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.

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.

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.