The support has been one thing (overwhelmingly so), but what has been particularly rewarding is uncovering a network of like-minded people (some former redundants, others business start ups and the rest freelancers) who come together in an incredible exchange of services. No fees are charged. Instead, what manifests is a whole lot of back-scratching.

It really started with Motivator who gave me career advice, and in return, I helped publicise a book he was launching. Unbeknown to me, however, being a new business, he had been trading services for months – helping a chef with a resume and receiving free meals for a week; writing a marketing plan for his osteopath in exchange for back adjustments which were required after he injured it in a personal training session which he swapped for web site assistance. It was endless. When his pink slip was due he helped his mechanic’s son with his HSC exams and got mug shots from a photographer who was in need of a business strategy. I was inspired to say the least!

But just as I was getting comfortable in my kitchen table-working, service-bartering, tracksuit-wearing world, I got a call. Would I like to apply for a job? It had been four months since our initial contact, yet here they were with a real opportunity. “Of course”, I replied enthusiastically, even though I could feel a rush of panic setting in. How would I deal with the real world again? Will I be able to walk in heels, cope with no visible panty lines, hairless legs and structured clothes? My anxiety levels started to rise and I became aware of sweat gathering under my arms and across my brow as I contemplated my future.

In an effort to ensure I was a good fit with the existing team, they requested I complete a personality assessment. I agreed, confidently thinking I’m Miss Personality, how hard could that be?

Famous last words…

That thing was hard. Lots of extreme scenarios and questions that seemed similar in nature, but were ever so slightly different, clearly designed to test the consistency of my responses. You frequently and easily express your feelings and emotions – yes or no? You find it difficult to speak loudly – yes or no? The more people with whom you speak the better you feel – yes or no? You find it difficult to talk about your feelings – yes or no? I can tell you that by the end of the test I was completely ready to express my emotions and speak loudly to whomever wanted to listen and you can be damn sure it made me feel a whole lot better!

After what was an excruciating wait, I got the results. Horrors of horrors, it seemed (shockingly) that I had been stripped of my Miss Personality title. My profile had been deemed invalid. While most adults score between 50 and 65, I had only achieved an index of 45. I had somehow failed a personality test! Who knew that was even possible?

The report attributed my low result to, among other things, lack of self knowledge. Yeah right! I started to draft the email outlining the thousands of dollars I had invested on personal development (read therapy) over the years, but then figured that was possibly not the best fact to promote in my first interview!

Despite my (apparent) personality shortcomings,  a few meetings later an offer was on the table.  And within a week  (nothing like a swift re-entry!) I found myself sitting on the bus, uncomfortable in my tailored pants, g-string and heels, on my way back into what had become a foreign world – real desks, colleagues (who I wasn’t related to), stationery cupboards, communal birthday cakes, water coolers, and a board room (without a bed in it).

As I rocked in rhythm with the rest of the passengers, I reflected over the past five and half months (with Babs on my shoulder singing Memories) to when I first became a casualty of the GFC – my grandmother’s unsympathetic words as she reminded me unemployment was nothing compared to being single at my age; the huge task of deciding which tracksuit to wear each day; and ultimately, coming to terms with the fact I had to recalibrate my entire life. A wave of gratitude then followed as I realised (thankfully) things never got dire enough to have me move back in with my folks (much to their disappointment), bake a single cupcake or buy pre-loved clothes. Oh what a ride! I knew the experience had definitely changed the way I was, and the way I will be, forever.

The blog was a friend’s suggestion. I was sharing my crazy anecdotes of being redundant and her response was…“Journal it. In fact, why don’t you write a blog?” I had heard of the word before. Being a comms specialist, it’s important to keep up with the current trends, and I had, of course, read the hype surrounding Julia & Julia.

Blogging huh, that could be an interesting project, I thought. So I called a digital strategist ex colleague, told her of my plans, and asked how best I get started. “Download this book”, she replied. “It’s blogging for idiots.”

