No. 13 (jobless + 45 days)

Love is a losing game

This week, I have mostly been job hunting. Pimping myself out to contacts around London.

Trying to get a job feels a bit like dating.

Most girls in their twenties and thirties will be all too familiar with the(occasionally) excruciating dating scene.

It’s not even the truly heinous dates which get you down....y’know, the ones where your date tells inappropriate jokes about disabled people, offensive to the extent you have to turn and walk out of the pub (seriously, this happened to me) or the one where your date tells you, on the FIRST date, that he is actually already seeing someone (again, true fact). These at least provide you witty anecdotes with which to regale your friends, or material for your book on the 50 worst dates.

Nope, it’s the “no-spark” dates that get you down, the dates with perfectly attractive, funny and clever boys, with whom there is just no spark, no matter how much you try to conjure one up through copious amounts of liquor. The “no-spark” dates get you thinking: if you can’t connect with the good ones, who are so few and far between anyway, what chance is there of ever finding love, the tiniest needle in the haystack of hormones that is our metropolis?

“No-spark” dates go like this. You meet a guy in a bar, online, at an after-work drinks party, down an alley...wherever...and you decide you like each other enough for a date. He seems nice and he looks good in stripes (we East London girls love a bit of Gallic charm) and you are, well, borderline OK even if you say so yourself. Magic.


Only it’s not magic. It’s fun and all; you share some shandies, move on to vodka tonics and end with a shot of sambuca. You talk about your childhood: his parents divorced, yours moved around but otherwise normal, happy backgrounds. He’s hoping his rock band takes off, you’re hoping there’ll be another series of Flight of the Concords (ah Brett, we miss you, and your wolf-embossed leisure wear).

There’s no electricity but you’re having a nice time. Average nice, alcohol fuelled, average nice. Your hand slips into his on the way out of the pub. You share a beer-breathed kiss on the street. Probably with tongues. Your heart’s not in it, but it seems only polite, on both your parts.

When you get home (alone), you sit on the sofa. Your housemates are all asleep and it’s too late to dissect the somewhat lacklustre date. You feel a bit empty. You know he won’t call. This doesn’t bother you because you like him; you don’t. This bothers you because it’s still rejection.

Well, that is what job hunting is like.

I’ve met wonderful, amazing people for coffees over which they impart advice, but I leave feeling more confused and further away from the JOB than before. Not because they haven’t been helpful, they all have been, but because getting a JOB just feels so far from my grasp. Every job seems to call for a special set of skills, which I don’t have, some special spark which I can’t bring.

Applying for jobs online, has forced me to attempt to write witty and concise covering letters –like writing my own dating profile - citing all the ways in which I am fabulous and should be offered a job for which I am not really qualified.

I went to a job interview recently, where I was quizzed for an hour before they escorted me to the lifts with a pitying look in their eyes. Not sure I even like them, but that’s not the point, because they still haven’t phoned.

No. 12 (Jobless + 40 days)

Don't worry be happy

There was a book reviewer at my kitchen table today. He appeared to be the remnant of a particularly heavy night my flat mate had been on the night before. I made him tea and plied him with questions, probably none too welcome questions given his expression which appeared to scream: “shut up, you irritatingly annoying early morning talker. I have drunk my body rate in literary Courvoisier and I feel like a small rodent-like mammal is currently decomposing in my mouth.”

Probably to stop my questions, he asked me what I did. I gave the big sigh I have become accustomed to emitting when faced with this question: “weeelllll, I used to be a lawyer but I gave it all up to sew sequins and dustbin lids onto the clothes of Cheryl Cole”. He didn’t laugh. I later discovered he had left sleeping tablets on the sitting room table, so I shall attribute his impassive expression to the drugs and not to any deficiency in my witty one-liners.

I told him the truth. I am figuring it out but in the meantime I am working at a charity. For free. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realised that I sounded like one of those people who weave their socks out of macro-biotic yogurt and sport a mono-brow.

He turned his bleary eyes to me and asked “Is that because all the people who work for charity look very smug and happy?”

Yes, yes it is.

He makes a good point though; henceforth maybe I should only target jobs where the workers look very smug and happy. This may leave me with limited options, I can think of jobs in which people look smug (bankers, hedge fund managers, BBC Breakfast presenters and new-media dahlings in fluorescent trainers and trilbies)....

smug banker dude

.....or happy (archaeologists always seem quite happy, as do biochemists and the guy who works at Bethnal green tube station and sings soul classics).

happy archaeologist ladies

But rarely are people both at the same time. I have decided this is my aim: happiness with a large spoonful of smug on the side.

