I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW

I stepped out to get some clothes altered and discovered it is a BEAUTIFUL day outside. I reproached myself for not stepping out more often, made a resolution to do a decent walk or run daily - which I knew I would break - and set off for the park.

I found myself at the same spot where I sat in a blue funk six weeks ago, and absent-mindedly observed that this time I felt an almost unbearable lightness of being: that the thing that had weighed so heavily on my shoulders back then, had lifted completely.

I also absent-mindedly noticed the faint smell of poo, fairly ubiquitous in Mexico City, but probably set to intensify with the temperature.

Then I started noticing all sorts of things that I hadn't seen last time: the monstrosity in the middle of the circle of chairs may possibly be the ugliest public fixture ever created.

It's a rectangular, beige block of cement - about eight metres high - which sits in a pool of water with fountains spurting up in a circle around it. There is pigeon shit all around the top, sort of dribbling down, and the pool is painted the tackiest bright aqua you can imagine.

It is surrounded by a ring of cement paving, which is surrounded by a chain of metal lace benches, on which I and my fellow man are seated. Behind us are fields of deeply shaded dirt, with those squared hedges tracing little labrynths all over them.

It's strange that we're all here, we've all placed the water/clock/fountain thing directly in our line of vision, but the sound of the water is soothing, only marginally dented by the high-pitched squeals of children, and there are sparrows flying around, so in Mexico City terms it is peaceful.

The first thing I notice, immediately after my happiness, the smell of poo and the ugly monument, is my company.

Two kids are riding round and round the water fountain, each lap takes about 20 seconds so I wonder why they don't strike off a little further afield but they seem perfectly happy. The little girl has metalic tassles fluttering from the handlebars and the little boy has a very round - if not fat - face, and not much else of note.

Across the way, there is an old man and woman sporting exactly the same shade of yellow-grey hair. She's got a walking stick and he's got a white cap, cast jauntily over his knee.

On the next bench is the second homeless man from my last visit here. He's wearing the same red parker and green trackie-dacks that he had last time, but his grey hair is so neatly combed that I wonder whether maybe he has a home and is just here to watch the children.

Beside him is a young guy in jeans, ensconsed in the book he is reading. Then there's me. Then there's the oldish lady in a navy suit and very high heels, smoking what appears to be a neverending cigarette.

Then there's the family that's spawned the two bike-riders, and beside them a girl who looks very cool, also reading. Then there's the mother's group - two blonde women and their blond children, one's behind is still exhibiting the effects of pregnancy.

And then there's the balloon man, with his omnipresent cloud of hot pink metallic air-holders above his head.

I find myself thinking that it's amazing how, despite the decor, these people are all happy. But then I realise of course I can't assume that, maybe this fountain is surrounded by sad people.

It's strange to look at the balloon man and wonder whether he's happy or sad. Half of Mexico City lives below the poverty line, and just because I'm sure he's in the poor half does that automatically rob him of his happiness?

Maybe I could say he's got a hard life. Or maybe I could say he gets to spend his days wondering in a deeply-shaded and peaceful park, making people's lives brighter with his wares.

I look at the homeless guy. He's looking at the kids and after I've wondered if he's a paedophile, I have an overwhelming urge to go and say, "Are you happy?"

Maybe he's got no home, but maybe he lives having a park as his home.

Still, hunger never made anyone happy.

Then, out of the blue, the clock in the beige concrete tower chimes. Beautiful chiming, it is. Kind of like an ugly person with a nice personality. Kind of like Mexico.

And that means I've spent 20 minutes here, looking at all this, and the chiming of clocks always makes me remember that time has passed. The water droplet from the fountain that was in the air a moment ago, is now in the pool with all the other droplets of water.

This happiness I hold, only sits in the moment in which I hold it. It's part of time, and gravity. Everything passes. What goes up must come down.

Iñaki was right: you can't hold anything, just because you want it to last.

You can't hold the moment that you feel this way. You can't hold the person who makes you feel it. So, what can you do?

I guess all you can do is make yourself the most likely receptacle for happiness to come to rest.