Wow my first ebook, I was becoming so very tomorrow. That, unfortunately, was only momentary. Is there a stage before idiot I wondered as I tried desperately to make sense of the pages in front of me? Words I had never heard of, instructions that assumed a basic knowledge, and suggestions that rendered me perplexed and overwhelmed. My idea of hell really. I could feel the panic and disappointment rise as I slipped back to being so very yesterday.

But my determination got the better of me. Before long I was at it again, this time trying to register a url. “You should protect your brand name”, another friend advised convinced I was bound for fame, wealth, and Oprah’s couch. Buying into that dream (and I looked just fab famous, wealthy and on Oprah’s couch) I was on the phone to the net registry company in no time. (I know, slight contradiction registering my online empire using the tools of the past, but baby steps for this gen xer).

Why the registration process took four phone calls (to the point they knew my name, blog intentions and the fact I am completely net illiterate) escapes me, but I was official.

I then realised, unfortunately, launching a blog onto one’s own web site was actually far more complex than merely blogging via an established platform. So, I immediately abandoned the former, opting instead to express myself by starting a blog in (apparently) seconds. Interestingly, they never quantified how many seconds. Thousands later, I threw in my mouse (I know mice are so completely last year…at least mine’s wireless) in frustration and called in the heavy artillery, Astro-Blogger, my incredibly savvy astrologist friend ten years my junior (not that I am ageist) who had me up and running in no time. And to boot, she advised I was better waiting two days to launch so I could capitalise on the new moon [which also happened to be Jewish new year – I got my grandmother to bless my blog’s success too when she was doing her annual request of the almighty that she should live to see me settled] when Jupiter was retrograding Mars or something like that and I would get the positive rub off that energy field created.

Much to my horror, the assumptions then started to flood in. If I was blogging, surely I was skyping, facebooking and above all, tweeting.  I can just get my head around the first two, but tweeting is slightly beyond me. “It’s simple. Just go on and start following people and then people will start following you as you start to get a following of your own.” Simple…not! Where are we all going? Do we ever get there? And who the hell is leading anyway?

And just when I thought things couldn’t get any more confusing and confronting, my unsavvy state was challenged yet again when I was allocated my group for an assignment I had to do as part of a course I was completing. Nothing better than working with two girls who’s combined age was still younger than mine. And perfect, the topic we had to focus on – MySpace – still a complete MyStery to me! They spoke a language I had never heard, worked at a pace I had never experienced and knew stuff that amazed me. I struggled along, Zimmer Frame in tow, trying to keep up. If only the assignment was on The impact the introduction black and white TV had on lives. No surprises when I shared that notion with my group mates (smiling broadly, hoping to bond through humour) they stared at me blankly before looking away to continue sweeping their iphones, tweeting and commenting on a blogging forum.

I am clearly so not Web 0.2. Is that right, or is that the legal blood alcohol limit? Whatever…pass the remote!

Being redundant, however, has turned that on its head. Apart from not having a cash flow to fund such luxuries, the truth is I hardly need to be dressed in the latest designer garb to roll out of bed and spend the day in my living room. So I thought good time to rethink my shopping habits and consider (God give me strength), second hand.

I have a number of friends who have embraced recycling completely, opting to only love the pre-loved. And as much as it pains me, I have to admit they usually look bloody good. But I have learnt to refrain from telling them that, lest I unleash the brag where they literally point to every piece of clothing they are sporting and announce how little they paid (think whole outfits for under $20!), leaving me to merely smile sheepishly and attempt a topic change knowing I am going to lose the clothes-off miserably.

I thought back to the number of times, when driven by a supposed vintage trend, I ventured into my local op shop full of hope and anticipation only to throw in the towel a few minutes later completely overwhelmed by mothball fumes and lack of merchandising. A handwritten sign saying tops sitting above a rack bursting with clothing, is not my idea of helpful.

