Nuts and Thoughtcrimes

 Nuts

My mother has recently entered a franchise market stall arrangement with her old school friend. This involves my mother selling nuts. It also involves my mother using her amazing wits and charms to convince men who have just bought a giant German sausage from the German sausage stall to buy nuts. They saunter past her and she hollers like a barrow girl, or perhaps like Nancy in Oliver! (the one directed by Carol Reed and where Ron Moody bought Fagin so frightfully to life that I know people who still fear him) .

A typical exchange;

"Do you want some nuts with your sausage sir?" 

"Only if you come with them you saucy minx" He winks at leers at mother.

"I do not come with them, but if you want some sauce I also sell chutney, but for a man like you I would not advise you buy any of my cheese with those sort of lines"  She is cold and harsh in her delivery and before the poor man knows it, he has parted with £2 for a bag of 100g cinnamon roasted cashews. 

Today I went and help her set up the stall. Mother was concerned that me not having paid work and not having got the job relating to the bananas has knocked my confidence. So as mothers do, she made me feel guilty. She made me help her against my will. Really I think she wanted me out of the house. I made no money (this was unpaid work) but I did learn a couple of things...

The Pigeon"Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious."
- George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 7

 1984 is without a doubt a literary masterpiece. I never once for a moment thought that Orwell's words would ring through my ears today whilst attempting to help my mum on a nut stall. 

Now on the stall there is not just nuts. There is curry, fudge, chutney and cheese - a wonderfully odd combination.  The stall is a small log cabin from hell, a hell which has frozen over because it is so cold in there. With a section which opens at the front with shelves and a spit guard displaying the goods. There are also samples. In order for people to sample the samples bread is provided on a small plate. No surprises there. Nothing out of the ordinary except the combination of food. 

Mother has been reporting that seagulls have started nesting on the log cabin of her misery. She shoos them by tapping the roof from the inside. The seagulls are most definitely conscious.Their ear piercing schreecing, sqwarking and shitting lets us know they are awake and ready to destroy. And anyone who knows anything about seagulls know they are rebels and they will rebel. It is how they have done this which is quite spectacular. It seems they have recruited some feeble pigeons. 

The first pigeon came for me. Directly at my face. I screamed it dropped and it landed in some curry. Pigeon Curry?

No.

So the first round of cleaning the samples out and starting again had begun. It took about an hour.

I am then having a five minute little break (playing on Mothers iphone to look for jobs I care about). When a woman starts screaming at me as if she herself is a seagull or a victim of a mugging. 

I look up. She is pointing at another FUCKING PIGEON. 

Another pigeon in the curry.

At the same time the seagulls are stomping and cheering on the roof of the logcabinfromhell.

She tells me in no uncertain terms in a thick middle class accent "you better sort that out".

She stares at me like a piece of shit until I start to move to the back of the stall to use the door to go round the front. Whilst all this is happening my mother is weeping over some burnt cashews, too entrenched in her own pain and suffering to notice the pigeon assault on her budding franchise.

When I get round the front of the stall, the woman is still standing there. Looking at me really disapprovingly. Like somehow it is my fault that pigeons want to eat and that the pigeons want to eat this curry sauce. And then I realize...

Judgement : "Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death."
- George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 2

The woman had judged me. The woman had judged me for working (unpaid) on a market stall. Her tone. Her posture. Everything about her stance was directed towards judging me harshly. 

And the reason I know this judgement from the tone, stance and posture? 

Is surprise bloody surprise, I have made such judgements myself. I have made it in this blog about other unemployed people and how I somehow think I am better. I am not. There is no difference in any of this. I do not want this to sound like a disneyesque epiphany, because it is not, it is grittier than that and is probably part of some hideous post quarter life crisis chrysalis that I have yet to grow out of.

What really interests me now, is how my thoughtcrime is no longer about evolving into Pauline who shops from the Elizabeth Duke range in the Argos catalogue and goes down to the dole office would be the most awful thing to ever happen to me. But instead it is about how fucking sanctimonious and judgmental middle class wankers are.  I know I am one.

 So, she judged me for being a market stall barrow girl. I only stayed another hour on the stall because I was so upset. What I then noticed is how the people walking past look right through you or how the people who come to the stall are not actually interested in the goods,but are interested in the samples and the samples alone and anything you say is just drowned out by their smug greed.

 I am not really sure what I am going to do about this new underdeveloped thought process.

