A Serious Lack Of Motivation

Am I bothered though?


No.


I am not. I am quite simply unbothered and totally disengaged. 


My interview yesterday was a complete waste of everyone's time. They had no set questions, were not writing any notes and just talked the WHOLE time. I have never experienced an interview like it at all.  I wonder why I even bothered to brush my hair or wash for it. Because the interview panel had not. No-one even admired my lipstick. They looked really unkempt and dirty.I decided that they have no idea what they are looking for and were just sort of hoping for a disneyesque lightening bolt moment; when they find their prince/princess small cute animals will appear and everyone would have burst into song. Needless to say this did not happen when I was in the room. Thank god as I would have killed the animals. 


 So screw that. I don't want it even if I am offered it. 


Which is lucky as I had an epiphany of sorts on my way to the interview which went along the lines of "I have already lived in London for 4 or so years and this commuting business is actually well, quite distressing. I want to be able to walk to work and to be able to walk to see my friends, not traipse around on tubes for up to 3 hours a day, wondering if my pits smell and when I can next get off and buy some pocket deodorant" 


Consequently I am looking for jobs nearer home. We shall see how this works out.


In Other News...

• Mother has abandoned me for a week.
• I have spent the day listening and singing along to Prince Royce, whilst trying to dance the bachata. I have failed miserably on both counts; mostly because my ability to rap and speak Spanish is pretty lame and dancing the bachata alone is pretty weird. Funny though.
• I did not work Apple Bottom Jeans into my interview, but as they were talking so much I just sung it in my head. 
• Each time I attempt to locate my future ex-husband I fail. But Nan likes the visits to her care home which are a by-product of this completely futile infatuation. 

Lusting after jobs (amongst other things)

Too Much Time: Too Many Boys


I am spending far too much time with the boys.


How do I know this?


I woke up at 5am this morning and I could hear my liver crying. By 7am I was contemplating removing my own kidneys. Pain. In.The. Back.


Plus I have widened my sexual innuendo, double entendre, pun repertoire.

And my best friend Blondie texted me after she left me in the pub on Tuesday night saying;


"Put down the pint of cider and step away from them."


Upon reviewing my text messages of that evening I had sent her a load of incomprehensible babble. Besides, it was already too late by the time I got that message. I had already started on the whiskey and the conversation had become suitably undone. I am sure hanging around with these manboys prevents me from ever actually meeting anyone. 


Further, when Blondie and Dr T and I were out drinking with betterthangoogle and Mr Bee on Tuesday; betterthangoogle and Mr Bee proposed that were not the girliest of girls.


True. Blondie is a black belt ninja and Dr T has spent a great proportion of her time over the past ten years analysing and sequencing the spines of insects, or something like that. And I? Yes, I do my nails, go to the beautician, blah,blah,blah but there is something inherent in my personality that means I act in quite a masculine fashion. 


Girlieness


I tried to start to combat this on Wednesday morning by watching "Confessions of a Shopaholic"  on iplayer. I did not laugh. Once. I wanted to cry and rip my eyeballs out and smear them across my laptop. I stopped watching it. From this experience I have thus concluded that I must, on a daily basis (even if I don't leave the house) wear my "DareDevil" red lipstick so that when men see me and I am talking as if I am a man that they are so distracted by my big red lips that they ignore my banter and only think about kissing me.  I must remember to thank Professor Robert Winston for that insight. After stopping aforementioned chickflick I found a documentary of his about the science of sexual attraction and the behaviours of men and women. 


Again, this is probably where I am going wrong - looking at things from a scientific perspective. How very stereotypically male of me.


Which leads me to my next point...
How does this affect me in the job market?


Does my face fit?


I am by no means an unattractive female.I am not exceptional either. People do, other than my nan, tell me I am pretty; often they are men on the street clutching cans of Special Brew. 


Yet my face does not seem to fit. Ever. So I guess it is time for me to look beyond the physicality of it all (this thought process surely means I am quite girly?). 


It did not fit well in my last job. I did my job. I did it well. I enjoyed it. It did not fit well when I was at university. Or at school. Which leads me to another conclusion - I am an exceptionally difficult person to get on with. Not intentionally. But this just seems to be the status quo. 


