All I got for Christmas

I must have been naughty...

...because this year all I got for Christmas was three hats, a trip to a&e, indigestion, a hangover and worsening of adulthood acne . Which is great. I like hats. I strongly dislike Christmas anyway, so no love is lost between me and Jesus over this debacle. Plus daddy is a bit of Muslim anyway, so I can not really claim to have ever fully engaged with it or understand why we celebrated it.  

Materialism aside what was really terribly exciting was that we got the ultimate present - we got Nanny re-homed in our first choice of Care home, which when I visited it and met the staff appeared to be like the santas' grotto of care homes. The downside of this was because we moved her on the 23rd of December she could not come to our house for Christmas because she needed to settle in. I have not however, just because Nanny has got herself in a nice little home, given up on this campaign. When I finally said good bye to the oldies at her former home I welled up quite considerably because some of their fates are still undecided. So I will find a way I can help the oldies now in my ample free time. 

Christmas Day

My Christmas Day began typically at 12am in a pub in Brighton with my friends. There was no kissing under the mistletoe, there was however a significant amount of staring. 

We stumbled into one of our locals (having been unceremoniously kicked out of our usual Christmas Eve haunt) and there she was. The girl with the most amazing breasts all 20 of us had ever seen.Snowy, fleshy domes of loveliness. As you do in a pub, we had dispersed into smaller sub-groups, each sub group had managed simultaneously to assume a position whereby one to two members of said sub group could take it in turns to admire this ladies beauties. They were outstanding. 

When my turn came up I found myself leaning into my lovely brother from another mother "the troll" and blurting out;

"Motorboat me" 

He jumped. I screamed. It was a weird outburst. Thankfully no-one else heard and no motorboating happened. This statement was,along with the breasts was the first real indication of how bizarre a Christmas I was going to have...

Campaign Care Home

Where are we at?


So far we have as a family emailed MPs, councillors, heads of local authority and adult social services alike.  The understanding that we have thus far is that the owner of the care home did not declare any difficulties they were facing to the Local Authority . This is in spite of the fact that the residents are funded by the local authority. Which provisionally suggests a serious lack of communication and responsibility. 


The responses I have received from aforementioned stakeholders has been more than disappointing, but I think this would have always been the case in light of such a sensitive situation.  Even with the hoohah with Southern Cross (amongst others - which some of the people I have been in contact with have actually expressed as a cause for concern and a situation they want to avoid again) there is still no real clear procedure for a care home closure - which as you can imagine makes an already stressful situation pretty confusing. 


The thing is from my perspective surely after the mass closure of homes through Southern Cross you would have thought that they would have implemented a series of contingency plans/ structures for when another situation arises (which given the current economic climate is an inevitability)? 


The documentation/letters I have received have been really inaccessible to people who are not aux fait with public sector lingo, acronyms and so forth. This could make pitching your case and arguing your position particularly difficult. Luckily my Persian arrogance washes over any fear and I am convinced I am doing the best I can with the limited resources I have. 


So now we are in a position of wait. There has been some talk of moving her out of the area, which would be very sad and also make it very difficult for us to visit her. But until a place comes up they are limited in what they can do and because of her various needs there has to be a specific care match. If the worse case scenario presents itself and we get to the day of closure and still have no suitable placement we just have to accept whatever place is offered to her with the view that we will have to go through the process again and re-home her until a suitable care matched placement is found. 


To me that does not seem very cost effective or a very good use of resources. But if there are no places, there are no places and we can not change that. But I will still shout about it and thankfully I think I have found a pool of people who will help me.  


In addition
 Now as a family we have an interesting dynamic and have another relative whose home is also facing closure.He is not a pensioner yet.


 But he is an individual who has spent the majority of his adult life institutionalised. He is mentally ill.  He is my uncle, or as I call him my favourite uncle. He is amazing. He has taught me so much about how to treat people. He is completely and utterly bonkers. But completely and utterly adorable. This means I have been in and out of care homes and rehabilitation centres visiting him since childhood and so I have a very high threshold for oddities. 


  People see him in the street and cross the road. People will shout abuse at him. Despite this he still has a relatively sunny disposition (on the proviso he has taken his medication). 


 His daily routine is very fixed. Part of his routine involves visiting his mother and/or calling her.  To change any part of his routine always has catastrophic consequences which we always have to deal with. I know this well. I know this because unfortunately his son died partly because of the failings of a housing placement he had through adult social services. When that happened I promised my uncle, along with my siblings and my mother that we would always help him as much as we can forever more. It was devastating. I have promised him in the last week that I will find him the best home I possibly can for him. Because all I want is for him to be happy, because his life is so limited in what he can do, that it is of paramount importance that wherever we can minimise his upset and distress that we endeavour to do so. He is after all my favourite uncle. 


