Back to Kabwe

This isn't strictly about London. England plays Brazil in a friendly today at Wembley. I was swimming upstream a sea of red shirts at Kings Cross, and think it's best I stay away from that part of town tonight. The photo? The best footie match I've seen, in Kabwe at sunset, shadows and dust trailing behind these eight-year-old stars.

The past few days have settled into a routine of waking, altering my CV, applying for jobs, applying for jobs, applying for jobs, then heading to town to explore.

While working in the British Library, Charlie from a recruitment agency called. Upbeat, she told me about an urgent six month contract for a technical writer. Interviews to occur within twentyfour hours, and the successful applicant starts immediately. Lavishing me with praise, she asked whether I could be interviewed the following day. Of course, I responded, I sound perfect for the job. And that was that. She'd be in touch the following morning.

I woke at six today with a thumping heart. My hands reached to my phone to check for messages. It was too early, but I checked anyway, hope being a funny thing. I woke at six thirty, then at seven. After a while I was rousing with my phone in my hand. At nine I was in my formals, and heading to town.

When the clock hit midday I called Charlie. A man answered. She was busy, but would be happy to be in contact me at her earliest convenience. Half past one in the library, my phone rings.

"Hi, it's Charlie. I'm just making a curtesy call...."

Disappointment is hope unfulfilled.