Post-CELTA

After 4 intensive weeks where I barely had time to wipe the sweat off my brow it was hard to know how to fill my time apart from de-constructing every element of speech and hugging my knees whilst reciting my 'th' tongue twisters.
I had a job interview in Tralee on Tuesday.
I made the journey back to Monaghan to collect my suit on Sunday afternoon.
I made my way to Maynooth the following day as a the first step in my long train journey to Tralee.
I could choose between a 6 hour journey on the bus or a marginally shorter journey via train.
From Celbridge it would take 4 hours (each way) with numerous changes.
It was also the last day of the Rose of Tralee festival.

I had a brief chat with two ladies from Prosperous who strangely had relatives at every milestone I had every reached.  I suspected they spoke of phantom families.  I nodded and smiled accordingly praising their good genes and parenting skills.

I got to Tralee and I had no idea which way was which.
I approached a burly beast of a man dressed as a steward and asked him but was hastily rebuked that he was a Corkman and not a native of Tralee.  I made my escape.

I attempted to walk a little of the way I hoped was in the right direction.

I was feeling a little hungry and I had a few hours to kill before my interview.
I popped into a diner and ordered a tea and burger.  I text my CELTA friend, John, who had told me he'd be in Tralee with his girlfriend, Estelle.  John told me he'd meet me.

I squeezed into my suit in the meantime.

John kindly offered to drive me to North campus of the Institute of Technology where the interview was scheduled to take place.

With much ado and confused wandering we found a building adjacent to where the interview was to take place.  John had left his car in the carpark which was becoming a distant dot on the horizon as we march up the hill to the designated venue.

Inside, there was one lady typing furiously on a computer (that I suspect was powered off).
She told me to wait and that I'd be called for interview in a moment.
I sat.

Within a few seconds an officious looking woman marched up to me with her hand outstretched.

I was brought into a room nearby where a middle-aged man sat.  We shook hands and I was offered water.

The interview went reasonably well.

But at the end I was told that the job I was being interviewed for may not actually exist.
What was happening I was not sure.
If a sufficient number of students enrolled there would be classes to teach.
I believed this to be something of a joke and I glanced stealthily sideways to see where the hidden camera was.

Why ask someone to travel to the bottom of a country for an interview for a job that likely won't exist.

I left a little confused and disheartened.

I met with John and Estelle and we went for a brief tour of Tralee.
John excitedly pointed out all the hotspots, including the podium where the winning Rose would pose after the ceremony, and a pretty little flower garden in the park.  We went for a drink and discussed the French language.

At 5 o'clock I boarded the train.
I whipped out my notebook and sulked to myself.

It was going to be a long 4 hours to Dublin topped off with a 40 minute journey to Maynooth.

The rest of this post traumatic CELTA week was largely uneventful.
But I suspect the stress and fatigue of the previous four weeks had taken their toll or it may simply have been my fool's errand to Tralee, but I wasn't feeling the best.

I met with a few friends, lunching and drinking coffee.  My time was littered with tv, internet browsing and job applications.

I hoped that the weekend and week after might bring some excitement into my life.
Or at the very least hope for change!