How does this relate to Nanny?
 So now, his mums home is closing and his home is closing. Again from a cost effective exercise if both of these relatives of mine are not appropriately rehoused then unfortunately there will be further issues, which undoubtedly will cost the local authority more money. When I raised this in a meeting - we got told this was a small factor which they would consider. Completely illogical. It is a major factor. Both their cases need to be looked at in tandem. 


So now what?


I am going to continue to behave like my mother does when she wants me to clean something I have no interest in ,as a "Nag Attack". I will not stop until I know that the pair of them are in new and nice homes where their needs are best met.


I would have liked to have made this funnier by including a typical conversation with my Uncle and I. But that can wait. 

A little social experiment

The context of single
Now, the past I think 4 5 6 years I have been very much a single person. I went through a disturbingly lame "man-eater" phase during year one of singledom, which I reigned in during year two as I thought it was tacky and I started to judge myself rather harshly about it (those Muslim roots kick in and kill enjoyment), plus one by one as my friends have started to settle down a small part of me wants that too. Generally after large social occasions (weddings, funerals, christenings, Christmas gatherings - the usual) I have made decisions to go on-line and find myself a man. I would announce this to two or three people "That is it, fuck it, I am not going to another wedding/works do/party/insert dull social occasion here by myself, again ever, I am going to find someone. The end" 


 Amongst my closest friends I was something of a visionary to have employed the use of the internet to date. I was the first one to do it. Still alone though. Still have friends who have subsequently met "The One" on-line thanks to my outstanding internet dating sales patter, writing of their profiles and assistance with their email exchanges. Don't get me wrong, I am genuinely happy for them, it is lovely when your friend is in love, as long as they don't drop you and leave you as I fear is about to happen as THELASTMANSTANDING.  


Family Input


The last two years I have had a considerable amount of stick for this beyond- lame -makes -Judy Bloom- novels -seem -thrilling -single -life I lead.In-fact even when I go and visit Nanny she still asks the same questions, partly to do with her dementia, but mostly I think because she has always liked to cause controversy by exposing social taboos "Where is NAME OF EX? I always liked NAME OF OTHER EX. But really you liked BOTH NAMES OF EXES.If only you were a nicer person one of them might still be sniffing around. Your tits are starting to sag, you should act faster and lose weight"   


My fathers take on it is equally amusing "Look you are rubbish at 'playing the field' I can set you up with a nice Persian and you can have guaranteed good looking kids, you will just have to shut your mouth and keep your liberal hippy opinions to yourself and not bring shame to me or Allah" Me and daddy have tried introducing me to other Persians a few years ago. I think he has selective memory syndrome or something or the trauma of that introduction has caused him to block it out. It was awful, just awful - in brief in a meal of ten-fifteen Iranians I was stuck at the end of the table with three single men of a similar age; one I was confident saw me as a passport, the other did not speak and the one who did speak clearly through the state of his teeth had a bit of a battle with the love of the opium back in the motherland. My reaction was to get inappropriately shit faced whilst talking about the merits of page three models as a modern feminist. Daddy was not happy.He put me in the back seat of the car before the deserts and sheisha smoking and left me there for a good two hours in the freezing cold whilst he finished his meal and spoke to business contacts. Luckily for him I was too inebriated to kick up a fuss and passed out. Daddy definitely must have forgotten this episode and the bill for cleaning the business car after I had projectiled. 


My mum cries about it. I don't really care what my siblings think about it as neither one of them has ever been alone, so whenever they give me advice I don't listen, because their only experience of going "on the pull" is probably at some under 18 night at some chav nightclub on the seafront aged 12 covered in either lynx or impulse and gyrating to Take That or East 17 love songs. 


So years 3-6 of singledom have seen me employ internet dating as if I am a recreational drug user. You never know when you are going to have a good one and you never know most importantly when you are going to have a bad one. I reckon in the past 12 months I have had 2 good ones and up to five bad ones. The good dates are good simply because you have a nice time in some alright company, there maybe no potential father of my baby discourse in my mind but a fun night out does not have to mean love, sex and romance. The bad ones. Are bad. And I always ride them out TO THE END. Partly out of perverted curiosity but mostly out of the desire to learn from their terrible dating mistakes. 


So now what?


Now I have decided to reboot a profile. But I am only putting on a picture and nothing else and I am going to see what comes from it. I have done the whole short profile and gorgeous pictures combo, long profile and meaningful pictures, medium length honest pictures, super long no pictures and so now just one picture and no words. I am intrigued to know what kind of man my face alone can attract. Not my body; am presently too fat.


Since setting this up I have already had 3 emails. I have yet to reply. I think this is another productive way to kill sometime during my reign of unemployment. 

Another Friday another Dole Office Extravaganza

It is just another fucking Friday (that's my funday)

This was always going to be different to the other Fridays. I knew that from the moment I was given an appointment an hour earlier than usual with no reference to precious point B. This therefore led to a cap on my drinking and use of over the counter medication the night before, simply because early mornings do not suit the unemployed and dejected. 