We shall see. But I would like to avoid making any further thoughtcrimes and avoid any further interactions with curried pigeons and Sergent Seagull. 
 

Characterisation - Part One

The context of characterisation
This blog has been relatively self indulgent with no real personification or intricate references of the magically diverse group of individuals who help make my version of the world a better place. I think an introduction to specific characters and miscreants periodically is thus required.


Last night as promised I ventured into a local public house, which until about five years ago was a great watering hole because it never pretended to be something it was not. Now however, it has tokenistic flock wallpaper displayed at regular key wall intervals and is punctuated with bold paint colors and a mish mash of "vintage" furniture. 


The real main difference between now and five years ago to unemployed me is the cost of pint of cider £2.70 to a whopping £3.75. Great. 


After realising the cider was so costly, myself and The Troll hit the mojitos; stronger and tastier. Thanks to his other worldly powers he had convinced the barman to upgrade the mojitos to include Mount Gay Rum. Yum.


The Troll
It was over these mojitos that The Troll started divulging snip bits of his life as a freelancer. My understanding from this conversation is that he is now technically unemployed until February. But will still tell people he is freelancing. Incidentally it was National Freelancers Day this week (on the 23rd of November). In knowledge of this I told him "to get a fucking real job and to stop riding on a bmx to get to business meetings". Now I have this blog, according to The Troll I am a freelance writer. If I choose to raise this in open banter hopefully the conversation will stop at that point and I will not have to explain I am self publishing through the powers of blogger.com.


The Troll is one of the many loves of my life - but there is no romantic or sexual inclination from either party. Though he will attempt to touch my breasts from time to time. He is a hairy little man boy complete with a sexy set of moobs. He has been like the little brother I never wanted to me since I have been 14 and he has been 12 (this is even though we have known each other since we have been 8 and 6). Our friendship became cemented after a series of highly inappropriate teenage escapades in a field outside of Lewes. He claims I groomed him. I claim he was, and still is a willing apprentice. He refutes apprenticeship and now contests that he has officially earned the dual title of "partner in crime and co-founder of The Family of Misery". He is probably right. To be honest I can ring the troll and we say things to each other as follows (a typical thrice daily conversation);


The phone rings. It connects. He picks up. It is 2pm on an otherwise pretty unexceptional Friday afternoon (yesterday);


Me: (cheerily )You fucking little shit.


Troll: (equally cheerily) Whorebag, I could really deal without hearing about your unemployment misery today. What the fuck is it?


Me: I want to howl to the moon.


Troll: ( despondent) Not this shit again, Halloween was last month.


(About three years ago I abandoned Troll mid way through a night out, the next thing I know I get  a phone call from my family who found him in the middle of a night club howling at the moon. Showing loving concern they filmed him, took pictures and danced around with him. Asking me what to do, I explained the kindest thing would be to put him in a taxi with a note and send him back to his mum.To this day, no one really knows what happened to him that night. There have been many other nights like this, with and without howling involved. But whenever either one of us get the urge to get our rocks off we make it clear by "howling" down the phone. What a pair of dicks).


Me: (flat and disengaged) Fine. But I need to do something. 


Troll: (aggressive) Shush. Listen. I AM BUSY. I am a self employed freelancer. I do not have the time to deal with your childish requests of a drinking partner. 


Me: Sighs.


Troll: Do not fucking be like that with me you fucking little bitch. I said I. AM.BUSY.


Me: (pathetically, but endearingly) But trollie, I have a business proposition for you I need to discuss with you, the perfect venue of which would be a pub.


Troll: (in a probing and curious manner) Is this an actual bonafide idea? Or have you been hanging about in a crack den in Cambridge Road or Oriental Place?


Me: (smugly) No crack.


Troll:(in an aggravated yet an amusing tone)  WHAT THE FUCK IS IT?


I hang up.

The next time I see Troll after this conversation is like I said in the pub last night.I did not get home until 2:37 am. No howling was involved. 

An unemployed tale of troll
The troll used to work in London say around 2008. We spent a lot of time together. I was a few bus stops away (Wilesden to some part of Ealing). The troll did not tell me he had lost his job (walked out or got fired I can not remember, but based on previous I would say packed his bags and left head held high with a big grin on his face) for two months. A month later he left London. I was devastated his leaving me in London. I needed our special time. At the time I was recuperating from major surgery so I would hobble over to his flat doped up on some concoction or another the Dr had given me.  

