Bidding a fond farewell to daytime television

It is months since I last blogged.  Unemployment tends to sap the urge to do anything.  This can be something of a drawback when some time out of every day, or at least a few hours out of each week should be devoted to seeking work.  Despite all this lethargy and depression, I have managed to get a job!  Yes, I even surprised myself.

After months of looking and dozens of applications - around 200 possibly, I was asked to attend an interview in September.  I was so shocked I wanted to telephone them up immediately and check they realised I hadn't worked for nearly two years AND was very much the wrong side of 40.  This desire was obviously driven by deep-seated insecurity, but it had to fight with my bank-balance's equally deep-seated desire for replenishment. At one point insecurity looked like winning.  Then the part of my brain devoted to my bank balance, somewhere in the hippocampus and connected to the nice clothes and lovely holiday thalamus took over and bitch-slapped insecurity into submission.  The interview required me to give a 10 minute presentation on running a project management office.  It turned out that all those involved in the interview had been managing projects for some time, so I thought this was something of a wasted opportunity.  They could have asked for a 10 minute presentation on something interesting, such as Channel Five USA's TV schedule or Film4's devotion to war and bloke movies in the daytime and we could all have gained something from the interview.  I began to suspect towards the end of the interview that they were going to offer me the job.  I don't know what gave it away, their keenness to know that I could start as soon as possible, their assurance that they would definitely get back to me the next day, or the comment at the very end of the interview that even though the advertised salary was a 'payband', I was new to the organisation so I could only start at the very bottom of the payband.  This put me in a difficult situation.  I had already informed DWP I had an interview.  They had noted down the details.  On being offered the job, I had to take it or lose my benefits and, possibly in the current climate, be shipped off to the nearest gulag, or as New-Labour-with-Blue-Ties like to call them "Work Programmes".  Had the payband point been made in the advertised role, I would not have applied.  However I did apply and I now have a job, albeit one in which I feel a bit exploited, but it will definitely be more than £71 a week.  Even if I can't be fully grateful for that, my bank balance definitely will be.  My liver will also be grateful, the quality of alcohol to which it has been subjected over the last few months has been on a downward spiral, supermarket special offers, otherwise known as stuff they couldn't sell and a friend's home brew are now my drink of choice, or more accurately my drink of lack of choice.

My job hasn't started yet, I have had two months to get used to the idea of having a job, without actually having to do one, which has been nice. I have still had to look for alternative employment, which is more than reasonable when I am still on benefits, and I have done this, even yesterday an agency called me about a job and asked me if I am immediately available.  Being loyal and mindful of the commitment to my new role, I said 'how much money is it?'.   With days left, I have now signed off the dole, my personal advisor was very pleased for me.  He is one of the few people there who have treated me like a human being, so it was nice to get to say goodbye to him and thank him.  Everyone keeps on saying I must be over the moon, but really I am quite numb, and more than a little apprehensive. I have had a few practice runs at getting up early, getting showered and dressed and feeding and walking the dog.  So far none of these have resulted in me being ready to leave the house just after 8 o'clock, which is not early for most commuters, so I am very lucky, just worried that even that will be a huge shock after all this time.

Practice runs lack the urgency of the real thing, so I am kidding myself that this is why so far I can't manage to be ready on time.  The real reason is that for the past year I have had the luxury of a very gradual start to the day.  Once the dog is fed, I can take my time, and I do.  My TV habits are shameful.  I can't watch Breakfast TV, all that noise, colour and information so early in the day makes me feel a bit giddy.  I can just about manage Radio 4, but by about 9 I can generally cope with television,  multi-tasking as I go by drinking endless cups of tea, checking Facebook, Twitter, Yahoo and Google Mail, plus my horoscope, my tarot card, my lottery numbers and chatting on the phone to my mother, my fellow unemployed and the lucky few who don't need to work.  Telephone sales people have given up calling me, so freaked out were they by my willingness to chat to them.  In between this hub of inactivity, I walk the dog, apply for a few jobs and think about what to have for lunch.  Once lunch is out of the way, I realise I have done 'nothing' with the day, and dash around the house for an hour, half-heartedly .. well possibly quarter-heartedly doing some housework, or nip to the shops.  Then I walk the dog again and think about what to have for dinner, making sure I am back to the Sofa in time for Pointless.  I do have some standards though, I draw the line at soap operas.  They are always so grim and dramatic.  If my neighbour had a child that had been kidnapped, electrocuted, lost, nearly drowned and all that in the first two years of its life, even I would consider involving the social services, but in soapland common sense rarely prevails.  Nobody has normal problems to deal with, it is all big issues.  People get slapped, unfairly dismissed or locked up on spurious grounds at the drop of a hat, and there are no consequences. It is like the Premier league with lip gloss and botox.  Another thing about soap operas that drives me nuts is the plethora of the aesthetically gifted, gone are the days of Hilda in her day coat and rollers, everyone is glamorous, chiselled bones, six packs, perfect teeth and manicures and dodgy regional accents more often found in US sitcoms rolling out their token English cast member.