This Friday I was due to meet my Job Centre Advisor. Now given that less than six months ago that I was responsible in my previous job in providing some degree of careers advice to 16 year olds I was understandably apprehensive. Nonetheless in all the career advice/reference writing I have given the youth of today I have always remained positive and never dismissed their aspirations. Except in those ten situations   one situation where I told a student I was going to relish purchasing my late night kebab etc from them, if they could even read how to deep fry some chips and learn how to hold a knife in a non threatening manner. 

So I arrived; less most of my documentation - which led to another hoohah and I suspect mumblings of incompetence. I think not working for several months has definitely de-skilled me to an extent and caused my organisational skills to take a considerable downturn.

Because of the earliness of my appointment there was none of the usual protracted period or waiting. But during the brief moments of wait I did notice a complete absolute piece of meat. He was not just prospective nookie material. He was and is potential marriage material. I might just make a point of rocking up an hour earlier so I can stalk his unsuspecting piece of ass.

My name was called. Incorrectly. Stupid Persian heritage. Everyone looks around. They think I am a terrorist. Not cool. This is not unusual for me, but clearly makes everyone else feel uncomfortable. They call my name again, in-spite of the fact I am standing up and walking towards them. Everyone looks tense. I want to scream the correct pronunciation of my name. I don't. I just look around the room and give everyone a knowing glance. CHRIST, if I were in a room and I heard that name called I would jump and run. I can not blame them. My neurotic laughing does not break the tension. It exacerbates it. At least when I marry my new victim I can change my name.  

The Meeting

I assume the position opposite my advisor.  She is not hot, nor does she seem kind. This all looks a little Pauline from the League of Gentleman. 


The usual range of questions start the formalities;


 "Have your circumstances changed over the last two weeks?" 


"No, they have not, I am still unemployed, I am still here ,I am still not working." I already have the stubby pen jammed in-between my grubby little hands and without realising I have started stabbing the table. I can feel her eyes upon me and then her coffee stained breath swarming underneath my nostrils.


"Now, today I am going to talk you about a few things. This is our first meeting, I doubt I will get through everything, but hopefully I will get a better idea of you and you will have a better idea of what we can do for you."  


Before she can continue, I abruptly interject "I am not doing a work trial if this is what this is about and I am not going to a job club". The swarm builds up under my nose again, I brace myself as she is about to speak. 


"First of all I need to re-confirm your details."


Details were duly confirmed.


"Now, what difficulties have you been facing?" 


"Many, I won't bore you with details of my life."


"Okay, so let me help you, for example, could the reason be you have not had a success finding a job be because you have any previous convictions?"


"Do train fines count?"


"No. What about drugs and alcohol issues?"


At this point I notice that she has a certificate in her pod which displays the words "Suicide Awareness Training". I hope she does not think that my shuffling about from side to side and scratching of my face is a sign. I have terribly itchy acne and because of the early rise I consumed three coffees and I am desperate for the loo. Which makes me think, that in all likelihood that it is in-fact my coffee breath making me retch.The retching probably makes her think I am a drug addict, along with the awful skin and swaying. Anyway, noticing this certificate does not stop me blurting out "I had no problem with alcohol until I became unemployed". She did not laugh. I find myself stressing that I was attempting to be funny, in return she gives me a pitiful look. 


She moves us on swiftly from this part of the conversation. I was quite grateful.


Action Stations


"I wish to explain to you one of your new action goals. In light of our conversation you are now having to attend a job club. Here are some leaflets with maps and details of ones in your local area."


As she has in-putted this on the system and written it down, there is no getting out of it. The only way I can get out of it is if I sign off. Bugger.


"Secondly , if you can not find a job in your area of expertise within the next month you will have to explore other fields of interest" She looks awfully pleased about this. It is a snear I have employed before, a snear of haha you loser. GOD I AM A LOSER.


"I am not sorry for what I am about to say to you. I know and understand you are doing your job. But please understand my position, I spent so many years at university and I have spent 8 years more or less working in the public sector. I am not giving that up.You can not expect me after 6 weeks of signing to be told that. There are people who are signed on for far longer, who make far less effort"


She sighs, looks more pissed off than at the start of the conversation and hisses"Yes, well this part will be actioned in our next meeting. Now next of all I wish to explain to you about work trials"


Whimpering and still swaying I manage to splutter "What?! No, sorry but no. I have cleaned toilets, been a waitress, stacked shelves, wiped bums, worked in call-centres and done all manner of work. I am by and large experienced. Really, please offer that to a 19 year old who needs it. Putting me in a work trial is truly a waste of your resources organising the placement and so forth. I will do volunteer work which is clearly linked to my career."


Frostier still "Again, we will action this in our next meeting."