But now, as a redundant, the nice to consider is changing to have to consider. So I thought it best I discover how to love the pre-loved.

My friend Happy Hippy was full of pearls on this subject as we panted up the lighthouse stairs on yet another of my trips to Byron. (I know I should look to Israel as my homeland, but I have to say in these redundant days nowhere do I feel more at peace than Australia’s most easterly point. The way I rationalise it is that Byron’s so full of falafel-making Israelis that if I squint and just listen to the eh ech I could actually be in the Holy Land.)  He suggested I grab a hanky (do they still exist?) and sprinkle it with peppermint essence and hold it in my gloved hand (yet another piece of wisdom) ready to fling over my nose when the need arose. But his winning recommendation was that I should consider weaning myself slowly into the world of opportunity shopping by first frequenting the designer exchange haunts before attempting to wear what he described as “dead people’s clothes”…noice!

With that advice on board, I thought I was now ready to take the plunge and asked another friend, Second Hand Rose, who is pretty much head-to-toe pre-loved (“even your underwear?” I asked thinking it was a rhetorical question, but was a little taken back when she said even she drew the line there. Excuse the faux pas, who knew people even recycle their underwear?), to take me shopping.

There we were, her in her $12 ensemble and me in my designer clothes that a least were a few seasons old (I thought I should get into the spirit of things) outside our first shop. “It’s important to set your intention”, she said as she handled a dress and quickly returned it to the rack after seeing its overpriced tag of $45. I settled on jeans…I had worn pre-loved before so I thought I should wean myself in with the familiar.

“Don’t buy anything that needs fixing and try everything on”, she continued while ushering me out of that store with haste and directing me to the apparent op shop Mecca, Vinnies.  “Brace yourself”, she warned sucking in her breath as she paused for a minute to soak in the glow. I tried to see what she saw, feel what she felt, but all that came was a queasy panic as I followed her to the rack marked shirts. I watched her handle one and replace it swiftly. Perplexed I asked her why. “It was from Target.” Brilliant, there is snobbery within the preloved world too…maybe I could fit here after all.

I managed to find a few pairs of jeans to try on and got my next surprise (actually it was two, the first was a tissue in one of the pockets…eeewww!) – even at $8 a pair, the same decision-making process comes into place as if they were $800. Does my bum look big in these? What’s that hole? The hem is coming down. Not sure about this wash. Will I get an effective cost per wear ratio?

Second Hand Rose wasn’t having much luck either as she gathered her rejected bits and pieces.  “I might wait until these go on sale”, she announced. Sale, how can a $6 item be reduced any further?

“You really have got to come in weekly”, she stated as we exited her haven. “Sure”, I replied knowing I would never return. “And when you are done with something, just give it back to where you bought it.” Recycling the recycled, I thought, wow this is endless. What happens if you then buy that piece back again without knowing it? I was getting dizzy…not to mention faint from too much peppermint essence. I needed to work again quickly!

Postscript:  Second Hand Rose bought the garments she was considering two days later at the half price red label sale. Her total investment for three pieces was $10. I have avoided her ever since.

Then I heard about a clean-me-out bowel detox which literally pulls out the negative consciousness which has become stuck in physical tissue. I thought, bingo, I can poo the trauma right out of me! So a few hundred dollars later for some vile potions (my lips are turning down involuntarily even as I write this) and gluggy shakes, not to mention completely removing anything remotely flavoursome from my kitchen, I was ready to go.

To help accelerate the process and ensure a complete cleanse, colonics (what is it about that word that stimulates another involuntary action – bum clenching) are recommended. I’ve never had a colonic before, but for someone stuck in the anal stage of development, I was pretty excited to explore new frontiers.

Clean undies (felt that was important for some unknown reason) in hand, I turned up for my appointment. Instantly they up-sold me from a single to a triple explaining to get all the way around the large intestine a minimum of three flushes were required. My bulk buying (and frugal) mentality had me nodding enthusiastically.