Now all this is coming to an end, a chapter of my life is over, I will never get this year back, I may not have used it well, but it is at an end.  I have watched every single episode of the Big Bang Theory, recognise antique/bric a brac auctioneers and have memorised the names of most of the key cast of Real Housewives of New York, time to move on.  Don't pretend you don't love RHONY, as we in the know call it, or should that be we in the no-life-to-speak-of?  But really, what's not to love?  They are rich, thin and vacuous.  How can you not warm to the inanities that make up their lives, particulary when compared to the inanities that have come to make up my life.

My time has not been completely wasted.  I have finished my degree, adopted the dog, perfected a few chutneys and put in quite a few volunteer shifts for a local hospice.  A friend pointed out today all the things we could have done, had we known this time last year that our unemployment would last this long, but hindsight is a luxury and luxuries are thin on the ground on the dole. Many of the things I wanted and needed to do (house and body extreme makeovers) involved money, or at the very least willpower.  Willpower doesn't sit that well with depression so that was out.  Money definitely doesn't sit well with long-term unemployment, so that too was out.  On the plus side, I have rarely had an alcoholic drink before 7 p.m., never stayed in bed all day and have been out walking for two hours every day.  Everyone tells me how marvellous I am to take on the dog, but if it wasn't for walking him, I would be too large to leave the house.  He has been my saviour.

I now realise that regardless of how soul-destroying and futile I may feel a job is, I will never chuck one in again.  I will just keep quiet and take the money, as several of my fellow contractors advised me to do, particulary the one who said I was going to 'ruin' it for everyone.  The guilt at taking money for a job that you suspect is not actually there is nothing compared to the humiliation, despair and constant worry of long term unemployment.  I have also learned that I need to have a purpose in life.  I am not one of those inner-glow people who radiate creativeness, good works and Pollyanna-style gladness.  I have also found out who my true friends are, and am so amazingly lucky to have such a supportive network of cousins, friends and neighbours.  Also, for all people mock Twitter and Facebook, they serve a good purpose.  They give people at home alone a communication with the outside world.  Sometimes those like me may take this too far and spend too much time on them, but better that than alone with your thoughts!  I have travelled quite a bit and been to some very dodgy places along the way, but nowhere as scary as the world inside my head.  I have also realised that I need to be busy, need to feel useful and, most importantly of all, need to win the Euro Lottery.  But until that day, and I am convinced it will arrive, I at least have a salaried job to tide me over.

Summer School Part 1 - not summer and not school

The Open University has been ahead of the game when it comes to working around our dire summer – OU summer school is niftily named ‘Residential School’ (RS as it is catchily termed) thereby alleviating the need for endless lawsuits from disgruntled OU students who shelled out money in the hope of a week of sun. 

I had three options for DD303 Cognitive Psychology RS - Brighton, Nottingham and Bath.  I used to live in Brighton and therefore the temptation to be out and about drinking with old friends would be too great.  I used to live very near Nottingham as well, therefore the temptation to shoot myself repeatedly to avoid dredging up memories of a one year course with the British Army may also be too great.  So Bath it was to be.  I was really looking forward to it, Bath is a beautiful city and this would be my first RS.   I met a young engineer on the bus from the station to the university.  I could have been his grandmother so no ‘Mrs Robinson’ moments, but  he was very easy to talk to and, when we got off the bus, proved his worth by spotting all the teeny, tiny signs showing us where to go to register.   I suspect that the person who made the teeny, tiny signs was around the same age as the young engineer, and light years from considering failing eye-sight. 

As we walked from the bus stop to registration, I couldn’t help but wonder why the university was situated in a rundown housing estate – 50 shades of grey indeed …. however far more John Major’s underpants than tawdry, badly written porn for middle-aged women.   It was a while before I realised that the rundown estate was “The Times’ University of the Year!” that is Bath Uni.  Were architects out of their minds on drugs in the 1960’s?  Bath has been nominated a World Heritage Site for its architecture.   Why would anyone think a range of carparks with glass would create a suitable university?   Pairing the university with the city is a challenge.  Try imagining one of Jane Austen’s heroines tripping up Peckham High Street, and you are just about there.  It was all so grim and grey looking that I didn't take any photos, which I now regret because they would have made my blog less grim and grey. 

Registration took place in one of the campus bars – this was another eye-opener.   I always think of student bars as dark, dingy places with sticky floors and a few cheap keg beers and cider.  This was light, bright, had a patio overlooking ponds and the drinks list wouldn’t be out of place in one of the city wine bars.  The cocktail list, full of 40% proof double-entendres, was clearly geared towards the 18-30s crowd.  The wine list included the standard reds and whites of most bars and even Taittinger champagne, and there was also a good selection of premium brand spirits on offer.   No wonder the poor little blighters are always on the march about student funding, their entire grant must go on alcohol in week one.  

