the first I've heard about it and I was hoping for a discussion about politics. The end of the world does have a certain appeal, though. It's selfish but I like the idea of knowing how it all ends. I could always identify with the scene in When Harry Met Sally when Harry talks about reading the last page of a book in case he dies before reading it all. From a purely superficial view, I would like to know what happens to Madonna. I worry that she will outlive me, despite being seventeen years older. She seems so superhuman that I can imagine a post apocalyptic world filled with cockroaches and Madonna flexing her muscled biceps.

It's a day filled with strange borrowers. Film Guy is asked for a dictionary by a borrower so he can look up a certain word in a text message he's received. (The word is 'cum'). And Prince gets asked by a borrower for books about getting rid of a ghost she believes is following her around. This particularly malevolent ghost hides items of clothing that people have complimented her about. There are so many items of clothing, books and documents that I can't find and would love to blame on a malevolent ghost. Instead, I blame the angels.

2011-02-21T22:25:00.000Z

One of the managers informs me that my contract has been extended until the end of June and the news does not make me as happy as I expected. I know I should be pleased to still have a job, and a job I really enjoy, but they also don't realise how a temporary position effects all your decisions outside of work. The main one is being able to sign a contract on a decent place to live, knowing I have a guaranteed income. I don't do well at living in the 'now' and not being able to make plans is driving me crazy.

Walk home from work feeling glad that I'm not returning to an empty house. The last couple of weeks have made me realise how proactive you have to be when living alone: you have to make plans and force yourself out of the house. Or perhaps that's just me, though I doubt it. Most things I consider unique about myself have proven to be terribly common. Eat roast chicken, potatoes and veggies for dinner; paint my nails a glorious gothic black and watch the film Precious. It is almost too painful to watch: at one point, I shriek and cover my eyes. And it's not because I'm watching a film that stars both Mariah Carey and Lenny Kravitz. Find it difficult to fall asleep afterwards.

2011-02-20T20:00:00.000Z

The Boy arrives back from London as I am unpacking the online food delivery that has just arrived. I have already tidied the house by superficially cleaning the bathroom and kitchen and shoving lots of things in drawers and cupboards. We spend the afternoon drinking wine and catching up. It's fun but then talk turns to our relationship and I become upset. The Boy hugs me and it feels nice; the no physical contact had been weirding me out. Friends hug, go out together and keep in touch and that had all stopped after our relationship ended. We were navigating the boundaries of being friends whilst not doing any of the things friends do. Although I'm still upset, it makes me feel better that we are actually starting to be friends again.

In the evening, we eat roast lamb and start watching V. It was recommended by my mother and brother but at first seems so generic: acting and dialogue that is cliched, CSI-style American drama. But I slowly start getting into it, as I wait for another glimpse under the human skin for the lizard lurking below. At the end of every episode, when the credits flash up, it lists the producer as Brian Wankum and each time it makes me snigger like a child.

2011-02-19T19:35:00.000Z

Wake up, open my curtains and discover it is snowing. There was once a time, not too long ago, when snow filled me with childish wonder and excitement, but that was before I had to trudge through it to work and go about my usual daily activities v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. Snow now seems like a chore, which must mean I've finally become a grown up. It quickly turns from proper snow into sleet and then rain and soon disappears.

Today, I am supposed to be cleaning the house because the landlord has arranged for new double-glazed windows to be fitted next week and it would be unfair and embarrassing to have the workmen stepping over my shoes, clothes and empty wine bottles while trying to do their job. My aunt keeps her house in pristine condition just in case she dies at home and people have to break in to find her body. I am more of the opinion that by then I will be dead and won't care, but, while still breathing, live in fear of unexpected visitors. Instead of cleaning, I am suddenly wildly fascinated by and compelled to read The Lacuna: only five-hundred more pages to read before we are discussing it on Wednesday.

Spend the evening finishing the first series of Dexter, which gives me goose-bumps at the twist at the end. Then start watching an episode of Faulks On Fiction, focusing on The Snob in literature. It is fascinating, though I am dismayed to realise that I am a snob: the narrow view of people and life, distilled through a prejudiced prism. I am probably too self-aware to be a true snob, but it is still there: the judging of people to my own exacting standards. I'm even snobbish about my own brand of snobbery.

2011-02-18T19:01:00.000Z

Feeling sad: a combination of hormones and self-pity. At work, a borrower wants to receive a fax and I spend ages getting all the details and waiting for the fax to arrive until a colleague casually mentions that our new phone system doesn't allow us to receive faxes anymore. Apologise to the customer and feel like a prize muppet. Library Dude tells me about all the sociable things he's got planned for the weekend. I can be pretty unsociable, and especially right now, but I am still jealous of (and fascinated by) sociable people. Remind myself that sociability is as natural to them as sitting alone in my bedroom is to me; realising this doesn't actually make me feel any better about it.