"Um, I am not entirely sure you are listening? "


Definitely not listening. 


"Please sign here. Your next meeting is after the holidays.Have a Happy Christmas"


The only good thing I thought was to come from this was finally claiming a stubby pen of my own, but literally when leaving the job centre I got a phone call offering me an interview for a very interesting job.I am still awaiting the details of what I am going to have to present. But rest assured I will, no matter what work in a verse of Apple Bottom Jeans if it kills me.  




In other news...

• I have a black Christmas tree
• I went for breakfast with a property entrepreneur who can not help but steal teaspoons where ever we go and picks 5ps off the floor. 
• We have our first meeting arranged for campaign nanny. 

It's written in the starz

Thank goodness for horoscopes


According to the reliable source which is Russell Grant I can expect the following to happen to me today:

CANCER - June 22nd - July 23rd  Updated 14.12.2011 At long last, you're seeing some movement on the job front. Requests for interviews and work samples will pour in. Be open to meeting with potential employers, even if the position advertised doesn't thrill you. It's always helpful to brush up on your interviewing skills. The more you practice, the easier it will be to land the position you really want. The relief of making your way back into the workforce will ease the stress that's been building up. The resulting surge of energy will be exhilarating. Having considered this it seems to me the horoscope indicates that I have already put in enough leg work to chillax, so I have decided to spend the majority of the day in my pyjamas. If I choose to get a little bit wild I may stick the heating on full blast, get the hula hoop out, get naked and create some obscene routines to Christmas songs. Team Win  I am also an ickle bit hungover today as "Team Win" kept up the magic last night and won a new pub quiz, so pyjamas and/or nudity seems somewhat mandatory.In Team Win there is a hardcore of three; betterthangoogle (he really is), thevoiceofreason (again he really is - anyone who can veto my ridiculous suggestions is already a winner) and me queenofcrapculture. Everyone else is a guest star. We have moved quiz venues - essentially because the last pub was a mix of lesbians and homeless people, which I was fine with, but the boys kept pointing out that this was not ever going to result in another kind of win if we became regulars. Mid-week hook ups? Seems unlikely to me, BUT WE DARE TO DREAM, and the whole pub quiz business only started as a way for us to meet up and have a laugh and now WE ARE WINNERS! So who knows? Maybe we could meet our future ex husbands/wives after 5 pints and pocketing £70. I know I would find such a meeting charming and alarming in equal measure. In other news... The care home campaign is thickening somewhat and has become awfully complicated. I am still applying for jobs. I have discovered that rapping and hula hooping at the same time is not a task which I find physically enjoyable. I took a pint of Amstel back to the bar last night and DEMANDED my Strongbow and correct change. A new low.

Can you start the fans please?

I AM LIKE TOTALLY AWESOME


I can now understand why there is a distinct correlation between the unemployed, mental health issues and addiction. A couple of weeks ago I started to see why when without a job someone could become emotionally unstable, especially when you have been rejected for a job that you were otherwise perfect for (ahem). 


Your self-esteem can potentially take a battering during unemployment, thankfully I am arrogant enough to always think of myself as "great" thanks very much. I blame the Persian in me for this. I ride on the waves of glory generated by the civilisation of my forefathers (we will ignore the current state of affairs in Iran because quite frankly that little despot has taken Persian arrogance too far). I accepted from the off that this was going to be an interesting ride into my 30s and that there would be days which were good and days which were bad. Life is like that anyway with or without a job.


  A conversation/heated discussion full blown tokenistic quarter annual argument I had with an ex recently consisted of me ending one part of the ten rounded mobile phone exchange with "I am happy actually; please do not patronise me by telling me you wish me to be happy, which means you assume I am unhappy, when being jobless and moving back in with my mother has probably bought me untold joy, I am great, I am a fabulous person so don't try and derail me and make me feel bad, by telling me I should be unhappy because I am unemployed. I AM FUCKING GREAT. I AM AWESOME"


Definitely a monologue of which I am perversely proud of (in no way is it my best work, I am sure he would agree), but retrospectively it was also a clear indication of the beginning of some sort of mental decline and at about the start of the timing of the reignition of some previously questionably addictive behaviours of mine. Which without doubt is more worrisome than awesome...


N.B To clarify the conversation was not a catalyst for my behaviour it is just as I remember at about the same time I started to go and get a little bit wild again. 


Misdemeanour's and Mentalunhingement


Since being unemployed I have discovered;

• Mid-week drinking = it has been fun drinking mid-week past 9pm. It is renewed and novel to me. Like a 17 year old with a good fake id;
• Smoking = it has been wonderful chain-smoking again. The lung butter I keep coughing up suggests otherwise;
• All nighters = it is quite simply refreshing staying up all night with friends and drinking until stupidoclock on a Sunday morning knowing I can have a several day recovery period if necessary without having to worry about dealing with work;
• Over the counter = being unemployed involves some degree of unavoidable inactivity, which means it is hard to generate a sense of "tiredness". I am now a regular user of nytol and other stronger sleepy bye bye pills from my local pharmacist; 
• An overwhelming desire to be involved in many things = I don't actually overly involve myself in anything I just fantasise about it;
• Gorging = I have put on a fair bit of weight. I eat everything I come into contact with except meat;
• Old friends in new places = one of them has just revealed he is rather bizzarely a Richard O'Brian impersonator.  

