I don’t have a day-job at the moment. Every Monday, I have to go to down to the Jobcentre and report on what I’ve done to ‘look for work’. Last week, my ‘activity’ equaled 36 hours. This week’s projection is also 36. That’s a full-time job. For me, this involves drinking coffee while clicking through more than 6 job-sites, looking for the magic words, ‘please send CV and cover letter to’: someone who is probably younger than me at Shehasajobandyoudon’tdotcom.…
Stress gives me heartburn. Gulp-Gaviscon-and-belch heartburn. I have decided I shouldn’t eat crisps and dip for dinner or look for a job after 8.00pm. I got another rejection yesterday. I then asked my PA to polish my nails purple to cheer myself up. It didn’t work. Sarge came home for lunch and made me life-sucking -zombie coffee. That worked. I still cried, though. And got unspeakably angry at grammatical errors on national websites. I flapped around a bit saying, ‘People…