What I had not noticed in this in this whole two month time period was that the troll had not cleaned his flat for about 4 months. I only noticed when he cleaned the flat, it looked amazing. Totally beautiful. It had a floor and surfaces. He said I could not go in the kitchen. Once he entered a food coma I went in the kitchen. It was UNFUCKINGBELIVABLE.  The troll had squirreled away all his mess and put it in the kitchen. It was worse than a scene from Bottom or Trainspotting. It was a squatters paradise. It was riddled with e-coli and listeria and so only a troll could withstand such uninhabitable conditions.

What happened next is so disturbing and hilarious that it is necessary to extend this tale of the unemployed troll into another blog entry... 

Capital One

The Phone Call
I have just had "The Phone Call" from what would have been my future-ex-employers in two years telling me "I am afraid you have not been successful". 


This is the first time I have ever had such a phone call in my professional career. I should have trawled internet job forums for advice about how to handle such a call. I had an awful sense of foreboding about all of this anyway, I should have taken a pre-emptive strike on-line to better prepare myself.  I am trying to remember if, like a wounded teenager I used the phrase "whatever". I am hoping it was just my internal monologue and I did not actually articulate it.  Well, whatever. Like I give a fuck now.


Why
Apparently this had nothing to do with my skills or experience. I am comforting myself by telling myself that those skills are pretty much faultless and this job would have involved me taking a £10,000 pay cut thereby DE-SKILLING ME . Of course I am in no way bitter. Allegedly this is to do with the fact that I was not enthusiastic enough. I think her words will cut me forever (more than a manically depressed EMO can cut themselves)  " The other candidate was more enthusiastic than you".  What I should of asked, but did not was :


DID THEY TURN UP WITH 20 FUCKING BANANAS? DID THEY? How much more enthusiasm do you need?


Along with the rubbish reasoning and rationale of these charlatans what I am also quite peeved about is the whole interview process cost me about £200 which I borrowed (travel expenses, producing materials etc) and because no one at the Dole Office told me I could claim travel expenses or get support I am stuck paying that back.I can not even claim it back retrospectively. I must remember to thank my Capital One card with its' 30% interest rate for its' ongoing support in these times which are starting to turn a little bit bleak. Or rather than thanking my beloved credit card, I could adopt a pseudonym of "Pauline" and go to Argos (JSA pending) and stock up on some lovely jewellery from the Elizabeth Duke range and march down the Dole Office and start a demoniacal unemployed rage aided and abetted with some Special Brew.  


Misplaced Anger
It is really quite insulting they bought enthusiasm into this. I am well qualified and have always been very passionate about my work, to the point where some people I know would openly and actively dread me turning up at a social occasion because I would (in their unenthusiastic and dreary opinions)  kill it with entertaining love/hate tales of my vocation. If they hated it so much they could have stopped inviting me.Thus I concluded they perversely enjoyed my Catherine Tate style sketches.


My anger is clearly misplaced. I should probably read some shit about CBT on-line - maybe that can help me become a better, more well-balanced, overenthusiastic and employable person? 


Or I could just get the hell over myself and apply for other jobs? 


I think I will watch some Made In Chelsea later to make me feel better about myself, that will reignite my impetus to succeed. They are my peers after all. 




Moving On


In other news the pub quiz team I am a now forced to be a part time member of (due to lack of funds because of a lack of JSA landing in my bank account) has successfully secured 3rd and 2nd place in the last two consecutive weeks. At least when I do get my JSA I can go to the pub quiz and potentially feel like a winner again. This evening I am going to go and hunt down some friends, who will see my teary eyes (NOT ACTUALLY CRYING)  and not judge me when I neck £20 worth of shit pikey cider courtesy of Capital One. I am sure they will be happy I will not be talking about work. Instead I will talk about unemployment.  In which case I am sure they will wish I was working again. 


God Bless Capital One and God Bless Cider.

Post Interview Follow-Up

WARNING - This blog entry is about my thoughts and feelings about unemployment. Feel free to skip.


Do I call? Do I text? Do I email? Do I wash?


I was told I would hear from them early this week. Early this week to me means the end of play on Tuesday, at a push before 12 on a Wednesday. I still have not heard from them. I have sent them only one relatively uncreepy formal but not too suffocating or needy email since the third interview and that was yesterday. No response. This is making me so anxious that I feel I may be about to have a serious hives outbreak. Sexy. 