The Crystal Maze


To me unemployment is like a set of quests or challenges set out for you. The sort of thing you would have seen in The Crystal Maze in the 1990s. The encounter with the Richard O'Brian impersonator (with way too much hair to be completely convincing) made me think of it this way.


 I would sit and watch The Crystal Maze religiously as a child, shouting instructions and willing the dumb arse contestant on to complete the activity, quite convinced I had the skill and dexterity to do it blindfolded and bound.


 Each zone (Industrial, Aztec, Ocean, Medieval, Futuristic) has particular sorts of tasks dependent on their theme. In parallel unemployment requires you to transcend through different phases and zones in order to be successful or unsuccessful at it. For example the first task I encountered was in the "Dole Zone" filling out forms and jumping through hoops as dictated by the government and dole office (or "Mumsy" in the case of The Crystal Maze). The current zone I am in is probably the "Hunt Zone" where by I am completing forms and updating the C.V.


Worryingly with this analogy it means that Richard O'Brian would be my personal advisor.




I have an actual meeting with my Job Centre Personal Advisor this week. Hopefully I will get some help before I decide that Special Brew is okay at 11am because I don't have a job, and that a 40 a day habit will have to be worked into any new working life I carve out for myself and most importantly before I learn to use the SKY+ recording box to record and store all the reality shows I am now hooked on.  

Cameron, Clegg, Cuts and Campaigns

The Current Campaign of My Life
In the last couple of days, a few very unfortunate things have happened (this is since Team Win of the pub quiz on Wednesday night). Consequently  I am in the process of starting a campaign or at the very least trying to find a campaign that I feel an affinity with relating to the cause  that has got my goat = My Nan, she is 91.


What has happened?
Quite simply my dear old Nan's nursing home is shutting down. We found out thanks to The Great British postal system on Thursday, a whole week after the letter was sent.  It is shutting down due to financial reasons. I blame the following people - Cameron, Clegg, The Bank of England, My Local Authority et al. 


My Rhino
A long with a few honoured friends another love of my life is probably my Nan. I am not ashamed to admit this. She is great. A total living legend. Everyone who knows my Nan can not help but love her. She is amazing for the following reasons;

• She never really learnt to cook anything but rock cakes, and these were always a truly teeth splitting exercise;
• She will respond to all her nicknames with a wink and a giggle; Rhino, Dinosaur, Noonle, Moan, Gorgeous, Sexbomb, Cheekytots, Rachel/Bruno (names given to her by Granddad in preference of her actual name - he did not like it, but married her TWICE in spite of this, they divorced once you see);
• She worked until she was in her 80s. I REPEAT SHE WORKED UNTIL SHE WAS IN HER 80s;
• She would cycle everywhere until her mid 70s when a little unwelcome guest called cancer decided to host itself in her stomach. She won, it got evicted, but she stopped cycling;
• She would in her 80s come and visit me at university. She would down pints of guiness, wacth the rugby and the grand prix with my housemates, come to the union, have a dance and do a few shots of aftershock with us. She could out drink us. The wild thing;
• She has since the age of about 13 had a pint of guiness everyday, without fail;
• Again since the age of 13 she has used vinegar for everything - to wash her hair, brush her teeth, moisturise, clean the house, feed her family, clean wounds everything;
• Until about 86 she would still dance on tables at family events;
• She still thinks there is someone "mug enough" to marry and impregnate me.

I really could go on about her forever. This list does not do the Old Rhino any justice at all. But rest assured if you met her you would LOVE her. Absolutely LOVE her.


Visiting Time: The Pimp Daddy Game
When I go and see my Nan my heart always sinks a little bit. She has dementia, so is not as "on it and as all over it" as she once was. But we always have a laugh. Generally we take her into a family room and then like chavs on a bus play out some 'choons for her on our iphones/pods. I got caught the other day singing outrageously and dancing provocatively towards her with tinsel as a feather boaesque prop whilst my parents were having some sort  of snore of a conversation in the corner (they are divorced), before they realised the floor show had started. 


Dad rolls his eyes and sighs "Please explain to me what our 30 something year old daughter is doing to Nan right now?"


Mum leans forwards pats him on the knees and laughs "Oh, H, it is fine. Mum likes this game, they call it the Pimp Daddy Game,because they think it sounds funny, ruddy idiots, you are lucky your other two kids aren't here with the walking stick and hat, that is when it can get out of control!".