The scene starts to move, dismantle. Some big yellow and brown dogs start making the mum's group feel edgy, so they set off with their designer collection: strollers and babies.

The old couple totters towards my side of the fountain, really they're not making much ground, and at one moment are almost run over by the two kids on bikes. It's a strange juxtaposition, young barrelling over old... old getting out of the way.

The man is feebly waving a white napkin - maybe his signal to the children - and I am delighted to see the two old devils slip through a hole in the hedge and set off across the dirt. Why stick to the path if there's no grass to ruin? Why stick to the path anyway?

They leave in their wake the homeless man, who's stopped looking at children and is now noticing me noticing him being read to by the guy with the book. The guy with the book slides down the bench to be closer to him, and keeps reading. I find myself wondering what on earth is the nature of their relationship. They quite obviously came separately (if one arrived at all, or rather, woke up) so why is the young guy reading?

Then I notice the suspiciously thin pages of the book and the way the old guy is nodding politely but his eyes are sliding sideways: it's a Bible, I'm sure.

The stoic cigarette woman picks up her wallet and packet, and waddles off in her super-high heels.

A photo shoot arrives and I wonder why on earth they're photographing this girl here? Until I catch her profile and realise anything would look good compared to the background, so maybe they were hoping to distract the viewer.

As for me, I am a curly-haired foreign-looking girl wearing disgraceful sandals outside. Bathroom slippers (or what I prefer to call 'thongs') in the street. I pick up my Telcel bag and pass the photographers, noting that the girl is actually a guy with long hair.

The clock will keep chiming, the water will keep being thrust upwards, only to fall victim to gravity again. And people will move in and out of the scene.. they will make it as they come and go.

Some will be happy, some sad. Some will leave sad and come back happy. And that is what I call The Cirle of Life.

HARROWING

D-day. The day of my interview.

I am super-stressed as a result of problems with new boyfriend which culminated in an agreement to have dinner to sort things out. For some reason, perhaps the fact that I actually quite like him, the whole thing has being doing laps in my head at an alarming pace.

I have a lot of work ahead of me. Firstly, I don't know anything about the company. Research. I have perused the website before and it's all Spanish to me. For some reason google translate doesn't change that one iota.

More pressingly, my appearance. One of the perks of working from home is that I often spend 15 hours of every day in pajamas. I don't think this will quite cut it in PR.

I track down my pair of black pants and my only jacket and discover they are more than a little creased. I don't have an iron, so I head off to find a place that will iron them. It turns into an epic mission of several 'just two more blocks in that direction' and before I know it I'm halfway to Guatemala.

Now, the question of what to wear under the jacket. I head off to the Zona Rosa and get sidetracked buying a lovely pair of brown shorts and a little pinafore. And a white shirt for under the jacket.

I have also realised that I have been using the same lipstick for three years, and its brown tones don't work with the white base of my outfit. So I buy a pink-based lipstick.

Even I can't believe I have been in possession of one lipstick and two lips glosses (total) in the past three years.

I then discover that pink-based lippies make your teeth look yellow, and my steady diet of coffee and red wine has taken its toll on my pearly-used-to-be-whites. Fortunately, my teeth have always been a source of vanity and I dig up my teeth-bleaching kit.

While transforming my smile, I surf the web googling phrases like, "What is PR?"

I also message Vanessa, who's leaving the job, with some questions:

"Exactly who am I allowed to kiss? Is it wrong to kiss the boss?"

"No! That's fine."

"It's just that once I kissed the guy who sells fruit and veg at the market and Ara told me that was unnecessary here."

"Yes, Mexico is hard-core with the class thing: vendors, cleaners and market people are out. But bosses are fine."

The other problem is that the median height of everyone in the office seems to be five-foot. And with my black shoes, I am around six foot. I will be damned if I buy another pair of shoes though, so I will have to settle for bending down to kiss the boss and everyone else in the office.