Now, I don't particularly want to go to job club this week or next week or ever. I fear I may have a physical reaction to it - perhaps anaphylactic shock or I may actually take my eyeballs out. But I have to go as it is one of my action points. So I am going to ask them at job club, what is it I can do, to make myself seem more pleasant and less difficult. A good team player (other than in the realms of pubquizdom). I need to do something about it. And after speaking to my Job Centre Advisor today about my interview this week, she assures me that Job Club will have the answers.


It better, or I am going to go to my GP and demand CBT, a gastric bypass and a face lift.


Here's to hoping my face fits on Friday and that they don't think the lipstick is too much! (And that I can find a way to rap in the interview). 

Festivities Continued and Over

Sobriety and Sweats 
I have spent the last two days stone cold sober. Unbelievable I know. But I have been quite humourously ill. Prior to  a nice 48 hour body sauna I had, although not sober, been attempting to be good, or at least better than last year to ensure a better Christmas loot for 2012 (I mean three hats is pretty shockingly shit even by my families standards). 


This time last year as I remember I returned to London in between Christmas and NYE so I could go to some gym classes and be at my optimum drinking fitness. I had a personal trainer and everything. For NYE I went to a night called "Stick it On" at the King and Queen which divided me and my friends as they refused to go to a pub which housed English Defence League meetings. I ended up going to a series of different pubs and seeing a range of different people and playing a game of "grab the fit guys arse" with my sister. 


The night ended in a flat with a young man I know playing some sexy fiddle whilst another one lap danced for me, Dr T spoke incessantly about Mammoths and Dr L lost the ability to speak and blondie ran away. This year I had Sky+. Brilliant. Anyway back to how Christmas ended rather than the NYE that never was...


The Day of Jesus
So after the whole "motorboat me troll" statement. Things really only got worse. Unemployment really has led to a lowering of my social standards and ability to interact. The start of Christmas day in the pub ended with troll making a serious of false accusations about me. Which all my friends decided to believe (I definitely protested too much). Upon leaving the pub we had to assist betterthangoogle into his thermals. The walk home consisted of me, an architect and betterthangoogle fighting over which was the best kebab house. I got home just before 3am. I woke at home at 7am with a kebab on my face and the dog licking it and my mum violently hoovering. Another new low achieved. 


Hat O'Clock
By 11am favourite uncle had turned up. This year he had presents. Including hat 1 of 3. It turned out we all had a hat. A blue one. Like smurfs. He made us all wear them. We met my brother and his wifey at 11:30am at the bottom of the road. They too were given said hats. We gave favourite uncle a hat. It was black and white and it said "Bah Humbug!" on it. We walked all the way to Nans' care home. My brother gave me hat 2 of 3. Upon putting hat 2 of 3 in oversized lady bag I found hat 3 of 3 from my friends in the pub. 


By the time I walked into the care home I had put all three hats on. Not sure who looked more special, me with three hats or visibly mentally disabled uncle with Bah Humbug! hat on. My vote was with me;because upon entering new home a lovely oldie introduced himself to me, leaned in, gave me a kiss on the cheek and then whispered in my ear "Someone like you should just cut yourself." Fabulous. 


Upon entering care home further there was a baby crying. Me and favourite uncle did not like this sound. Nor did the oldies. Thankfully one of them started chanting "stick a dummy in it" and the rest of the joined in. Said baby left the room. Dinner was duly served. Hugs given to nanny. A bit of chit chat. And we left. 


We went for a walk on the beach on the way home. People were actually laughing at the stupid hats. We saw people we knew. They took pictures of us and stupid hats. A complete freak show. For a large percentage of the walk home I could smell cannabis. As it is Brighton and the beach I thought nothing of it. Not an uncommon occurrence. 


We got back to the flat and stuck Happy Feet on. Brother and wifey had left us. Favourite Uncle kept choking whilst smoking. Told him to stop. He did. Before lunch he had a little tumble. Lunch was served. I spent the rest of the afternoon with one eye open watching him and the other shut. Eventually I dozed off. 




You're spending Christmas in the back of ambulance


When I woke up it was about 6pm. We all woke up. It turned out we were all sleeping. No one had been watching Favourite Uncle. Fucking food coma. We had all jolted awake because of a supersonic boom sound. But from where. Where was uncle? 