By the time I had registered and been given fistfuls of forms, a thermo-cup – saving the environment by handing out plastic cups, and babbled instructions about tutorials for that day, my head was reeling.  I went off to find my room, a move which I instantly regretted.  Peckham High Street gave way to Cell Block H.  Having spent several years in the RAF, I expected student accommodation to be on the same lines as single accommodation in the military – basic, spotless and definitely room to swing a cat, even if it did have to be a very smartly groomed cat.  These rooms were tiny, the corridors were narrow and dark and the shower and WC block over-compensated for the lack of toilet roll and hand soap with an odour that suggested bleach was beyond the University’s budget.

However I wasn’t here for five-star accommodation, or even one star, I was here to study.  We had all come prepared with a project, because that had been our last assignment, but forewarned that this may be altered or even completely abandoned on arrival, because we were encouraged to work in pairs.  On day one we were divided into groups according to our chosen subject.  I was in Thinking 2.  You do feel a little bit bereft when you first arrive, like a first year at secondary school.  Small, insignificant, out of your depth and wishing you were back in your old class, where you know the teacher and the other students.   Even during the registering process, I realised that many students had already paired up.  One entire class seemed to have enrolled and travelled together.   I had spent the time prior to registration chatting to some of the engineers, so was still standing back, viewing my fellow students from afar whilst others were already lifelong friends. 

We were herded into an auditorium and introduced to the university staff and our tutorial staff.  Prior to the introductions we were all eyeing the two groups suspiciously.  Surely our tutors had to be the group on the left, didn't they?  The group on the right were too young to teach, some of them seemed even too young to be out alone.    But we were wrong, the young group turned out to be our tutorial staff, however the really young amongst them being administrative assistants.  The admin assistants proved to be an endless source of entertainment, they were always bounding around with endless energy, perpetually smiling and always busy with something, it would be a little churlish to mention that nobody was ever quite sure what that something was, but at least they were enthusiastic about it.  

After dinner we assigned to tutorial groups according to our chosen subject of study.  The thinking group had four tutors. There was the smiley, laid-back calm one, the one with the ‘guns’ on show and, just in case we hadn’t noticed the muscles, helpfully clipped his name badge to a capped sleeve - all the better to see the guns with, the one who always had at least one hand in his jeans pocket and thrust his hips forward whilst he spoke and, last but not least, a female tutor.  Our group were so happy to get smiley, calm tutor that two of the students shouted out ‘Yes!’ when he introduced himself, which greatly entertained the other tutors.  Our tutor and the female tutor were referred to by their name for the rest of the week, but as far as I was concerned the other two were ‘Guns’ and ‘Hand in pocket man’.  There was just so much to take in, I just couldn’t absorb peoples' names as well, even though we all had name badges.  Unfortunately for me the name badge didn’t also give me 20-20 vision or undo the ravages of time and alcohol on my brain, so rather than squint at people all the time, I just referred to everyone not in my tutorial by the first characteristic I noticed – ‘him in the suit’, ‘depression lecture man’, ‘the squealy girls’, ‘the odour girls’ (their study involved scents … it was not a personal attack). 

From the first night, the tutors put on quite a lot of entertainment for the students, which was very good of them, they could have hidden away from us after lectures and had their own social life without our endless questions and worries.  Some of the students adapted well to drinking night after night.  However I felt very old amongst many of the students, I need a good grade for my overall final degree award and there were just too many people around, a drink or two (or three) with the other students once or twice in the week would suffice for me.   By the end of day one I was very happy with my tutor group, my tutor and a few glasses of wine.  I wasn't in a pair, I was in a trio, and they both seemed really nice, better still at least one of them had a very definite idea of a project and I was happy to abandon mine for that one.    I toddled off to my grimy little cell a lot more reassured than I had been when I arrived.  

Victim or Criminal?

I was going to blog about lots of other things this week.  I went to the Hampton Court Flower Show, I had a stall at the local market and I was taken out to lunch at the Dorchester, all of which were greatly entertaining (and free!).  However the least entertaining part of my week is the one I find the most blogworthy, being fined for travelling on the train without a ticket.

On Friday I went into London to meet one of my lovely cousins for lunch.  I was meant to get the 10.22 train but, as I was about to leave the house, made the huge mistake of looking in the mirror.   For once I was distracted from despairing at the wrinkles on my face by the wrinkles on my dress – how could I have missed so much of the dress when I ironed it?  I hate ironing and generally avoid it on the basis that life is just too short.  However as I was going to The Dorchester, I felt that it was worth losing a few minutes of my life to look presentable.  Clearly I had not put those minutes to good use, the dress looked like a dishrag.  I started ironing it again and as a consequence realised I would not make the train. 