I then give myself a manicure and pedicure. Pick up my freshly ironed clothes. There are a couple of things I lack:
- a suit
- a necklace
- any jewellery at all actually
- a leather belt
- perfume

I've never cared about any of these things except the leather belt, but suddenly I feel it. Will the boss notice when I kiss him, that a frangrance doesn't float up his nostrils. Does my neck look excessively bare? My fingers. My wrist?

I'm still not exactly sure what the job is.

I hop in a VW beatle cab and say, "Do you think it'll take us more than an hour to get to Coyuacan?"

"No," the cabbie replies, pulling out in front of a high-velocity truck, "We'll get there with enough time to have a coffee together."

I'll be surprised if we get there are all. I am almost regretting my mention of time constraints, as he has started driving as if I'm in labor. All the cars around us are beeping and I am feeling the road rage.

"So, you're a model then?" he asks.

If I was a model, would I be catching a VW beatle cab where death is more likely than arrival? No.

It's storming. It's the perfect weather where the air is heavy and lightening is striking the road 20 metres in front. He doesn't even jump as the thunder cracks right outside the window.

I look at him. He's got a young face and very heavy religious paraphenalia around his neck. We start chatting about Easter.

He's doing a three-day pilgrammage to some small town a few hours away by car. St Chelmo or something.

"Are you very religious?" I ask.

"Yes, well.. my wife had problems with her pregnancy. She was going to have to have an abortion but I promised God that if my daughter was born ok, I'd do the treck for three years. This is my fourth."

I find myself captivated by his story. He started dating his wife when he was 14. They got married when he was 18, and she was 21. The daughter is three now, she's fine. He's 21, and they have a son as well, called David. He does a pilgrammage on the 28th of every month as a result of a pact with God about David's health.

"So, are you going to have any more kids?" I ask.

"No."

"Yeah, you might run out of days in the year for walking hey?"

He laughs. He actually laughs.

He started driving when he was 14, and was driving buses at 15. He got caught, but paid the bribe. He was studying motor mechanics, but it wasn't worth it for the job opportunities and the time. Besides, he likes driving.

We like each other, this cabbie and I. He probably doesn't get to tell his story that often, and I am completely fascinated by his life. It is a world away from mine. But here we are together, in his little cab, chatting about life.

We arrive way early, so I tell him to do a block and drop me off at a cafe nearby. He gives me some final words of wisdom:
"Don't show you're nervous," he says, "Chilangos can tell, and they see it as weakness."
"I don't look nervous, do I?" I ask.
"Yes, you look a bit pink in the face."

I tip him 25 percent, and jump out into the rain. He was my favourite cab driver ever.

While killing half an hour, I exchange a couple of terse messages with Ignaki about the evening's arrangements.

The interview goes fine. The only moment of super-stress comes when he asks what I want to achieve in the job, over the next year.

It's really hard to spin shit, when you don't know what you're spinning shit about. What I really want to say is, "Well, my first step would be to find out the job description."

But I say, "Well, obviously it's a similar skill set, but still slightly different. So I want to learn all there is, and then do the job really well."

That is SO lame.

Then he asks me some weird questions. Are my friends Mexican or expat? Do I drive here? What do I do with myself, in my spare time? What do my parents do for a living? Have I had problems with security?

"I don't really arreglar (dress up) that much," I say, "So I don't think I'm a prime target for muggers."

"No, you don't really seem to wear jewellery," he says, looking at my hands.

"I have only been mugged in Ecuador, here it's just guys who grab your bottom and run away." And suddenly, I find myself telling him the arse-grabbing stories.

None of his questions make me feel uncomfortable. He has a fatherly, slightly distracted air about him and I like him a lot.

He tells me I have the job if I want it, pending two more interviews. One with the other director (the woman I kissed) and the other with an international relations director.

I walk out feeling elated and drained. There's still one harrowing event before the day is over: the conflict resolution dinner. I am tempted to suggest we just have drinks, in case I have to storm out before the mains arrive. But no, this will be my lesson in How To Express Anger Without Using the Word F*ck.

I decide against a red shirt and heels. That would be just inflammatory and spiteful. Then I set about the mandatory 40 minute waiting-for-Ignaki-to-arrive-late period, whilst dancing in front of the mirror to pass the time.