I’m beginning to see the appeal of becoming one of these serial unemployed types that you hear about in the newspapers these days. I’m having quite a pleasant time, all things considered, sat at home: today I’m constructing road signs out of coloured cardboard (don’t ask), playing with Google Maps, and waiting for the phone to ring while listening to the Beautiful South.
There’s only the question of money to be dealt with, so I’m biting my tongue to talk to vacuous, squeaky-voiced recruitment consultants who keep trying to convince me to do night shifts scanning documents in Hoddesdon, and trying to find something to occupy my time that doesn’t involve scissors and prittstick. I type at least 15wpm more than Kim Jong-Il, I got advanced scores on Word and Excel, and though am now registered with three temp agencies, have had a miserly total of 9.5 hours work in the last month. Ah, the modern world. I’m slightly pinning some hopes on getting a proper job soon, which would be nice, but until then I’m going to have to run the risk of IDS coming round to knock on my door looking like the vulture muppet and demanding my arms and legs in return for some dole money, thankyouverymuchsiryou’reverykindsiridoffmycaptoyousir. Stupid tories, ruining everything.