I called my cousin and whined down the phone to her at my despair over missing the train.  Such tardiness is caused by the extraordinary amount of free time I have in my life, which somehow is never, ever enough time to be prepared.  I find this to be one of the most depressing parts of long-term unemployment, the time I take to do the most simple task is ridiculous.  A three-year old transfixed by ‘In the Night Garden’ could wash and dress quicker than I get myself ready to go out.  Getting up, showered and dressed to walk the dog takes minutes.  Bring contact with human beings into the equation and I flounder.   Having missed one train,  I therefore had plenty of time to gather my belongings, don the slightly less crumpled dress and get the next train.  I went upstairs to put the dress on, decided I would apply my make up with a little more care than I had originally and sauntered downstairs to leave the house, only to find that the 'few minutes' I had been upstairs was nearer 15 and I was in serious danger of missing the next train too. 

I grabbed some biscuits for the dog and threw them on his bed.  Gordon, the shar pei I fostered from a local animal home, only has one eye, and even that is not much use.  Although he saw or at least heard me get biscuits from his treat jar, he failed to see that I had put them on his bed, so he followed me to the door, repeatedly raising his paw for the biscuits.  I had to go back and show him exactly where they were.  It would have been too cruel to just leave him with his paw in mid air and that morose look in his one remaining eye.   He may have cataracts and a scar, but it is still very expressive - it is the wrinkles, they are so endearing.  If only the same could be said for my face and dress.  By this time I was seriously late and ended up having to run half the way to the station.

When I got to the station, the monitor said the train had arrived.  I dithered  for a nano-second over buying a ticket at the station, which would mean missing that train but going via Kings Cross on the ‘fast train’ or getting the Victoria train I had intended to get, and buying a ticket on the train, if I made it to the platform in time.  Victoria was nearer to the Dorchester and where my cousin was waiting.  I ran up to the platform, redder than my raincoat and somewhat dishevelled … the ironing by now having been completely wasted.  I was in luck (or so I thought) and made the Victoria train, my decision was made for me by the opportunity, and I got on the train.

Unusually, the conductor did not come round and so I could not buy a ticket on the train.  Being a habitually late person, I frequently buy tickets on the train or at the destination station.  I was not perturbed by not having a ticket.  It absolutely didn’t occur to me that I was fare dodging because I was going to buy a ticket, as I often do.  Late and disorganised, yes;  dishonest – no.  I got off the train and went to the ‘extra fares’ booth.  There were three rail employees there.  One asked me where I had come from and why I didn’t have a ticket.  I explained that I was running late.  He explained very politely that this wasn’t good enough – which is somewhat ironic from an employee of a company renowned for being late.  A company, in fact, that was once so incompetent at running trains on time that the government renationalised the franchise until another bidder could be found.  The new bidder made the wise move of keeping all the Connex staff, the rolling stock and the same crap attitude to customer service so in reality only the brand and the size of the government subsidy have changed.  I very much suspected that these were ex-Connex staff, it was that menacing but polite air of 'we are right, you, the humble, over-charged passenger, are very, very wrong', but I could have been somewhat biased in my judgement of them.  

Perhaps I could have explained my situation better, or pointed out that because it was raining, and this was not rush hour, my lateness didn't count towards statistics, I therefore couldn't be fined for it.  Southeastern can be late, they make the rules.  I, on the other hand, was finding out that I could not be late.  The staff were very polite, but a bit pompous.  I was quite polite, very upset and getting increasingly petty by the second.  “Are you intending to pay with your debit card madam?” one of them asked me, whilst his colleague was relaying my details via telephone for some reason, mere documenting of the penalty being insufficient.

 “Well yes, unless that is worthy of a fine as well” I replied, devastated that half a week’s dole money was being frittered on a fine to bloody Connex (they can change the name, I remain unconvinved).

“Can I have your date of birth madam?”.

 “Why would you need that information?  How are you going to store it?”. 

“We give you this copy”

“That isn’t what I asked, I asked how you intend to store my personal data”.

“I was getting to that, it gets filed and is kept for a number of years”

“how many?”


He wasn't sure, he had to ask his colleague, they assured me it was in the terms and conditions of carriage.  I once sat opposite a man who was reading the railway's terms and conditions of carriage, he refused to remove his briefcase from a first class seat so someone could sit down.  I asked him if the briefcase had a ticket, he didn't reply.  If that is the type of person who reads terms and conditions of carriage, I know it is not worthy reading material.  The colleague had also presumable read this document, or was quick enough to pretend to have done so.  