To me this is like waiting to hear back from a date. A third date no less. A third date with a sum total of no action. Therefore breaking the third date rule. According to the research I have forced myself to do as a means to comfort myself I have done nothing wrong; I was enthusiastic, attentive, I asked questions, I maintained eye contact, I told a couple of appropriate funnies, I dressed smartly  (in my eyes - my taste in clothes is usually  rainbow based and frequently low cut and questionable, so I compromised and went for a colour blocking outfit - no fashion crime was committed  younger sister "Gok'd" me). 


Reflectively the advice and forums I turned to on-line meant effectively I offered myself to them on a plate, by playing it to the letter. I obviously smacked of a  level of desperation that is always to be avoided when dating and when interviewing. Shit. I am never taking advice from internet job forums again. Is it possible I played it too perfectly? I am now even suspicious of myself. 


What is most annoying is that I have been continually checking me emails (JUST.IN.CASE) and have been quite abrupt to people who have phoned me and have found myself shouting " I HAVE TO KEEP THE LINE CLEAR IN CASE THEY CALL". Normally this would not be a problem and I would chat away until the cows come home, but because I have NO MONEY (thanks to the lovely people and their slow processing at the benefits office) I am unable to re-credit my phone and check my answer-phone messages. I should go back on a contract, but because I suffer from the most profuse form of verbal diarrhoea I can not risk it until I have a job.



Looking for more answers, I turned to my horoscopes to help me put things into perspective. Russell Grant has kindly informed me today that as a Cancer I can expect that; 
A visionary business owner will ask you to join their team. Adopt an open minded approach to your job. In the past, you were strongly tied to your title. This position will require you to be a lot more versatile. Be willing to learn aspects of other people's jobs, so you can fill in while they're absent. The more you know about how the entire organisation works, the more valued you will be. Besides, you could use a little variety in your work life


Just reading this raised my anxiety levels.



This waiting by the phone/laptop/constantly checking jobsites business also means my levels of personal hygiene have taken a downturn. I am literally at a loss at what to do with myself and as I can not go out because I have no money I have successfully avoided the shower for two days.  


I feel like I am beginning to develop an understanding of why the unemployed may suffer from mental health issues - it can really quickly unravel.The impetus to apply for further jobs and pursue other applications is weakened when awaiting the outcome of an interview.  For some reason I feel immune to this; I have qualifications, experience, resources and a support network, thereby I am highly employable.   



Increasing the ever flowing fountain of pointless knowledge


In the downtime I have (in between writing this drivel, applications and so forth) found the internet to have really helped me widen my general knowledge, hardly surprising there is a load of crap on here, including this, which is useful for the pub quiz team. I recommend searching the following and finding out about them for yourselves;

• Why you should never trust a whale called Shamu. 
• Why pandas are pretty stupid. 
• Why physics is cool. 

Unemployment Continues: The Dole Office and a THIRD Interview

Calculated Risks ?

I was invited back for a third interview  at 2:30pm on Friday 18th of November. Clearly they either loved the bananas and my interview went well or they just want to see how far I will go for a job. Foolish really, I have no shame. I clearly did not put that across enough.

Incidently, in one of the first teaching interviews I went for over 3 years ago, in the lesson I had to deliver I played the students a video about feral children, specifically a dog girl, and in front of the deputy head and an assistant head I then got on my knees and pretended to be a dog. This was high risk lesson. I got the job.

 Maybe it is true, there is a fine line between genius and madness, I somehow doubt this applies to me.  But I could well be the teaching version of Van Gough or Sylvia Plath. Disturbing to me (in knowledge of their fate) and no doubt hilarious to children (in lieu of knowledge).

I  have found more specific articles probing the old concept of mad genius in two of the most (un)reputable and equally shameless daily publications the mass media has to offer the Great British public The Mail and The Telegraph.

So anyway as it turned out on the same day I would have to go and sign on again - Friday 18th of November, point B at 10:25 am.

The Third Visit 

My mother gives me a lift this time to the dole office. She can not quite believe that her prodigy is signing on. I think she understands why I am in this position. But then she says it "Get a man, any old willock and just shut up for once and then you would not have to work. Why did I have to have a child who is so frigging empowered? Just marry a willock*, okay?". Clearly she does not understand. Perhaps maybe she has ignored how my life has panned out the last 6 years or so.I know I wish I had.

So this time upon arrival I try to walk up the stairs with confidence. After all I know where I am going this time. Clearly I look suspicious. I am stopped no less than three times on the way up 12 stairs. I have to show my little booklet to all and sundry in order to gain access to precious point B at 10:25am. 