Work with Blog Crush over lunchtime. Whereas before I could happily chat to him, now I am shy and awe-struck.

Walk home in the rain, wiping the tears from my face, blaming the cold weather for them rather than my deep-boned sadness. A very wet Mr Bingley is waiting on my door-step and I am so pleased to see him. He is slightly oil-stained from spending his day sitting under cars and it gives him a Dickensian street-urchin appeal. Spend the evening wrapped in a blanket, watching True Blood, eating pasta and listening to him purr contentedly.

2011-02-17T23:15:00.000Z

Spend the day concocting fantasies where I meet my ideal man. He reads, writes and owns a dog but besides that is quite a vague figure as I have no idea what my ideal man would look like. None of my ex-boyfriends fit a type, though the common denominator would probably be 'distinctive' looking. Perhaps I go for men that are easily spotted in a crowd of people? I guess it makes sense: I'm short and therefore cannot look over people's heads so brightly coloured hair, a big belly or a passing similarity to Jarvis Cocker helps me find them.

Get home and check my mobile and realise my mother has phoned while I was at work. She has tried to call me twice in the last couple of weeks, both times when I was at work and unable to answer my phone but never in the evening when I am alone in the house. Feel annoyed and upset; drink wine and don't bother with dinner. Watch 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo' and really enjoy it; wish I had not bothered with the books and just watched the films instead. There is a scene where the actress playing Lisbeth Salander is naked and has really hairy armpits and I'm surprised by how attractive it looks, and then surprised by my surprise at someone not having porn star pits.

Have not seen Mr Bingley all week and starting to become slightly worried about him.

2011-02-16T22:47:00.000Z

Wake up early to finish my job application form: feel like it has going on for days because it has. Finally finish it and then have to start work. Spend the afternoon processing new acquisitions and spend my evening shift chatting with S & SMS. My manager speaks to me in private to tell me that my contract will probably be extended for another three months but not to tell anyone about it yet. Don't know whether to still be worried or pleased.

Leave work and chat and smoke with Library Dude and his wife. I'm pretty sure that our mutual friend, Mrs B, has told them that The Boy and I have split up because Library Dude hasn't asked after The Boy and he usually does. Not sure how this makes me feel. I thought LD and I were good friends: The Boy and I went to his stag do and wedding. But he can be funny about asking personal questions. After my dad had his stroke, he never asked how he was doing. I have to accept that at the moment no one can do the right thing: people who ask are prying and insensitive, people who don't are are hard-hearted and uncaring.

Get home, eat chicken (weird protein-based diet), listen to old classics (Fleetwood Mac, ELO, Elton John), read online newspapers and blogs. Drink white wine (for a change). While reading one of my favourite blogs, I recognise the name of its writer as someone who works in my library, causing me to do a comedy-style double-take. I've been reading his blog for a while but only recently worked with him and after extensive googling and facebooking realise they are the same person. He is only my second blog crush (my first was Ms Fits after spotting her in a pub in Melbourne) and I wonder if should mention his blog when I next see him. Probably not if I don't want to seem like a weird-stalker-fangirl.

2011-02-15T00:27:00.000Z

My fingers and ears turn numb on the walk to work but the bright-blue winter sky almost makes up for it. Colleague C immediately launches into her weekend adventures researching bed frames, memory foam mattresses, enormous pillows and specialist bedding, which I like to call Operation Bed. She has been talking about Operation Bed for the last four months which makes me wonder if I will still be around when she finally buys a new bed. There is always the possibility that I will have moved to a new job or killed myself before I ever find out.

At break time, I smoke cigarettes with Delilah. In the afternoon, I meet with Librarian Dude to discuss the Readers Group and Book Club and discover there are lots of ways to look like you have read the book being discussed without actually reading it. I wish my first book was not a 600 page monster as I can't imagine being able to wing it, although it is very tempting.

I see my manager and ask about whether my contract will be extended beyond the end of March. I think she knows but can't admit to knowing and says all the temporary contracts are still "under discussion".

Come home and write the 'further information' part of my job application while drinking wine and smoking copious amounts of cigarettes. The rough draft is a fine balance of cliche, invention and spin.

2011-02-14T22:53:00.000Z

Thank god for work, and it providing a reason for getting up in the morning. Never, ever thought I would be a person who would think that, but having something I still enjoy is how I measure whether I am depressed or not. I have known depression: life-shrinking, self-hating, negative-nellying utter shitness, and I know that what I am experiencing now is purely sadness: the mourning of what has gone. It is horrible but it will pass. At work, I make my snap decision about the internal job vacancy and decide to go for it. It's in an area I know nothing about (prison libraries) and a higher scale than my current position, but applying for a new job will at least give me the feeling of taking control of my future and doing something positive.