“Seven”

Not to be outdone in the quick response stakes I had a retort ready:  “It does not involve a financial transaction in the US, you do not need to store it for seven years”.    When I said earlier that I got somewhat ‘petty’, I actually meant childish and ridiculous, but I felt so, so livid – with me, with them, with the whole policy that I was emotional and irrational. I failed to buy a ticket before the journey, so should I have accepted that I only had myself to blame, or was I justly upset?   I also felt confused, one was taking my card and my money, the other was on the phone giving my details to an unknown third party ... I had no idea how many databases were being populated with my personal data, or why.  I was paying the fine, why were they also taking down so many details and going through so much bureaucracy?  Am I going to be further prosecuted.  The more senior of the trio pointed out to me that they didn't have to fine me, they could have just prosecuted me, so I take this to mean that they are not going to pursue a prosecution, but you can never be sure.  

I told them I felt victimised, and they told me it was the law.  Is it actually a law, or just a Southeastern company policy?  I do feel that, having bought tickets on the train and at my destination station so many times there was a reasonable expectation that I could do so on this occasion.  Southeastern did not agree.  Southeastern charged me £32 for a one way journey, and on top of that I would still have to pay my tube fares and my journey home.  Therefore a £13 journey ended up costing me nearly £50. 

I wouldn’t mind if the rule was consistently applied.  I also wouldn’t mind if it targeted the real fare dodgers.  In fact, had I not been so poor, I may not have minded so much this time, just accepted it as the price of not leaving the house in good time.  It just seemed to heap insult onto injury and my wrath with myself for being late and disorganised was almost equalled by my hatred of the train company.   I did thank the staff for being unfailingly polite to me, even though I was not the easiest customer.  But I do feel victimised.  I do also realise that I got away lightly.  I could have been prosecuted.  Large corporations increasingly criminalise their customers because it is an easy way to raise revenue and scare us all into paying up, even when we are sure that we should not be. 

The rail companies like to assure us that they are getting ‘tough’ on fare dodgers, unfortunately this isn’t the case.  Had I refused to give my details, said I had no money and just walked away, what could they have done.  I see this happen regularly.  I have seen conductors throw passengers off the train, only for the passengers to walk a few carriages down and get back on.   Passenger Focus, a rail watchdog, has suggested that the greater willingness to issue penalties is merely revenue raising rather than an active deterrent, and I would have to agree.  It was very unusual for there to be no inspector on the train I was on, so it seems a great coincidence that three officers were waiting at the ticket office, chomping at the bit to issue fines.   The real fare dodgers aren’t being dealt with, whilst the innocent are fined.  Rail fares into London are excessive enough. 

I will complain, even though it will get me nowhere, but I think the application of the policy targets innocent passengers and fails to deter the genuine fare dodgers.  I have an Oyster card, I could have just walked through the barrier, which would have cost me a maximum Oyster journey of around £7,  but I went to buy my return ticket, and even this was denied me.   Trains apply rules that no other company can get away with.  Can you imagine being fined in Asda or Waitrose for not having paid for goods whilst you are still in the store … and yet the rail companies have carte blanche to do this.   I had not left the arrivals platform, I was waiting to pay, how can this be deserving of a penalty?  

Southeastern have taken a big chunk of my weekly benefit money, reminded me of why I hated commuting so much but also made sure I will miss many more trains in the future before I risk not having a ticket.  However I will also claim back my fare for any late journey, and request compensation at least equivalent to a full priced single journey.   Contracts have to be fair and equal.  Southeastern have chosen the terms, I intend to make sure they abide by them as well.    


In case you were wondering, my lovely cousin was kind enough and patient enough to wait for me whilst this mini-drama unfolded, and we made it to The Dorchester for a lovely lunch.  I could quite happily have whiled away an afternoon drinking their very palatable wine if times and finances were different.  

Unemployed ... it's a full time job.

The country is in chaos, flash floods abound - or so I am reliably informed by friends who should be working but kindly skive off every hour or so to entertain me on facebook. Sitting here in my garden in Kent it all seems hard to believe. The sun is high in the sky, and I can hear lawnmowers whirring up and down my street. All we need is the sound of church bells and I could be in a television drama. I check the back door- no pool of blood. I therefore have to accept that this is real, I am not in some twee village setting in a detective drama and I am still unemployed. I have contributed nothing since February to my blog, and, because I remain unemployed, I am presumed to be loafing all day while the workers have their noses to the grindstone so I can live the life of Riley. The reality is that I am living the life of Yosser Hughes. Apart from the odd glass of wine on a sunny afternoon, I have been greatly occupied in applying for jobs.

Having a job means you go to work, and you get to come home later and relax, or if you can't relax at least you get to not be at work. Unemployment is different - on the plus side it is a very short commute and you get every weekend off, but the very, very steep downside is that being unemployed is a round the clock job. It constantly occupies your mind. You never stop looking for work, worrying about money and trying to think of new ventures, new careers, different approaches to the same old problem. Picture the woman searching frantically inside her handbag in an attempt to locate her ringing mobile. That is what it is like looking for job. You know it is there, you just can’t reach it, and for the unemployed the handbag is vast, the mobile is tiny and every time it rings, 50 to 200 other people are knocking you aside in an attempt to get to the phone first.

