Sydney to London Without a Plane by Lorna_North

"Damn, I've done it again"

That's what I thought this morning when I did another fake smile. A smile I've named "the temping grimace". It's when the corners of your mouth weakly upturn to intimate cheeriness when really you've had more fun at a funeral.

The temping grimace is a remainder of the full blown smile you used to have, on the very first day of the very first placement. The smile of promise when at the back of your head you thought you could perhaps fit in there, maybe stay longer than the 2 weeks you'd been assigned.

But as the days wear on the smile fades and becomes more like a sickly, constipated smirk that you can't help flashing at anyone that catches your eye.

You do it more out of habit than politeness. People wouldn't notice if a temp burst into flames at their desk as long as the courier got there on time. But you take it to heart each time the temping grimace is not received by at least a fake nod of recognition.

I'm bouncing from one placement to the next and always seem to end up on reception. A few months ago I wrote a blog claiming that reception was an interesting place to be. I've since changed my mind. It's as interesting as a seminar on paper clips.

Teamed with the mind numbing chores, I still I seem to have a sign over my head reading:

"I am a temp, please don't bother to get to know me".

I'm getting career fear. I know I'm only on a working holiday visa so I shouldn't expect a high flying job to present itself but at the moment I'm just this piece of flotsam that floats around trying to wrap itself around the leg of a pier and keeps getting pulled off by the current.

But no more. I'm through with being the dog's body who's primary concern is whether Tom, Dick and Harry got their post-its in the last stationary order; I couldn't care less if the printer is out of paper or the recycling bin needs emptying.

So, although I don't know how yet, I am making some changes and parachuting out of the admin plane with the thrill of not knowing where I'll end up.

And if I end up back on reception, I'll be jumping out of that plane again, without the parachute.