Dad takes a sip of his over brewed tea and splutters "Pimp Daddy Game? What the hell is wrong with you lot? She is 91 show some respect."


I continue to gyrate around the room with the tinsel whilst playing "Crazy in Love" out of my ipod. Nan loves that track, it reminds her of my 21st birthday. She made some great shapes that day. She is repeating/squealing the lyrics "Uh oh uh oh uh oh" and clapping off beat.


"Anyway H, she is 29 and she is 91, they are both adults and if they want to play this stupid game, then I can't stop them. You know what they are like."


Dad then drops his tea on the floor. Nan points and laughs at him. Mum stands up and starts dancing with me. Nan is attempting to slap her thigh like a panto character in excitement. Dad looks upset.I am not sure if he is disturbed or feeling left out...  


And then, out of no where, he leaps out of his chair and starts shaking his thing like it is 1977 and D.I.S.C.O is back in the room. 


We continue in this dance frenzy for about 6-7 minutes, when my mum suddenly sits down and starts acting all normally. Me and dad continue. I then sit down. Dad is then funking out all over the room by himself for about 30 seconds when he realises why me and mum have sat down. The care home staff are in the doorway laughing their heads off with a few other residents. 


I remember thinking to myself at that moment, this is not the first time I have been caught dancing like a  dick for my nan in here and it won't be the last. The thing is, after getting that letter, it probably is. 

What now?

Since that visit and the letterofdoom I have been writing to all manner of people and visiting different care homes. It seems like this could be about to get complicated. They want to shove her to the back of the list and reassess her finances, there was no mention of reassessing her health. Just how much money she has in her pension pot. Fuck that, the woman has health needs, which unfortunately as a family we are not able to support her with adequately otherwise she would still be with us. 

 I have also been doing a lot of research about the care home crisis in this country. I feel a bit embarrassed and ashamed that I had not realised how bad it was. Normally, as I was teaching I was always primarily concerned with resources and funding at work, not anything to do with my family. Thankfully free time has allowed a change of course. 

I am truly disgusted at how this whole situation has been handled by the home and everyone connected with it. It is really very upsetting. She is 91. She worked until her 80s. She is a totally lovely little old lady. And just before Christmas they are telling her to leave her home of two and a half years. It makes me so sad. It is so cold.

I really hope that I can do something beyond dancing around the care home to make this situation better for my nan and other people in a similar situation. IT IS UNACCEPTABLE.

The following articles/discussions have proved a good basis for me to get a better grip of what the situation in the country is, have a read:

• Southern Cross Scandal 
• Protect Those In Home Care
• Human Rights and The Elderly 

In other news...

I am still of course still learning to rap (nan loved my reworked version of "Apple Bottom Jeans") and applying for jobs.

TheMostAmazingThing...

Me and two of my compadres won the pub quiz last night. This has made me very happy and very hungover. I have become such a simpleton.


But what this does prove is that I have not wasted the past few weeks reading trivia on the internet during job hunting downtime. I have learnt something which has translated into a tangible win.


Now I am off to find a pub that does "Rap Idol". I feel a winning streak coming my way. I am not so foolish however to believe that part of this streak will involve me pinning down a job in a way that a stud dog pins down and impregnates an unsuspecting bitch; I think potential employers have to be more willing than that, and I really ain't no stud. It is almost Christmas after all and they are playing hard to get.

Key Skillz

Softcore or Hardcore?
The past few days have been spent attempting to tweak my C.V in a bid to manipulate it into something beyond fantastic and closer to mind blowing. I now have a range of C.Vs; professional, academic, low-skilled, high-skilled and so on and so forth. I have done this so I am more marketable across a range of jobs. Any H.R person worth their weight in bullshit I am sure will quickly identify the hybridity of templates I have used. I decided it was best to ask for C.V advice through the means of twitter, just to check I had not made too many fundamental errors, and I got back the following (actually very useful) links;

• The lovely people at Target Jobs UK http://targetjobs.co.uk/careers-advice/applications-and-cvs
• The equally lovely people at Guardian Jobs http://jobs.guardian.co.uk/cv-advice/
• And the Monstrous people (joke, please laugh) at Monster Careers http://career-advice.monster.co.uk/cvs-applications/cv-advice/the-worst-cv-mistake-ever/article.aspx
• Further kudos goes to the exceptional help and advice I got from Epilepsy Action who explained to me very clearly that I can still apply for jobs even when they ask for a driving licence (if you are epileptic and have frequent seizures you can not drive). As I was in the same job for 3 years and got diagnosed whilst in my last job I never worried about it, but it has put me off applying for particular jobs in recent weeks when they say "Full Clean Driving Licence". More information about that can be found here http://www.epilepsy.org.uk/info/equality/where-equality-act-can-help/employment .

Details over. 