Under Einstein's definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results, I am insane. Being middle-aged, single and menopausal, I may also be insane under many other definitions, however for now I will just stick with Einstein. Not only do I do the same thing over and over , I also have to document it, so that DWP can see that I am doing it, albeit see that I am doing it without making comment, actually reading what I write or even actually looking at me. Sometimes I hand over an old spreadsheet just to see if they are really reading them. Only once has this been spotted. I'm not even trying to get one over on them. I just feel that my job search is futile on all counts. If the dole office treat my job search and me as irrelevant, what chance do I stand with employers? Monday was a signing on day, so I dragged myself down to the fun-factory formerly known as the Job Centre. It is now known as JobCentrePlus - plus what? Plus no jobs? Why do all the words run together? Rebranding used to be writing everything in lower case. Now capitalisation is back, but spaces are out. Some smug, slick git in marketing will have been paid a fortune for that breakthrough branding moment. In marketing terms, it was akin to splitting the atoms. In everyone else's terms, it is a complete waste of time and money, and it is a scandal that public organisations have branding, let alone rebranding.

Again, I digress. JobCentrePlus, signing on, actually being on time for once, but still having to wait for at least 20 minutes. You can feel your brain cells dying and the will to live slyly looking at its watch, muttering a lame excuse and quietly sliding down the plastic bench and sneaking across the carpet tiles away from you whilst you wait. As I walked to the dole officer's desk, I felt my shoulders droop and my legs turn to lead. He wasn't going to torture me, it is just soul-destroying, possibly for both parties. He took my form, asked me to confirm my name and address and then asked me if my situation had changed at all since my last visit. I replied that I was somewhat poorer. To that, he gave no response - no sympathy, no humour, no acknowledgement. He continued to look disinterestedly at my list of job applications, handed it back to me, got me to sign a form to say I was there, and said 'you're done'. No mate, turkeys are done, steaks are done, I am poor, desperately seeking work and your job should be to help me find work, not to judge how cooked you think I might be.

I read endless articles on how I should 'network' and get myself out there. Brilliant, why didn't I think of that? I remember, because I can't afford to keep popping into London to hang around for friends and acquaintances to finish work and also because at times unemployment feels like a communicable disease. The employed don't want to deal with the unemployed. We have become the lepers of the 21st century, unclean pariahs in the financial meltdown. We are, as UB40 said over thirty years ago, a statistic, a reminder of a world that doesn't care. That recession was different - primarily in my case because it didn't affect me. Selfishly I then didn't give a toss about the unemployed, I didn't know anyone who was unemployed. Now it is different, now there are even unemployed people in the Home Counties. How I remember with shame the callow young woman I once was. My search, which occupies so much of my time is fruitless and futile. Recruiters and HR departments advertise roles which require 'an immediate start', and then immediately rule out anyone who has been out of work for more than a few months. Now they even have software that fulfils that role for them, so they don't have to taint their delicate little eyes with the CVs of the long-term unemployed. I have tried different approaches - which basically boil down to begging friends to find me a job. I am fortunate in that several people have passed on my CV and recommended me, but so far nobody has so much as given me an interview. I know it is down to me, I know I need to be doing something else. I just fail to know what that something else is.

Today I received not one, but three rejections. I don't know whether to be grateful that my applications are being acknowledged, or dejected about being rejected. One of the replies was by letter. This is a first. Most rejections are via e-mail, the occasional company or recruiter will call, many will just ignore you, having first warned you by computer-generated auto-response that 'if you don't hear within two weeks, you are clearly pond life and beneath our contempt' or words to that effect. I am waiting for the day when a company is honest enough to just send out a standard rejection "Millwall", i.e. an e-mail singing 'you're shit and you know you are'. Yes the press would be up in arms, Dave would be bleating about broken Britian to the first video camera he could find, regardless of whether the camera was wielded by BBC, Sky or just a Japanese tourist with only three words in English, one of which was 'Beckham'. However, I for one would have a bit more respect for them.

A letter, however, is a rarity. The firm in question are to be congratulated. I will therefore forgive them for the line 'there were other candidates whose experience is a closer match to our requirements'. The role was advertised again this week - so those other candidates weren't a great match really, were they? I said I would forgive them, and I will, but I can still bitch about it. The 'better match' line is a common one in rejection emails. I really don't understand why companies which receive dozens of applicants for each role, then go on to readvertise the vacancy. Just take one, stop faffing around with endless rounds of dithering and soul searching, wasting more and more money when you could take a chance on one of the first applicants and have someone actually doing the job whilst you (a) see if they are a good fit; and (b) covertly line up another applicant from the several hundred that have applied. 90% of all job descriptions bear no resemblance to the role, so stop trying to find an exact match and whittling people out (and by people, I mean me) for completely spurious reasons! Why do firms take so long and invest so much in the recruitment process? The chain of people a CV has to pass by to get to the actual person recruiting is now ridiculous. Most industries eliminate middle-men in a recession. The recruitment industry seems to be overflowing with them.

