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.
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