Now one of the things I have been examining and thinking about are my skills. What skills do I have? Do I have any skills whatsoever? Are they 'soft' skills or are they 'hard' skills are they even key skills? I really still have no idea. But I compiled a list of sorts and came up with the following;

• Excellent communication skills, both written and spoken =I suffer from both writers and verbal diarrhoea.
•  The ability to make complex issues clear and simple =because I am quite simple I go to great lengths to find explanations of things (not Wikipedia even, more like CBEEBIES) which are exceptionally visual and basic so I can understand them and then regurgitate it for someone else.
• Good knowledge and understanding of current educational issues = I am former teacher you know. I know who Gove is.
• Specialist knowledge related to Sociology and Educational Policy = the degree.
• Good organisational and forward planning skills = I can set my alarm and I can check my facebook events on a regular basis if I choose too. I don't.
• Exceptionally competent IT Skills = I can turn a computer on and surf the net. BANG!
• Knitting, Hula-hooping, dancing, Spanish, harmonica, uke, drawing, writing = mediocre and fad like hobbies I have.

So after making this list ,I was faced with a sad truth. I have nothing out of the ordinary or exceptional to offer anyone. I don't even have enthusiasm. But I do have my precious lackofshame. So, in knowledge of my lackofshame and my ability to present in front of people. I have decided to add something new to my repertoire of disappointing skills:

 I am going to learn to rap. This is not going to be like my aforementioned fad hobbies. I am going to do this with a purpose. 

For what fucking  rapping purpose?
I have come across two rapping teachers in my life. One was my primary school teacher, who taught me to rap my times tables, she was aided by a terrible video with a fake Madonna lookalike. Thanks to her and the fake Madonna with no conical boobs I still know my two times table. The other teacher I came across was in Central America, she was a Christian,who liked Christian Rap. She was also a maths teacher and she would rap about maths to the kids. Now this is where my advantage lies; I am a sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll teacher. So I am going to rap about that.Dangerous.But there is plenty of workable material out there for me to use. You must remember I am also the idiot who in an interview lesson behaved like a dog and took 20 bananas into another one. So in light of my lack of skills I need to do something to come across as enthusiastic and dedicated. When I get offered my next interview, my aim, and this is serious, is for me to work a rap verse into it.  


I think the advantage of having rapping as a skill is quite clear;

• It can demonstrate my personality and confidence.
• I will be able to highlight my poor humour.
• By composing my own raps I will be able to show that I am both literate and culturally astute (as in I am down with the kids).

I have started this task with gusto by attempting to learn the following raps;

• Apple Bottom Jeans by T-Pain
• Get Ur Freak On by Missy Elliot

Neither are particularly fast and they both have very recognisable backing tracks, so if I rework the lyrics to suit the purpose of an interview I think it could go down quite well. 

In other news

• I never made it to the beautician.
• I found my dog reading from the laptop today, ironically it was on a page about dogs on-line. He was pawing at the screen and the keyboard. 

Unemployment Prolongs: The Dole Office and the FOURTH visit.

The importance of Katie Price and Peter Andre

My morning started as follows :

I woke up and was forced, after mummy thrust a cup of coffee in my hand (she forgot extra milky and two sugars - I probably need to have a a little chat with her about this, the standards are slipping, and to be fair I feel I have had to compromise on a lot recently and I feel very strongly about my morning cuppa) to have a full blown conversation about Katie Price and Peter Andre.

"Morning darling, here you go". She plonks herself down on my bed. "I have a theory I need to share with you" She leans forward and has this manic look in her eyes which suggests it is either exceptionally important or is an idea which has been born out of a mild hangover and interrupted sleep. "It is about Katie Price and Peter Andre!". She is smiling insanely. Mother looks pleased with herself. I think she thinks she has cracked whatever this is (possibly more than roasting the nuts on the poxy stall). 

"Really, Mum? I am grateful for the coffee, but a natter about Katie and Peter at 8am, really?" 

"Yes, really gorgeous. I mean think about it." Mum pauses for all of a nano second to allow me to contemplate Peter and Katie. "Think about what mum?"

"Well, I mean who would know him if it weren't for Katie Price? I would not know him for 'Mysterious Girl'

At this point I raise my hand to my mums' face in a stop signal. Thankfully she leaves the room. I start thinking about putting Jeremy Kyle on, slitting my wrists and crawling to the dole office.

When I come out of my room. She is there. On the laptop. Reading a BBC breaking news live feed through my twitter account. This explains her thought process. She found something on there about them. Sometimes I wish me and my older brother never taught her how to use the internet. 

 "You see sweety! She is giving him an undisclosed sum for libel!" I still can not fathom how this bears any significance to my life. "Well!" (mother is now shouting) "If it were not for her, he would have nothing". Perhaps, I start to wonder, she is going to tie this into feminism. I start to will her on, hoping that telepathically she is reading my mind. In fact she thinks, my intense "thoughtstare" is me giving her an evil "Don't look at me like that! I am trying to make a point which will help you." 