I think cowardice is the culprit here. You can't fire a permanent employee unless they have threatened, in writing and in their own blood, to kill the CEO - and even then if they were working for one of the big banks they may be let off for having carried out a public service. Companies are therefore more wary than ever of employing the wrong person.  You can, however, let someone go who doesn't perform well during their trial period. You can fail to permanently hire a temp-to-perm recruitee. You can just not bother to renew the contract of a contractor. Why isn't this done more? Because it requires man-management skills. Where are all the man-managers? Unemployed, replaced by Consultants, with a 'C', HR graduates and bonus packages, after all, why manage, train and develop someone when you can bribe them. If all this sounds very much like sour grapes, that is because it is. I now define myself by my unemployed status, and it isn't a status with which I wish to identify. A friend of a friend asked me what I did for a living, I replied that I didn't work, I was unemployed. She nodded and smiled, as if I was talking about a floral display, and asked me what I did when I was employed. She was being polite, and merely making small talk, I was being difficult and taking it all too personally. I wanted to shout 'but I'm unemployed, that's my job now'.

Several friends have assured me that it isn't me (I find it hard to agree), that I may be over-qualified for many of the roles advertised, too 'mature', i.e. likely to undermine 23 year old managers merely by being twice their age. Surely it would do someone of 23 good to realise they don't know everything? I would even promise to refrain from ever pointing out that, actually, they don't know anything. It could possibly be of benefit to have the occasional employee who doesn't come into work dressed for a night out clubbing, can spell, has a reasonable grasp of the English language, and can understand simple instructions from even more simple 23 year old managers. But who am I to question the trend for younger and younger managers. Where does it end though? Nursery school business leaders?

As if the endless search for a job wasn't exhausting enough, being unemployed impacts the other areas of your life too. At first I socialised less, now I socialise in different ways than previously. One of the good things to have come out of being unemployed is changing my attitude towards money and its importance. I still need money, I just realise that I actually need a lot less of it. I go round to friends, I invite friends round to me far more than I ever did. Neighbours pop in, and we while away a few hours in the garden with tea and home-made cake, or a glass of wine. I have also fostered by a virtually blind shar pei; left in pain by the "rescue" sanctuary, I have fought for him to have the care he needs and in return he has kept me sane these past months - well relatively so.  He has shared my home and eaten his own weight in tripe and we have both  thrived.  Long-term unemployment can find you still in your pajamas at midday, however having to be up, dressed and out with the dog early means I get much more out of each day.

I am much more active in the community.  A neighbour and I have encouraged residents in our road to join a community planting project to improve the look of the house fronts. The road look tidier and much, much greener. I am truly blessed in the amount of support I receive from family and my friends. My cousins descend on me with food, alcohol and their keen sense of humour and raucous laughter - my neighbours are still getting over Saturday night's prosecco-fuelled revelry. Friends drop in and telephone to check I am OK, invite me to dinner, invite me for a cup of tea and ply me with wine. Both sets of immediate neighbours keep my fridge stocked with goodies from their allotments. Although people I considered good friends gradually dropped contact, not wanting to be unemployed by association, many more have shown what true friends they really are. One even offered to lend me the money to cover my mortgage until I was back on my feet.

Friends and family also keep me sane with the tales and normality of their working lives. I am not employed, but at least I can say 'I know people who are'. I live in hope that a job will come to me, and probably from a completely unexpected route. In the meantime, I keep on applying online and calling agencies and recruiters, knowing that the outcome will not be any different, but hoping against hope that one day it will be. It’s been a sobering experience, an eye-opener as to how easily it is to fall out of the loop, to lose your footing and how an extended holiday has extended almost a year beyond that planned, leaving me struggling to pay bills. It has also taught me that I don’t need a fat bank account and a stressful job to be happy, that the simple things in life are sometimes the most satisfying. When I get a job and restock my wine rack, I will raise a glass to that.

Today Matthew, I am going to be a jobseeker

This evening I have Sunday night blues - it is the thought of Monday morning.  I have dreaded Mondays from an early age - since starting school in fact.  My mother is fond of bragging that I went to school full-time from the age of three.  The woman is actually proud of the fact that she blighted my life at such an young age. 

Now I am one of the long-term unemployed, I still suffer from triple 'S', or sleepless Sunday syndrome, a little recognised but much experienced syndrome that I have just made up, but that I believe to be quite common.  It is odd, however, that I should still suffer from it when I am unemployed.  When I was travelling, I loved Mondays.  It was the day on which I did the most, the day on which I got the most joy from everything, the day on which I remembered just how blessed I was in having the opportunity to travel. 