No. 11 (jobless +35 days)

Sweet Charity

I fear I have become an unemployed City worker cliché, without even meaning to. I have started interning at a charity.


I know, I know, sharp intake of breath and sceptical comments aside, I’m really enjoying it. Although I do feel like one of those wives who lives off their wealthy husband whilst working a couple of hours a week for charidee.

Only without the wealthy husband.

I admit that flirting with the charity sector does seem to be the calling card of the out of work lawyer, trying to shrug off the taint of working all hours to line the pockets of multi-national corporations. If only for a while. But it’s great to have more structure in my days. What’s even greater is that I now own a security pass to get into a building. An actual office building.

What better sign is there that you have a purpose in society, than owning a security pass?

No. 10 (jobless + 1 month)

Cry, cry, cry

Post African nation break, sans malaria (fingers crossed), avec tan (well, a ginger tan, otherwise known as freckles) and ready to GET A JOB.

Then the FEAR hits me.

I can’t sleep.

I wake up in the early hours with little seeds of panic flying about inside my head, which implant themselves into my brain, growing into a big flipping tree of self doubt.

I awoke this morning thinking about Kate Silverton, the BBC Breakfast presenter, not in a dirty way, of course (never been one for the 80s cropped hair and pastel power suits), but in a comparative way.



There she was, white of teeth and glossy of lips, probably already in make-up, ready to tackle the big issues of the day and, let’s be honest, occasionally the somewhat fluffier issues. There I was, in bed, jobless and racked with concern at the thought.

I’ll admit it. I am terrified about never finding a JOB. Tears well up in my eyes and I get pins and needles in my nose when I think about it (don’t ask, I am a very unattractive weeper)..I feel like a girl who has been dumped and sees reminders of her old love at every turn.

Meeting former colleagues for lunch, reminds me that I once had a function in society and was paid for it. Hanging out with my friends, who were so supportive of my decision, I sense their disappointment that my new world of opportunities has yet failed to yield anything amazing. Even a letter from the Inland Revenue yesterday, kindly providing me with my new tax code and informing me that they “believe I am currently in between jobs” was enough to start the chin wobbling. I thought it sounded like a little bit of a loaded statement from the old I-Rev.

Tis a hard week, this one. But then I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Deep breaths and apply some bronzer (although I must tread carefully here, as combined with the ginger hair, I am concerned I am starting to resemble a clementine).

No. 9 (Jobless + 3 weeks)

God only knows

As I have elected to squander some of my out-of-work-figuring-out-what-I-want-to-do-now-I-have-grown-up time by going to find Winter Sun in an African nation, I had to pay a visit to the travel nurse for jabs an’ tings.

My local doctors’ practice is called the Mission Surgery and, as the name implies, my doctors have God in no small way. Surgery bookshelves are lined with tomes on quitting smoking and vaccinating small children, interspersed with books on finding eternal salvation through the Lord.

I think my nurse took one look at me, decided I was a heathen and elected to punish me by sticking multiple needles into my arm (not overly gently) and telling me off for not coming in sooner. When the ordeal was over, she sighed, shook her head and sent me on my way to the pharmacy with a sore arm and a pamphlet telling me Jesus loved me.

Anyways, all this got me thinking. I’ve always had a rather ambivalent relationship with God. By Christening me as a baby, I think my parents pretty much felt any religious obligations had been thereby fulfilled.

As a child slightly preoccupied with a growing realisation of my own mortality, I did spend a few years considering whether God might be for me. Apparently faith in Him would not only guarantee me a spot in some fluffy-cloud heaven, where angels fed you Philadelphia on toasted bagels, but I could also ask Him for things I wanted. I could pray that my annoying little brother might be replaced by a much cooler, older brother with super-hot friends and that orange denim would be appreciated more (at that time I had a fashion-forward orange denim hot pants and waistcoat set that my mum had bought me – I wish I had a photo of this ensemble, honestly I do, but as I do not, here is an artist’s impression of the sartorial travesty triumph)...

Please dance with me. No? Oh Ok then.....

... You get the idea.

Along with my other experimental phases (including three months as a moralistic vegetarian, two days as a black nailed Goth dressing only in crushed velvet and nearly a year as a half hearted chav with a huge diamond in my belly button) my mother never tried to dampen my new-found ardour. Together we went along to a church service in our little Cotswold village. Two hours later, bored rigid and suffering severe smoke inhalation from the heady fumes of incense being wafted about the tiny church, and my mind was made up. God was not for me. Not that I would burn all my bridges, however. I would describe myself as agnostic not an atheist, sometimes I would even pray, just in case. But, religious I wasn’t.

