I was writing out of a Starbucks the other day, and a few hundred words in, the smoke alarm went off. A barista appeared from the first floor, told us something I didn’t take my headphones out in time to catch, and was gone again. Some people around me started packing, so I assumed some sort of leisurely evacuation was in order. A few other headphoned individuals like myself were looking around, equally confused. The alarm quieted down within ten seconds, no further evac orders followed, and from the window, we could see that the first floor people weren’t running, either. So, after a brief chat between ourselves, we settled back down.
During that chat, a young woman at the next table caught my ear. The way she pronounced her th-s strongly suggested she was from the same neck of East European woods as yours truly. A quick question proved me right. She was Ukrainian, and from my home city of Kyiv, at that – so we were chatting before long.
My new friend was called Yuliya, a Java programmer with a good taste in headphones and a strong dislike for Liverpool stemming from its lack of freelance contracts in her field. As someone unable to find a part-time minimum wage job for about a year now, I happily joined in the bitching about the job market.
Then, somewhere in our talk, this exchange happened. Yuliya, dear, if you’re reading this, I’m sure you meant no offence, so I ask you take none at me, for sharing our conversation with the world.
Me: Fortunately, I don’t need to worry about money TOO much at this point, so I’m putting my main focus on my art.
Yuliya: Oh no, I’m a workaholic, myself. *laughs*
Did I hear an intake of breath from any freelance/beginning/struggling artists who are reading this?