I'm not sure what's gotten into me; after months of posting nothing, this is my third post today. And actually related to therapy, if not knitting!
I am a member of BACP but I'm not accredited. Which in lots of ways doesn't matter, as lots of jobs say either 'accredited or working towards accreditation' (and you can be 'working towards accreditation' without actually doing anything really), but it would be nice to be able to put it on my website, and the real push comes because the only route via which I can actually get accreditation is closing at the end of October, so it's now or never. (I've known for months - typically I'm only deciding to do something about it now).
So, step one was printing off the 46-page application. DONE. Haven't read it yet, but one step at a time.
Step two - searching for my diploma certificate so I can send off a copy. I think I must have lost it when we moved house (over six years ago). It once lived in a clip frame, but I'm pretty sure I decided that was ridiculously pretentious pretty soon after and took it out. But I have no idea where I put it then. It's not in my incredibly complicated filing system, because I thinned that out some months back (and found my CRB check form, and my passport, which were also mislaid). (I know. Bit of a pattern there.)
I do however have a letter from the course organiser, which actually has more information than the certificate - it not only confirms that I passed, and completed the course, but it gives my percentage (68% fact fans). However, unbelievably, it's not fucking dated, which makes it basically useless. And I mean at all, there's not even the year on there.
The course doesn't run anymore either, but there is a number for the coordinator. I've left a message asking for a dated letter confirming that I passed, as then the two together will suffice instead of a certificate. Fingers crossed...
Yesterday, as I got home from the supermarket (I know! Such an exciting life I lead!) two yoofs were sat on my neighbour's front wall. Since she's had trouble with racist graffiti, rubbish being left on her lawn etc. I kept a sneaky eye on them (while trying not to look like some deeply paranoid middle-aged dullard - look, I work with young people, so I'm not pointing the finger, just trying to be neighbourly).
One one trip back to the car boot I could clearly, definitely, smell weed. Hey, I've been to university people.
'Seriously?' I said to the yoofs, bearing in mind it was broad daylight, middle of the day, not exactly being subtle.
Them: 'What?
Me: 'I can smell it.'
Them: 'What? Smell what? We ain't done nothing!'
Me: [biting down the urge to pedantically state 'I think you'll find that's a double negative, meaning you actually have done something'] and yes I know language changes and adapts, and if it didn't we'd all still be speaking like Chaucer and I should just get over it, but I'm still a copy-editor and I don't like it, ok?
'Er, the dope?'
Them: 'Nah, man, no way'.
As I dredged nappies, kitchen roll and frozen food inside, they quickly hoofed it round the corner. I wouldn't have called our PCSOs (who were utterly lovely when some other yoofs told me to fuck off in front of my kids and threatened me) anyway, but I did chuckle to myself a bit at the idea of a) them being so bold/brazen/stupid as to smoke it openly in the first place and b) them legging it so quickly when they were 'rumbled'.
Roll on term time...