My experience with the nurse has caused me to muse upon my perilous situation vis-à-vis the afterlife. Not only am I not exactly God’s BBF but also I think even the Existentialists (yup, them again) would have little truck with me, given that I am not exactly – in my current jobless state - living up to their idea that we should all jolly well make the best out of the short, pointless lives we have (i.e. by penning depressing literature and being intellectual).

So, in an effort to remedy my spiritual apathy, I have decided to invent my own spiritual-philosophy-religion thing (without lizards or red wrist bands). I am starting my own "ism"…….Aha-ism. The principal tenets of aha-ism are as follows:

History

Formed out of boredom, disillusionment and a love of 1980's pop bands, Aha-ism is the term applied to a body of thought which emerged out of those credit crunch afflicted days of the early 21st century. Taking strands from existentialism and darn-I-don't-have-any-ideals-ism, Aha-ism focuses on those essential life questions such as "can I save my soul from eternal damnation?", "do I need to?", "is it a wise plan to quit your job in the midst of a recession?" and "what is the capital of Mongolia?".

Origins

The term "Aha-ism" is believed to have been coined by an English jobless ginger turned audio book reader (well, it’s on the potential job list) and was henceforth adopted by many others who subscribed to the central themes of Aha-ism (see below).

Concepts

Aha-ist thinkers focus on the individual's search for knowledge, innate capacity to remember useless facts and ability to remember the lyrics to random cheesy pop songs of yesteryear. Aha-ists believe that all these elements help the individual find meaning in life.

Aha-ists subscribe to the "carpe diem" concept of, well, you only get one life so…aha…one should do what makes one happy. However, Aha-ists, unlike the nihilists, do have a strong moral code. They make their beds every morning and would always give up their seats on public transport for the elderly, infirm or for those with child. Furthermore, an Aha-ist would never discriminate on the basis of former careers, lack of co-ordination or hair colour.

I may – possibly, maybe, potentially, a little bit – have too much time on my hands.

No 8. (Jobless + 18 days)

What a Waster

One of the strangest things about not working is experiencing, for the first time, what your local area is like on a weekday afternoon. Weird is the answer in my case.

I have lived in East London for nearly five years and, despite the occasionally over-the-top Shoreditch twatish-ness that has come to define some of my area, I loves it. I really do. I love it for its bars and restaurants tucked away off streets with amusing sobriquets such as “Murder Mile” and I love it for the Sunday Brick Lane markets, where vendors set up stalls at the side of the road selling used toothbrushes, single shoes and a multitude of rusty springs.

When I was working as a City lawyer, I felt that living in Bethnal Green was the equivalent to ordering salad with chips, the two concepts together (one bad, one good) cancel each other out. Obviously.

Yet Bethnal Green is all manner of strange when you are out and about during working hours. By way of example, on my way up West early one afternoon to meet a man about a dog, I strolled merrily past the soul music singing tube worker at Bethnal Green station and skipped down the escalator deep in thought about something or other. Maybe about the faux fur coat I have been lusting after to keep out the bone-chilling cold or maybe I was pondering the West Lothian question or reflecting on the possibility of a hung Parliament following this year’s general elections (sometimes I attempt to be high brow, even if just in my head).

Anyways, I didn’t realise that my pace of descent was faster than that of the chap in front of me until I had nearly collided with him. The man turned around and leered at me with a face which resembled that of a shabby-suited, scabrous, semi-toothless 50 year old Pete Docherty.... after a rough night.


I let out an involuntary yelp of fright and he lifted up one scraggy sleeve and lamped me one across the side of my face.

Cripes. Escalator assault by geriatric East End celebrity-a-like tramp. Awesome.

But it’s not just random incidents of assault that make me feel weird about being home in the day. It’s also the little things that I never knew about. The fact that every day at about 2 pm the kids from the local school all troop down my street, muddy legged and scraggy haired, presumably after some collective sporting endeavour. Or the dude with the fluorescent jacket who cleans around the bottom of the trees in our street (only the trees, nothing else) and the little boy across the road who walks his huge staffies every morning at 11 am with his mum and makes me feel old as I catch myself wondering whether he ought not to be in school.

It’s funny, having the time to watch the world around you go about its business; doing jobs it hates but earning money nonetheless, getting beaten up by the bigger boys in school football matches, having a routine and being part of something.

When I was an office monkey, I thought there was nothing more pointless I could be doing. So it’s strange when I realise that being jobless sometimes feels a lot like being irrelevant.