“Could I please fill in this form?” was their next request. If there is one thing I hate, it’s forms. With clipboard and pen in hand and a liquorice tea brewing, I relaxed (or tried to) into the couch.

I started filling in the detail – name, address, postcode, telephone number and then my hand came to an abrupt halt. I could feel my heart pick up pace and sweat moisten my upper lip and underarms. There it was – the next box on the list – occupation. It’s normally, working out whether to tick divorced or single that sets off this reaction, but not now. I could feel the heat rise through my body as anger surprisingly set in. How dare they? This is a bloody spa – why should they care about what I do! Don’t they realise it’s rude to ask a woman in a tracksuit how she earns a crust. Should I write have been looking for work for the past few months after being thrown out of my last job, but in this time of economic turmoil all I have been able to attract is rejection, thanks for asking? And then I thought, it probably won’t fit on the short line anyway, so in protest, I left it blank.

And just when I was breathing easy again, I came upon my next trigger – date of birth. Intriguingly, that was followed by a multiple choice question of age group. Just in case the first question hadn’t sent me spiralling, here was the follow up poke. Couldn’t they simply do the math?

Thankfully, my perplexed state was relieved when my practitioner arrived and asked me to follow her upstairs.

In no time, I was hooked up to a machine as she massaged my belly explaining that not much could happen until I moved an apparent build up of gas. Just my luck! She interrogated me as to what I was eating that could have caused this state, but when I explained I was on a detox and was restricted to only bland, raw salads (apart from my attempt to vitamise celery [apparently naturally salty] with pumpkin to make something hot, but was left with, what I can only call, hairy soup – the Donna Hay of detox, I ain’t), she agreed, it wasn’t the food.

“Anxiety also causes gas”, she announced. “Have you been feeling anxious lately?” Have I been feeling anxious lately? How lately are you talking about? Try five minutes ago! Have you had a look at your forms, lady? I was so desperate to let her have it, but instead, I explained I am a redundant and that does make me anxious at times. She nodded compassionately and I thought great, as I lay there blowing nothing but hot air into the tube in my bottom – not only has my redundancy given me sleepless night, more grey hairs and a new appreciation for leisurewear…it’s also given me gas!

And we could even have our own 12 step program:

Step 1 – make sure there are no typos in your resume

Step 2 – get out of your tracksuit when going to an interview

Step 3 – network your network

Step 4 – be prepared for rejection

Step 5 – be prepared for rejection

Step 6 – be prepared for rejection

Actually, pretty much the rest of the steps would be – be prepared for rejection.

But by far the most important item on every meeting’s agenda would have to be sharing how we are making the best use of this time out of the rat race and appreciating it to its fullest. What is it with non redundants constantly banging on about how lucky I am to have this space in my life and how I should grasp this opportunity to make it amazing? It’s not enough I have to cope with a sense of failure, daily rejection, tracksuits and finding another job in a hideously tough climate, I also have to make sure I enjoy the break and don’t waste the opportunity to explore the things I never have time to when I am working!

I was at a lunch recently sitting next to a woman (who I must add was raised to great stature because her contribution of Roloed-centred biscuits were voted best on table – too sweet, and a little burnt, for this strudel-eating palate) was telling me (between accepting compliments and sharing the recipe) about a redundant friend of hers who for six months pretty much focussed all her efforts on making gourmet meals and baking for her husband. She didn’t think much of it until, during her first few weeks in a new role, interviewed another redundant who spent his time off volunteering in an orphanage in Vietnam, prompting her to realise that she had literally wasted her six months of (supposed) freedom.  If only she had baked cup cakes during that time and launched a small business selling them.  Not only would she have probably made headlines – having your cake and eating it too – inspiring redundants everywhere that cupcakes are a path to salvation, she would have also enjoyed the gratification in knowing her culinary efforts had not gone to waste. Now had she baked cupcakes for orphans in Vietnam, her status would have been elevated even further, perhaps making her eligible for the coveted Redundant of the Year Award.