He was in the garden. On the floor. Like an obese turtle lying on his back. This was not good. Blood was gushing from his head. Mum was screaming. Mum's Man was pacing. A true Christmas nightmare had unfolded. 


Time for an ambulance. 


Favourite Uncle does not like hospitals or Doctors. Unless they are prescribing him Valium and lying to him about his blood sugar levels. Now as this never happens because he is as mad as a hatter and a non-compliant diabetic he was pretty fucking angry about this whole "Your spending Christmas in the back of an ambulance" business.  Tried hitting mummy, would only respond when spoken to in a baby voice by me and was insisting on smoking still whilst his head was spuing blood. 


A and E


As I was the only sober person in the house I got Uncle duty. I was fine with this. Until I realised how long I would have to wait. And how limited FUs' ability to play "I spy is". He spied the lights a total of 18 times in three  six hours. 


To further kill time and cause a scene any time a member of hospital staff went past FU would point at me and say "She pushed me" or "She stuck her legs out from under the sofa and tripped me up". Which meant when I was being spoken to by the nurses and the consultants I was spoken to with an air of suspicion. Mum had warned me that he was very angry about the trip to the hospital and would try all manner of shit, before getting into the ambulance she was shouting about how he often goes up to a and e using different pseudonyms (dedicated to the cause of opiates and hoodwinking people on the end of shift it seems).  One exchange on Christmas night at a and e included this;


FU: "Please don't glue my head together.

Nurse: "It will be fine".


FU: "But I am not a robot."

Me:[singing to the tune of Marina and The Diamonds "I am not a Robot"] "Guess 


WHHHHHHHAAAAATTTTT you're not a robot, a robot"


FU: "You can not sing [starts singing] I am not a robot, a robot"


[at this point we are getting him into a robe, and low and behold the bastard has a fucking 1/2 


bottle of whiskey down his trousers, that would explain the fall and the ridiculous blood sugar 


count]

Nurse: "I am going to attach these sticky pads to you".

FU: "Perhaps I am a robot?"

Me: "If you were a robot, we would not be at a & e on Christmas day, because you would have 


be programmed to listen to me"

FU: "Good point, but unfavoured niece of mine, no one listens to you".


Obviously, because of the whiskey another discussion took place. This was the point I decided to leave. Especially when it turned out the reason I could smell cannabis and thought I was having flashbacks to my sixth form common room was in-fact because favourite uncle had skanked a cheeky doobie for the Christmas walk to the care home from one of people he lives with. I was really cross with him. He had made me look stupid and irresponsible. He was laughing manically as I left and they were wheeling him to X-ray. Bastard. 


The rest of the festive season...
Was spent in pubs and walking and eating nice food with friends. The night before NYE we went out. I will contest I was not drunk ( I mean it may have been a two day hangover which killed my NYE celebrations but this seems unlikely). We went to the pub. It was nice. I was going to go clubbing. But I suddenly felt very ill. So I got a taxi and went home. Fell out of taxi, taxi driver had to get me up. 


At 5am on NYE I woke up. Howling. Mummy came in. I projectiled on her. I ran/crawled/stumbled to the bathroom. More nastiness ensued. This continued for hours. Eventually daddy rang. He had my little sister in tow (she told me she is 7 now). They wanted to take me for lunch. I went. I threw up before, after and during. My dad made me take my little sister to the toilet each time I needed to go. Her silence of my sickness set me back £15 pounds for some shit art glitter craft box. She said she would make me something. I told her not to bother. On the way home I thought I had shat myself. 


Thankfully, it turns out daddy has heated car seats. But that warm sensation gave me the illusion of having pooped my pants. There are few social exchanges worse than turning to your dad in his nice new car and saying in hushed tones "I think I have shat myself, I am so sorry" him laughing and then the nosey seven year old chipping in and going "No! You haven't I used to think that and sometimes still do, it is the bum toasters that are on". Total humiliation. I think I would have rather of shat myself.


I have remained in bed. 


Me and FU have spoken since. He has apologised. Though still claims he did nothing wrong and was trying to enter the Christmas spirit.  


The best thing of this season is that I am now in love.

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.  

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. 

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... 

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.