I decide to look around and do some people judgement  watching once I have assumed my position; in the middle of the dole office with minimal objects blocking my views of my surroundings and the people which lay within them. I should stop watching Attenborough  documentaries during the reign of unemployment - they are clearly impacting on my ability to interact with other homo-sapiens. Especially those whom I have judged to have underdeveloped brain matter.

The waiting begins. 

10 minutes pass.  

A name is called. It is not mine. 

The same name is called. It is still not mine. It seems they have lost someone in the system. I think the lady at point Bs head may implode. At this point I notice the lady at point B is not the husky voiced sexual predator from before. I sigh with dissapointment. She has been replaced with a real miserable excuse of a woman. I am so dissapointed by this still I can not be bothered to give you the details of her face.

A different name is called.

10 more minutes pass.

I suddenly realise why people have been looking at me strangely. I am dressed up and I have make up on. Yet I am clearly unemployed as I am in the dole office. They don't understand. They don't understand I have an interview after this. Or maybe they have decided that I am the only person in the room worth sleeping with, as to be fair, looking around and noticing the absence of husky I may well be the primiary object of desire as all other options look dried up or soft.  

Total number of people I want to perform a sexual act on = none. Total number of people who I suspect want to perform a sexual act on me = the whole fucking dole office. Fear of rape = high.

Thankfully my name is called before my mind wanders any further. 

She asks me if my circumstances have changed. I want to tell her yes, I have become beyond demoralised, but somehow, I work out she quite simply DOES.NOT.GIVE.A.FUCK. She hands me a stubby pen. I whip out my own like Harry Potter attempting to stupify a baddie. I will stupify her stubby pen.  I explain to miserableexucseofawoman that I have a third job interview. She does not congratulate me. I then explain to her that I have received a grand total of NO MONEY. She makes a phone call. Tells me to go downstairs use the phone and press button B and ask them about my HBT. 

Long story short = I still have not received one payment. I have spent I do not know how much of my families money ringing 0845 numbers to find out when this will be processed. They always promise to ring back in 3 hours. They never do. I have been told that I may receive my money by Friday.  The interview was okay, I am still waiting to hear back from them. I am still applying for other jobs. 

* A person who is both a willy and a pillock. 

In The News...

I am bit concerned about the contents of the following article http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2011/nov/16/young-jobseekers-work-pay-unemployment.

I want to work, just not for poundland. I ain't dropping my standards. Thatcher taught me better than that, I am an 80s child after all. Tsk.

Bananas. B.A.N.A.N.A.S.Bananas.B.A.N.A.N.A.S

The context of the interview

So I passed the phone interview. The next stage was a presentation about a topic to do with enterprise education, followed by a panel interview and then a written test. When going over the interview process I remind myself  that it is in fact my first formal interview for 3.5 years. I have never failed an interview.I have always got every job I have applied for. 

Since unemployment began I have been turned down on the basis of my application for two jobs. Reviewing the person specification for both of them I can see I was more than qualified and experienced for them.They just did not like me.I don't like me at the best of times, so I can hardly blame them for this.

I ain't no hollerback girl, but I am bananas

 I chose to present on company marketing. Under the influence of previously mentioned younger sister I decided to take more than 20 bananas into an interview with me. I was hoping this would make me stand out and be unforgettable. The interview was on Thursday. It is now Tuesday. I still have not heard from them. Apparently it can make you forgettable. It can also make you certifiable. 

A bunch of losers, not a bunch of bananas

 Rejection, I learn is not so bad after all when you have a pub quiz team and a group of friends who are all having premature mid-life crises. They will welcome me with open arms and chants of failure. Plus a lot of them are unemployed too at the moment and so we can spend our days in between looking at job pages reading the supplements of broadsheets to fill the ever widening gaps of pointless middle class knowledge with the aim that one day we will win the pub quiz. We have in two weeks gone from 12th place to 3rd and then to 6th. Still failures. 

The Dole Office Part Two

A week later on Friday the 4th of November 2011 at 10:25 am at point B I sign on officially for the first time. My reward? A stubby pen with which I stab my signature on a piece of paper which I assume is part of the bureaucratic process which will enable me to claim my glorious £67.50 per week. Thank god I am almost 30, those who are under 25 can claim a measly £53.45. 