The story really got me pondering – how will I reflect over this time when I am back in the daily grind again? Strangely, as I contemplated this, I thought how could I possibly fit anything else in, let alone something meaningful, into my already seemingly full day? Of course, I can’t exactly tell you what occupies my time and why I am always running late to the few arrangements I have scheduled.  I am afraid I have become that cliché of not knowing how I ever worked with everything I do now. Best I take some time out of my rat race to make a contribution I can be proud of!

I shared how I was riding the roller coaster of emotions, typical of the trauma I had experienced (plus a bit more thrown in typical of a Jewish, single, childless, aging woman, plus actually, a bit more thrown on top of that just typical of me – think a BLT of neurosis). And then she dropped a great ah ha pearler which stopped me dead midway my mouthful of sashimi.

“Redundancy is like a massive break up”, she announced. “Effectively you have been dumped and it’s going to take time to get over it.” I am always happy when any issue can be brought back to men, but I wasn’t overly thrilled to hear my professional and personal lives had become one and the same.

But the more I pondered about it, the more I thought, she’s right. I had been dropped abruptly and painfully, just when I thought we were at the peak of our relationship, with not much more of an explanation than “it’s not you, it’s us” and ushered out carrying only what I had brought into the union – my lunchbox and mobile phone.

My God, my professional and personal lives had fused! Networking had become my new dating, or as another friend put it, I had become a professional flirt. Who needed RSVP when I had seek and my career? Effectively, my resume had become my dating profile and head hunters, my new matchmakers.

This was fascinating! I realised I recently had the same reaction I have when a boy is too eager, thinking a company which replied almost too swiftly to my application (and used exclamation marks to notate their excitement to meet me) probably wouldn’t be a match, and sadly, I was right. It is also equally as torturous waiting around for a company to ring back and live up to their hollow promise of I will call you soon, and if they don’t, acknowledging that perhaps they just weren’t that into me (and that ringing them continuously, or doing drive bys at odd hours of the night, weren’t going to change anything).

I understood quickly I needed to practise the same technique I use in my personal life – that of surrendering – letting companies hunt me, showing my interest but making sure I didn’t force the outcome or look too desperate. (I wonder whether replying to a company wanting to meet me, I can’t because I’m washing my hair, is taking it too far?)

The similarities kept coming. Companies today are completely commitment phobic – even I (a girl who can’t sign a telephone contract) am learning new techniques as to how to delay, talk around, or avoid making any kind of firm decisions.

And then the analogies came to a screeching halt when I wondered if getting a job in today’s climate was similar to meeting a mate, would my grandmother be content when I got reemployed…somehow I think not.

I decided not to decide but to be open to what the universe provided (clearly too much time spend in Byron). And like that (I just needed to ask, or my angels were listening, or my stars were aligned, or my karma was such that I deserved to receive) I got a call. Would I please come in and help out on a pitch. “Sure!” I responded enthusiastically (as redundants do to even the vaguest notion of being needed again) not even asking what the pitch was for.

And there I was two days later sitting in front of the brief that was destined to turn my world around – developing a proposal for a nativity concert. What more could a Jewish redundant hope for? Damn, I thought immediately, I should have paid more attention to the Christian holidays too. I could feel my face burrow as I tried to work out whether Christmas was when He died or was born. As for the story of how – a donkey and immaculate conception were the only two details that came to mind. But as a redundant you never say “I can’t” or “I don’t”. How hard could it be to find out – I will google it and Bob will be my uncle. 

Extensive searches later and I found much to my horror there are in fact many versions of what happened, not to mention a whole movement of people who believe in this time of multi-culturism and diversity that the nativity story should not be told at all.