I start to sigh/yawn/despair and muster a mutter of "Okay, get on with it then."

"Basically, you are strong woman, with a great set of jugs, you don't have to thank me for them and amazing lips. Why don't you glamour model?" (Bless her really though, she is ignoring the fact that I am now obese and my tits have started to sag, this is in spite of her recent very successful lazer eye surgery).

"MUM!"

"And then you could find yourself a willock. Who would worship you and do what you say. You need a willock. I am telling you a willock."

Another great suggestion from Mother. It is 8:13am. These are 13 minutes of my life I am never getting back.

It is hearing the word "willock" which reminds me, I have to go to the dole office and sign on again.

A degree of deja vu

I get a lift to the dole office again with mum. I really have started regressing. She also found all my dole stuff for me. I seem to have the organisational skills of a 15 year old with dyslexia and overdue coursework and some impending mock exams. I am in a constant state of FREAK OUT.  I also have acne. Fuck unemployment is shit.

Anyhow, the stupid level crossing at Boundary Road is down, which causes me to be a grand total of 8 minutes late for my signing on time. I know they will make me pay for it. 

I get there. And the little security dude knows. He knows I am late. He can see it in my eyes. I sign on at 10:25 am. It is 10:33am. 

He takes all the paperwork from my hands. He goes over to the lady with the bad hair dye and talks to her. She gives him a form. He shuffles back to me. He hands me this form. He gives me a stubbymotherfuckingpen. I HAVE ONLY GOT THROUGH THE FIRST SET OF AUTOMATIC DOORS AND I HAVE ALREADY BEEN GIVEN MY FIRST FUCKING STUBBY PEN.

He explains that he has written down I am late, he has also noticed I have forgotten some paperwork. Brilliant.

Clearly, I start to sweat middle class confusion profusely. I either look snooty or desperate. Actually this is not good at all. As I start rubbing and clutching my hands together anxioulsy I realise I have not painted my nails and they are all sad, chipped and flakey. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I can see my monobrow from a distance of more than 3 meters away. AND MY TASH.To make matters worse I have no make up on due to unemployment induced acne. This is shit. I am standing somewhere that I find repulsive to the very core of my being and I look equally repulsive. Anyone who knows me knows the following things;

1. I am very fussy about hands, my own, other peoples, touching them and so forth. I get a manicure on the sly once a month. I do my nails twice a week myself. Having chipped nails to me is really an indicator of me being at a low ebb.

2. I get my monobrow "fixed" every three weeks. Without fail. I have had the same beautician for 15 years. I look like chewbaccas wife without her assistance.

3. I bleach my tash every week. It seems in honor of "Movember" I have not done this. AT ALL.

I feel the urge to runaway. I want to runaway and go to my beautician and spend £100. At least £100. I want to throw myself on the floor. 

Clearly mummy was being a fucking sarcastic bitch this morning when she said I could be a glamour model. Good joke mummy. Crap coffee means I was not awake enough to appreciate the elaborateness of it all. Her lazer eye surgery was good. I look out to the carpark and see her pointing and laughing. Bloody bitch. 

I dutifully and nervoulsy fill out the new set of forms that little dude has given me. He then indicates I can go up the stairs. When I get up the stairs I have to explain my lateness and show the paperwork which is now clammy and covered in my sweat to two more security guards.

I am finally allowed through to precious point B.

I wait. And I wait. 

Belonging

I notice two men I want to sleep with. It has taken four visits. A lowering of standards and dramatic growth of my own facial hair has finally lead me to find people attractive in here. I BELONG! 

My name is called.

But it is called over to poxy point A. I think my head is going to implode. Clearly my lateness has thrown the dole office out of sync.

I go over and I start to feel bad. I start to feel really bad about how fucking judgmental I have been again. The man is so nice about how hard I have been looking for a job. He asks me have my circumstances changed. He asks me what happened at my third interview. I explain. We laugh so loudly about the bananas that we are forced to explain it to the people at the desk next to us.They laugh too. Soon there are about 10 people laughing with me and at me in the dole office. I BELONG!

I feel what I believe maybe my tear ducts starting to work as there is a strange stinging sensation in my eyes. It feels foreign to me. Through his giggling he arranges an appointment for me. He wishes me luck. He trys to find some jobs I can apply for. He hands me some more paper. He sends me on my way.

I go outside find mummy and demand her mobile phone. I ring my beautician. I explain the state of my face of my hands. She laughs. I am seeing her on Saturday.

This rollercoaster is brilliant. I feel happy. Happy that I have become more aware and happy that there are some people who really want to help; help me find a job and to help me feel pretty. I just wish I could lower my standards some more so I would not feel a constant inner conflict of who I am, was and who I will be.