No. 7 (Jobless + 16 days)

Oxford Comma

In an idle moment the other day, I decided to have a look at my school yearbook. The real reason I was looking at it was a self-indulgent one, as I recalled some quote from my former English teacher about my “instinctive written fluency”.
Or something like that.

I will confess that he also mentioned my inability to use the semi-colon correctly, although I would point out that we all have our private struggles (just look at those Vampire Weekenders, and their dismissal of the finer points of punctuation). Grammatical problems aside, it shames me to say it, but I can still get a jolt of confidence from a 10 year old piece of praise.

Having dosed up on approbation, I then decided to take a nostalgic stroll down memory lane, looking at comments written to me by my school friends. Some examples:

Laura B: “When I first met you I thought you were a lairy bitch! But now I know different.”


Ah, sweet huh?

Given that I have not since spoken to Laura B since leaving school, I fear she may have reverted to her original appraisal of me.

Kevin P: “It is a DISGRACE that you did not get best arse of the sixth form” (his emphasis not mine).

I always admired Kevin for his good judgment.

Perusing the rest of the misspelt (shockingly so, as we all went to grammar school) teen-speak messages, I stumbled across a quote from my history teacher, Mr. M (in fact, slightly misquoted....evidence appears to be mounting for a re-examination of the quality of our grammar schools):

“Golden boys and girls all must, as chimney-sweeps return to dust.”

Depressing, much? At the time I remember thinking that this was a peculiarly morbid quotation to write in the yearbook of an 18 year old. I recall wondering whether he used the same quotation for everyone, or whether he had an arsenal of equally depressing quotes up his sleeve with which to remind his young charges of their inevitable mortality and the futility that any of their adult efforts to stave off the essential pointlessness of life (...I think at this time I was studying Existentialism, so may have read more into this than was warranted).

Being literatorially fallible (and prone to making up words, grammar school education y’know), I looked this quote up the other day and discovered it was from a funeral song in Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, the exact wording being: “golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers come to dust”.

So I guess what the bard is trying to put out there is that it doesn’t matter what you do for dollars or how fancy yo crib is, you’ll probably end up doing panto in Wimbledon (see P-Anderson) or singing on SAGA cruise ships (see entire cast of X-Factor runners-up), these surely being the equivalent of a slow and painful death.

Food for thought as things currently stand for me. Going to tell me ma not to fret her pretty head about my joblessness, I will eventually die and all this worrying will have been fruitless. Muchos gracias, Mr. M.

No 6. (Jobless + 2 weeks)

I will survive

My P45 arrived through the letterbox this morning. Like a box of my belongings, spare toothbrushes and odd socks, being sent to me by an ex-lover. The last vestiges of our life together landing unceremoniously on my doormat.

This may be a tired metaphor, but leaving a job you have fallen out of love with (if, in fact, it was ever love and not just a relationship of pure convenience – my soul in exchange for your money means clothes and food for me, in that order) is like leaving a long term relationship which has lost its sparkle.

When the realisation hits that that the days of romance and afternoon sex have long since faded and all you are left with are arguments, awkward silences and biannual sex with socks on, it’s time to leave. First comes the rush of euphoria, freedom is yours. You now have the liberty to kiss inappropriate boys, to flirt outrageously, to not shave your legs....etc. etc.

The second phase, however, is altogether less fun and lasts for so much longer. This is the point when you realise that there are no single men to flirt with, that all the good ones are taken and all the single ones are messed up narcissists with more baggage than Louis Vuitton and no room in their lives for you. What’s more, all your mates are paired off in long term relationships and have little time to hang out with your newly single self.

This is the moment when the nostalgia kicks in. The days of the relationship are seen through rose-tinted glasses as happier, more settled times. The lure of what you know and what is safe inspires fantasies about a reconciliation (it could be different this time, no?), ill-advised drunken phone calls to your ex and confessions to your friends that you are considering re-kindling the jaded relationship.

This is how unemployment currently feels to me. My glee at freedom (all leisurely lunches, jeans in the day and hassle free mid-week Christmas shopping) has given way to a mild panic and deep-seated unrest. I know this is merely a phase, but sometimes I think I want back the lacklustre lover that was my old job. I want us to bury our problems and go back to the security of our long, boring days and nights together. Maybe we can put behind us your pedantry and my lack of commitment. Can’t we make this work? For the sake of the kids?

Then I remember the mind-wrenchingly dull evenings of our time together, the demands, the stress, your obsession with spreadsheets and I realise that our parting was the right thing.

I am going to play some Gloria Gaynor, sing along loudly and get back on the market. The job market that is.