I couldn’t resist but think that in that context perhaps it was time to have Jesus reconnect with his Jewish roots and tell the tale of Chanukah with a menorah and apple blintzes! Thankfully I didn’t have to ponder too long on the dilemma. Realising last year’s concert boasted 120 animals (including a donkey – seems like I knew from nativity stories after all) and as many children, the agency quickly withdrew their interest.

All this freelance, contract, semi permanent, part time work that was not yet a job and definitely far from a career created a need for me to reinstate the company I had created a decade ago when I was last redundant (actually I am third time lucky). Except now I realised it was definitely time to consider a new name. You see 10 years ago in a momentary lapse of sanity I agreed to align my company with that of my sister’s (who living in New York, I considered more creative and now than I’ll ever hope to be).  And so Grope Pty Ltd (hers was Grope Inc.) was launched based on the notion as her embossed note paper stated communicating by touching people. I still shake my head in horror as to what she was thinking, let alone me. I could see the headline – groping redundant jailed!

Yup a change was mandatory. And then a stroke of genius – seeing as I didn’t give out a single card the whole time I was at the health retreat (people were too busy pooing or talking about it to give a shit – forgive me but I couldn’t resist – about my future) and in this time when my frugal habits have reached new peaks, I thought best I somehow incorporate the word ‘enthusiast’ in the name. And with that, Enthusiast Consulting Pty Ltd was born.

Now, I have been to Byron many a time during my working life, popping in for a quick hit of hippy R&R before returning to the big smoke and corporate rush.  But no amount of tiered, ankle-hugging skirts, flowing maxis bearing more florals than the botanical gardens or loose singlets, could help reduce my feelings of being an imposter. My pedicured feet, waxed legs (and underarms), leather handbags and dare I say it, shoes, kept outing me as a tourist, a visitor, a non-local. 

Turning up as a redundant, however, was quite something else. Finally, I felt at home, at one, with this community of like-minded people who had also walked away (okay so I was pushed) from mainstream life.

But just when I thought I could enjoy the organic donuts (so good for you eating two consecutively is almost mandatory) and the smell of falafel frying, I encountered a sub community of which I was once again on the outer…backpackers.

They were everywhere! Walk down the main street of Byron and all you see are spruikers flogging dozens of offers for them – free internet, share accommodation, tours, dope, you name it. I must have passed ten in as many minutes – yet not one approached me. I wondered how they hell they could tell a redundant from a backpacker? Was it just because I chose not to wear those vile coloured pants with thigh-high zippers that convert into shorts with one easy move, or those transeasonal (worn with socks in winter) Velcro sandals? Or was it because I wasn’t wearing a pouch around my neck, waist and wrist carrying everything I owned of value?

When I wasn’t walking the streets of Byron trying to be mistaken for a backpacker (free is free), I decided to take advantage of the myriad of activities, workshops, and classes the town had to offer. There were flyers everywhere. My first choice was the so you think you can trance (only in Byron) conscious dance evening. There we all were getting in touch with and opening our chakras and moving to beats that took us on an expansive journey for over three hours. It was actually pretty wild. Thankfully, we had chai (soy) and a vegetable (tofu) curry (with brown rice) to bring us down and ground us back in our bodies. (Soy milk and curry, not exactly my choice of recovery food, but when in Byron…)

The other workshop I was compelled to try was a cuddle party – an opportunity to explore intimacy through human touch in a non intimate environment or something like that. The concept was to somehow decide whether you are a cuddler or cuddlee and then find others to co noodle, all the time ensuring the cuddle did not escalate to anything sexual. The only thing I explored, however, was my aversion to being cuddled or cuddling strangers. But saying “no” to a cuddle was actually encouraged (billed as setting boundaries) so for once my frigidity was applauded. But sitting around watching others embrace mmm…think it’s time to go back to the sorority.