It is Valentine's Day today; thankfully, most of my colleagues are a "loveless bunch" (a colleague's words, not mine) and there are no deliveries of flowers or discussions of romantic dates to cause jealousy/nausea. A local Art! Action! group leaves Valentine's Cards in the library, stashed among the shelves and containing letters about love-slash-community action with key-rings emblazoned with the motto 'Global Love". Between them and my Valentine's emails from Asda, Tesco and Waitrose, I feel very loved.

Two previous colleagues start new jobs at my library today: Delilah and Librarian Dude and it is good to see familiar faces.

Get home and realise that platitudes about applying for a new job are less convincing after a busy day at work when I want to sink into food, alcohol, writing, TV and pretty pictures on t'internet and instead have to complete my 'job profile'. Even though I am of an age where having a lot of previous work experience is A Good Thing, adding every 'previous employment' is tedious. Realise that I have had a lot of jobs but working with books has been the link between them all. It is not a typical career trajectory but I like discovering a theme to what previously seemed like a combination of hotchpotch and happenstance.

Decide not to use the terms 'hotchpotch' and 'happenstance' on my application form.

2011-02-13T21:48:00.000Z

Today, I crashed. A combination of tiredness and solitude. Cried while reading Your Voice In My Head, cried when I finished reading it, cried when I had a bath, cried while I walked around the house wondering what to do with myself and cried when I got back into bed. I cried for the end of my relationship with The Boy, I cried for lost friendships, I cried for the relationship I wish I had with my family. I mourned it all.

Towards the end of Emma Forrest's book, after she has gone through some serious psychological and emotional shit, she writes 'I wake to an email from the love of my life' and reading the start of the subsequent email, I initially wonder if it's from Gypsy Husband (her name for Colin Farrell) but it is from her mother. And I am so jealous. Talented, successful, beautiful: she's a writer that seems to inspire jealousy. But it's her relationship with her mother that I envy.

Later in the afternoon, despite the tear-soaked tiredness, I begin to write. It's the only thing that I can get lost in, that totally absorbs me. I write the beginning of a story I have been thinking about for a while. I write for five hours and don't want to stop, because when I do stop, I begin to cry.

2011-02-12T23:46:00.000Z

I wear green tights under my skirt to work and then regret it. All day, whenever I catch a flash of my tights, I think it looks like I have little leprechaun legs. Not a good look. At work I find an internal vacancy I might be able to apply for but I am in two minds: I want to stay working where I am, but my contract is scheduled to end in March and there has been no word on whether it will be extended. Decide not to think about it so I am then forced to make a snap decision on Monday morning. On my lunch break, I take The Collected Dorothy Parker out with me into the wintry sunshine and read some of her poems. It feels like they want to be read aloud while swilling the words around my mouth.

Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:

Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:

Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:

Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:

Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

Came home, drank red wine and ate leftovers. Had a bath and listened to the new Joan as Police Woman album while reading Your Voice In My Head. Will have to make up for this by reading 150 pages of The Lacuna tomorrow.

2011-02-11T23:41:00.000Z

We are short-staffed at work and I have to work on the counter/enquiry desk with Unsociable Colleague. I flip through a cinema guide and mention that I want to see The Black Swan and we end up chatting about films and TV series we've recently enjoyed. It is the longest conversation we have ever had. Later in the morning, an elderly gentleman asks if I can show him how to attach a document to an email. He is very grateful for my help. "I wish I could do you a good turn!" Helping people find information or learn something new is one of the best parts of my job. "If only I had some Jelly Tots to give you," he says. "I sometimes carry them around with me." I am baffled and look it. "Because I invented them," he explains. "While working as a research scientist at the Rowntree's factory. You can find me on the internet!" I do, and am inordinately pleased to have met the inventor of my favourite sweets as child.

At lunchtime, I head to a local health food shop. I have a vague idea of embarking on a health 'kick' (whatever that might be). I wander around the shop like it is alien territory. Buy incredibly expensive coconut water, licorice tea, cashew nut butter and oat cakes. Follow this by popping next door to Greggs and scoffing a lard pie. The afternoon is exhausting: I have used up all my desire to help people. "Google it, fuckers!" I feel like shouting. As I leave work, I remember that a copy of the book to be discussed at the next Readers Group, The Lacuna, is lurking at the back of my locker, and as I am helping run the group, I really ought to read it. It looks like the biggest book in the world and my heart sinks.

Buy veggies, make dinner, have a bath and manage to read 40 pages. Calculate that I need to read 50 pages a day to have it finished in time. Sulk.

