The child bride and I were up and out the door early this morning for the long trip to Abertawe ("Swansea" for those of you playing along in England). Rachel had a job interview at one of the hospitals there, and I got to come along so she wouldn't have to worry about the logistics of public transportation.
It was an hour and a half of travelling each way. Sadly, the result didn't seem to vindicate the effort; Rachel is pretty sure she didn't get the job. She said that at the end of the interview she was sort of given advice of what to do "should your application for this position be unsuccessful," which almost certainly means that it was.
She was pretty heartbroken when she came to find me in the hospital cafe afterward. And I felt pretty useless as a husband for not really being able to say or do anything about it.
I think she was expecting it all to be a lot easier. My experiences of constantly applying for jobs and failing she had written off as the absence of a university degree on my CV ("résumé," for those of you playing along at home). She has a master's degree and I think was expecting...
I don't know what she was expecting. Husbands get in trouble when they try to guess the mindsets of their wives. But clearly she wasn't expecting to find herself a month into living here without a job.
Things really aren't so bad. She has another job interview lined up for Thursday, this time for a job in Cardiff. And she has applied for a position in Heath (a medical area of Cardiff).
But this certainly isn't helping things.
I think the South Wales Echo must have dropped the story they were going to do about me. It was supposed to run Monday or Tuesday, according to the reporter. With Wednesday now come and gone, I am wondering if the story was, in fact, a ploy to get me to buy their ass paper for a week.
Although there has been no mention of my Welsh exploits in the paper this week, I did get to learn about a translation error on local road signs warning Welsh speakers about "bladder inflammation overturn."