*Title courtesy of Motivator

And even worse, we were all shacked up in what was known as the work experience accommodation and being all girls, to me it quickly become known as the sorority. The sad thing was compared to the others, I was kinda the Sandra Dee of the group, but of course when I tried to share that with them (in a bonding moment), they looked at me blankly and asked if she was a friend of mine on Facebook.

And as for any kind of Dirty Dancing antics, disappointingly they were nowhere to be found. The closest we got to really living it up after hours was watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and eating sugar-full chocolate (both big no no’s in the media free, agave-syruped environment).

Then came our uniform – black and white leisurewear – leggings, yoga pants, t-shirts, puffer jackets and most distressing of all, runners. On the up side, I walked around pretending I was one of those well to do mums (I had encountered during my coffee-filled networking frenzy) who swan around all day in their gym clothes looking fabulous. What’s that about anyway? When I leave the gym, I could scare small children and the only place I go is straight home to shower and change. What workout do they do that leaves their hair completely intact, their makeup unsmudged and not a sweat mark anywhere?

As for our responsibilities, they were all highly cerebral and completely varied from waking the guests at sunrise and washing dishes, to clearing tables and anchoring the morning walks. But by far my favourite was housekeeping. You know for all the profile-building tests the guests did on arrival to establish fitness, flexibility, blood sugar levels and the like, none compared to the psychological insights one receives from cleaning their rooms…the clues are endless and often mmmmmmmind-blowing! 

But if I was to ever write a memoir of a redundant’s time living on a health retreat, it would definitely be titled, Eat, Fart, Poo. Never have I encountered so many people obsessed with their bowels. I understood the retreat’s promise for optimal movement to be about exercise, but it seemed the guests took it differently. Wind and pooing were constant conversations. How often, when, what sort, how long…it was endless. I was completely horrified when one day an extremely sophisticated, well-heeled and stylish guest provided me with intimate details of her farting episode during one of her private classes the day earlier. I got sound effects and all! Absolutely terrifying. But on the bright side, perfect fodder for my book.

It was clear I needed a break – from my networking frenzy that was the result of my enforced break (which had left me broken) but this break, rather, would be a self-induced break (which would hopefully repair the bits that were broken). 

To be honest how much receiving can one redundant take? I have never in my life experienced so much generosity from friends, colleagues and clients. Don’t get me wrong the family was there too, but that was more in the way of food offerings and money (yep my parents were keen for me to move back home and retire early…like I haven’t been traumatised enough!)

And then a friend gave me some advice.  She mentioned when she was a redundant back in 2000, she lived on a health retreat and participated on a program they called work experience. “Work experience at my age?  Aren’t I too old?” “Just check it out”, she encouraged.

So I did. I visited a couple of websites and there it was – work experience: a once in a lifetime experience (what like climbing Everest, having a good hair day when I actually need one – curly hair is that unpredictable, or going to a wedding where the other single person is male, completely gorgeous, eligible and into me) to work behind the scenes in return for full board.  Sounded fair to me. Considering I have never quite understood the attraction of health retreats (investing all that money to have someone wake me at 5am to go for a walk when I already rise daily at that time to exercise and eating mung beans at every meal was never my idea of fun) I thought perfect, kill a few birds with a carrot stick and some gluten-free muesli. So I applied, and much to my delight, was accepted.

This place was going to be perfect. Not only will I get an insight into the world of health retreats, some much needed R&R in what was constantly being described to me as a healing environment (perfect for a now wrung out redundant), but I would be surrounded by stressed executives (who else could afford the indulgence).  And then it hit me…coffee and chocolate parcels in exchange for career advice or even a job. Bribery and corruption – love it!

From the guests to the staff, I couldn’t resist but think what antics we would get up to after hours. Flashes of the sweaty, thrusting pelvises of Dirty Dancing filled my mind. I mean should I practise carrying a couple of watermelons around? Nobody puts girl redundant in a corner! I wondered whether I would have the time of my life.