2011-02-10T23:39:00.000Z

My day off as I'm working on Saturday. Took ages getting ready to go out. I'm super concerned with my appearance at the moment and hyper critical: I'm too chubby, my hair needs cutting, my skin is terrible since I started smoking again. I don't look much different to a month ago, before The Boy and I broke up, but it's obviously knocked my confidence and left me focusing on all this superficial shit rather than the more important stuff. Meet Anna and Mrs B for coffee. Anna is heavily pregnant and we talk a lot about pregnancy. She asks about The Boy and I tell her we have split up. She is shocked and it's all a bit awkward. At the moment, seeing single friends/stoner dudes is about all I can manage; meeting up with friends who are married/pregnant feels a bit much. Tell myself that it won't always be like this. After coffee, Mrs B and I go to the museum for an exhibition of Spice Girls memoribillia. It was all collected by one (obsessive) fan and there are about 3,500 items: magazines, clothing, platinum discs, platform heels, lunch boxes, stickers, even a moped. The Spice Girls movie is playing on a big screen and we watch it, cringing. I am embarrassed to admit that I actually went to see it with my university housemates in 1997. It is as bad as I remembered.

Came home and made spaghetti carbonara after finding a recipe on the BBC website. It's one of my favourite dishes but I've only made it once before and it was awful: too rich and sickly. Realised my mistake was adding cream. This recipe was perfect; was planning on saving some for lunch tomorrow but ate it all while watching Dexter.

2011-02-09T23:38:00.000Z

Woke up lying on my side with Mr Bingley balanced precariously along the length of my body. Sneaked him out of the house, feeling guilty that his owners will think I'm trying to tempt him away from them. Read my February horoscope even though I believe it's 99% bullshit. Apparently, "planets in Aquarius suggest you want, and will buy, a new electronic device - computer, flat screen TV, microwave, dishwasher, smart phone, or other exciting new high tech 'something.'" And "you've now reached the perfect part of 2011, from now through early June, to pick out your furry little creature. Plan to go down to the animal shelter soon to find a darling little kitten or dog." It may be bullshit but it is very persuasive bullshit: the planets are telling me that I need an iphone and a dog!

Felt poorly and grumpy at work; spent the afternoon creating imaginary situations where I argued with colleagues and customers. Quite exhausting. Herr Doktor popped in as I was starting my evening shift. He asked if The Boy and I wanted to come round for dinner at his new place and I had to tell him that we had broken up. He looked shocked. "Properly?" he asked. "Forever?" and I said "Yes," but without crying. I think telling people is getting a bit easier.

Finished work at 8pm; walked home while still conducting imaginary arguments. Didn't bother with dinner as I can't taste anything so what's the point? Felt very sorry for myself.

2011-02-08T23:36:00.000Z

Beautiful, crisp-cold morning so decided to walk to work. My walk is always so finely timed that that it never allows for unplanned situations such as the guy in the corner shop engaging me in conversation. The last time I was in his shop, he and his son had me arbitrating their debate of further education versus leaving school and getting a job. This morning, the father informed me that he would have to find £9000 a year for course fees if his son decides to go to university. It's not even a particularly great university and they are charging the maximum fees. Rushed the rest of the way to work and arrived with red cheeks and a sweat moustache.

My cold really started coming out in the afternoon and I didn't even have the energy to avoid Colleague C. She regaled me with tales about Operation Bed while I blew my nose, coughed and stared feverishly into the distance. After work, I went to my parents' house for dinner: salmon steaks, new potatoes, green beans and peas. Amused my brother by asking, "Do you watch The Six O' Clock News...at Six?" Colds always make me dull-witted.

Came home to find Mr Bingley waiting outside my door. Let him in, went to bed and fell asleep without letting him out.

2011-02-07T23:32:00.000Z

I only seemed to be asleep for ten minutes before my alarm went off and I had to drag my poor alcohol and drug ravaged body into work. Caught the bus instead of walking. Our rota was not kind to me today: on counter with Colleague C for the first couple of hours. She managed to mention 'decluttering' about every fucking minute. Informed TB about the information I found out about Mr M last night. She shared her shortbread with me at break time so must have been impressed with my detective skills! Later, TB got stuck with a very deaf but chatty elderly lady who kept asking questions and then informing her that she couldn't hear her replies. "There's no point talking to me!" she would shout, before asking a question that required a reply. In the middle of the conversation, she spotted me and shouted out, "You look just like one of Botticelli's Madonnas!" Being hungover, I was quite flattered, despite the likelihood of her being longsighted as well as deaf.

Spent the afternoon hiding in the office: trying to look busy, trying not to fall asleep. Came home and baked some chicken breasts with tomatoes, potatoes and herbs. Had a glass of wine even though I told myself I was giving up today. The Boy texted me to see if I was watching University Challenge. We watched it together, separately. I miss him.