As part of the protocol, and once she has snatched the prized stubby pen from what I have now realised are my equally stubby fingers I hear the first attractive person say in a really husky, smokes 40 a day, due to the social demographic she interacts with say "Have your circumstances changed since last week?" at this point I make eye contact with her and briefly wish I were a lesbian,  muster a sigh, a shrug of the shoulders and a somewhat nonchalant "No". 

The amount of people I would perform sexual acts with in the room has increased dramatically from last week: one. I am still dumbstruck it is with a woman. 

Job Club

As a means to evade boredom and to meet up with people in a similar situation (also to hopefully include a spot of afternoon drinking) I have arranged a "Job Club" with my unemployed brother and his best friend. My brother does not show up. His best friend does. And later in the same afternoon as I signed on for the first time I am sat in a local library surrounded by fellow unemployed bums, students with no aspirations, some actual bums who smell like bum and my brothers best friend. I feel the world closing in. Thankfully my brothers mate leans across the table and suggests what every recently unemployed person on a tight budget loves "A pint of cider?".

With the first meeting of Job Club over and no possible leads (The Evening Argus really was VERY disappointing that day) we headed to a local pub. The weather turned. Which actually worked out in our favour, we ended up in a beautiful pub by the fire with ploughman's and some locally brewed cider and ale. My brother showed up. He was equally at a loss with the lack of job prospects that day.

The First Interview

On my way home I dutifully checked emails on my phone. Amazingly I had been offered an interview for a job I cheekily put an application in for a week after the closing date. Job Club had inadvertently had its' first success. 

The context of my situation: The Dole Office Part One.

WHY

I decided to start writing this blog so I would not take a sleeping pill as a means to kill a day during my reign of unemployment. It was this or I was going to volunteer to watch Made In Chelsea on 4 on Demand. A brief 30 second phone call to my younger sister explaining my predicament; blog, pill or MIC made me realise I should at least try and turn my hand at writing one semi-successful blog.

I also want to document the ups and downs of this period of my life. I have never been unemployed. I have until my first JSA payment a total of £13.43 in my bank account. I find that both worrying and exciting; it is not only a test of my resourcefulness but also a perverse social experiment -  what will I do when I get desperate? What is desperate to me? I do not even know. 

WHEN

I have been unemployed from Friday 28th of October 2011 (my first visit to the dole office) at 10:25am. I returned to the country on Wednesday 26th of October 2011 after a strange 3 months in Central America.Before this I was a teacher. 

THE DOLE OFFICE PART ONE

A friend had told me that when I go to the dole office to expect to be handed a short stubby pen that you often find in Ikea, Argus and a bookmakers.A governmental tool to further demoralise you. I bought my own. I deliberately dressed to look colourful and full of happiness to ward off any misery.This failed. 

I arrive at the dole office, which is tucked away behind Portslade Station and off Boundary Road in Hove, which has not changed at all since the 1980s and when my father used to own a sweatshop/child labour  business on the same road, that I not so affectionately called the "Factory of Fear". The sight of Boundary Road remaining so untainted and defiant in the 20 year or so interlude since I last graced its' paving slabs made me want to cry, take a sleeping pill, watch MIC (to ensure the success of the desired effects of the sleeping pill) and to lie down on the level crossing with my wrists wide open. Thankfully these thoughts are brief and before I know it I am being welcomed into the Dole Office by a lady with highlights which she must have had done by a 16 year old GNVQ Health and Beauty Care student who could not read the instructions. She told me to stop chewing my gum. I will never tell a child to stop chewing their gum again.The process of demoralisation has begun and not a stubby pen in sight.

I take a seat and I wait. 

After 10 minutes I am called over to the first person who assesses me. Job done. I return to my seat and I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

25 minutes pass.

I start to think about what sexual acts I would perform on the men in the room. The conclusion: none. 

The level of my snobbery causes part of me to die inside.

10 more minutes pass of this (un)dramatic monotonous inner monologue unemployed turmoil.I  remind my self it has been two days. My name is called  slurred. 

I stand up and head towards someone I would have otherwise suspected to have been a drunk if it were not for the name badge and desk between us. When I realise he has no distinguishable teeth I start to get scared. We go over my targets and the booklets I have to fill out in order to be eligible for JSA. I was noticeably shocked at the news that I did not have to provide evidence of this to support what I put in the booklet. No wonder so many people are unemployed.It really is that easy.  

I leave feeling pleased I did not see one stubby pen, yet duped, because in spite of the lack of stubbypennedness the Dole Office still managed to steal a little bit of my soul.