My patience was being tested. I had one day to find a new job, and the day was coming near to an end. The bills were piling up. We weren't winning lotto. And Slowy was so slow, she would never eat the grass to a good enough standard to get to the minimum 300 millimetres required by Auckland Transport to be a serviceable berm. And the oil had run out. Did I mention the oil had truly run out?
I looked at my options. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Option 1. Sell up and move Dad to the Waitakere Gardens, where I could live as a guest squatter as long as I kept my profile low.
Option 2. Ring my ex-boyfriend in rehab, and become his accountability person. I will stop him from taking dangerous drugs, and be paid as a support worker. As long as he acknowledges he has a problem that will never get better.
Option 3. Run away and join the circus. Shortland Street needs more people all the time. I could act as a kooky mental patient, and make a tonne of money on the long running series, as long as it continued to be on air. Perhaps even more if I had a special kind of illness that meant I could play multiple characters.
I was in the process finding out the number of the Waitakere Gardens retirement village when I heard a familiar ringtone. It was my Facetime. My sister! What could she want, plus it was 3 in the afternoon. Why would she be calling me all the way from London in the early hours of her morning?