Unemployed Mondays should be like that.   "Yes" days without the need to call your boss in a croaky voice and feign illness.  (Yes days are a phrase coined by a friend of mine, who pointed out that however guilty you feel about lying before and during the call, once you put the phone down the guilt is gone and you realise you have the whole day just for you, at which point you just feel 'YES'). 

This brings to my strange little mind another point.  We rarely put the phone down any more.  It has become an ancient custom, along with waiting for people to get off the tube and saying please and thank you.  Where once we would have ended a telephone conversation by replacing the receiver and hearing that satisfactory little click, now we continue to hold our mobiles in anticipation of further communication.  It is the virtual equivalent of walking around all day with your mouth open, just in case you need to utter another word.  Break the trend people, put the phone down.  Not me, obviously.  I am unemployed, and therefore surgically attached to my gizmo.  I have a lot of time to fill, and Angry Birds hits the spot. 

However, I digress.  Tomorrow (which is now today) I have to get up and look for a job.  I don't want a job, but I do need a job.  I haven't worked for 14 months.  The irony of this situation is that being unemployed makes me less employable.  You apparently have more chance of getting a job if you are already in a job.  This I fail to understand.  If you want to hire someone, would you pick the person who you know is spending their employer's time brushing up their CV, looking at job websites, sneaking out for interviews?  Would you pick the person who will have to work out at least a month's notice?  Would you pick the person who may let you go through all the hassle of recruiting, interviewing, drawing up the paperwork, releasing all the other prospective candidates only to possibly tell you that she or he isn't going to take the job after all because the current employer has matched the salary, given him/her two extra days' holiday per year and the staff summer party is going to be in a really cool club that half the cast of TOWIE go to?  Yes, you probably would, and so would most other employers.

Apart from the huge disadvantage of being immediately available for work, another obstacle to overcome is that the person who is filtering CVs for roles is rarely the person who knows how to do that particular job, or, in some cases, how to do any job.  The second theory is most evident in the apalling grammar and spelling in most job vacancy notices.  First line CV filterers work in HR or recruitment agencies, therefore their skills are unlikely to be in your field of expertise, unless you are looking for a job in HR or recruitment agencies.  They have been given some information on the role by the person who will be managing you, and have made up the rest, or taken it from the role description.  Role descriptions do not describe roles, they serve no other function than to meet some target fad, and to wave in front of you when your employer is looking for a way to pretend you haven't been doing your job.  When HR call you in to discuss your role, you know your number is up.  Unless you work in a bank, then they start going through your expenses.

I need a new approach, because ridiculing all the job adverts and despising even the thought of a 9 to 5 life is not getting me far.  Even my despising falls short of the mark; nobody works 9 to 5 anymore.  I have just seen a role with hours from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. as standard. 

I don't yet know what form this new approach should take.  I have brushed up my CV, put an updated profile on Linkedin, with a picture - only because I had a very good hair day last week, and am attempting to "link" to more people.  How do you do that?  I hate it.  My linkedin was virtually a carbon copy of my facebook list - people I know and like.  I don't want to accost people I once worked with and hardly know.  My cousin tried to help me, but we didn't get far.  She kept on calling people out from my Linkedin-generated 'suggested links' list and I kept dismissing them for eminently sensible reasons.  Some I completely despised; many I liked but was sure they would not remember me or at least would not want to remember me; one or two I had slept with - and these could equally well fit into either of the other two categories.   Therefore my new contacts list was limited to people I like who are new to Linkedin, and people I liked but was not certain they would remember me however was almost certain they wouldn't object to being reminded. 

I looked on Google for tips on getting a job.  Tip number one, don't rely on the internet, get out and meet people.  Which leads me back to networking.  The people I like and want to stay in touch with, I do.  The people I don't dislike, those in the acquaintance category, are not people I feel comfortable about using, i.e. I haven't kept in touch with them, and if I contact them now it is obvious all I want is a job.  The people I dislike, I don't want to work with again anyway, so why try and meet them for coffee or lunch just to remind us both why we didn't get on?

It is now 2 a.m., I am solving my "triple S" problem by not actually going to bed.  I could solve dreaded Mondays by sleeping through them.  Not long-term solutions, but solutions.  I can put that on my CV, providing innovative and cost effective solutions. 

Tomorrow/today/later I shall give some more thought to my networking dilemma.   The reality is probably that it will be assigned to the same category as my housework dilemma - i.e. never to be tackled until I have an assignment deadline to avoid.  All of which has served to remind me that in three weeks I have an assignment due and I haven't started the reading.   I can avoid jobseeking by preparing for the assignment, until the deadline draws near and I can avoid that by looking for a job, an innovative solution indeed.