Yesterday marked 6 months until the wedding. Sarge and I celebrated by opening some sparkly from the engagement party and watching a double-bill of The Usual Suspects and Mixed Nuts. Guess which one was my choice. And. We were also toasting the the fact that I quit my job on Friday. Although I prefer the term ‘left voluntarily’. See, the giant stresshead I mentioned in my last post kinda exploded. The first flowery boot dropped on Thursday night at a…
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.…
Looking for work is my job these days. If I’m not searching online/offline for vacancies, I’m sending out speculative letters with a copy of my CV, or writing about doing such things. On Fridays, I go to a job club, which involves sitting around and eating biscuits with other unemployed people. We talk about goal-setting, and confidence-building and what’s been on television. Now, I have goals. And confidence. I think big. And outside the box. I even think outside the…
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…
