Provide enough jobs so they can pay some would be a start.
*
What’s your opinion of the Occupy movement and 99%?
If people had jobs they wouldn’t have time or energy to protest about the economy; they’d be a part of it.
*
Does technology help you write?
Yes. Duh. So does not having a job – it gives me time. Trouble is, I’m so busy writing, I’m not out there protesting about not being part of the economy. Or finding a job.
*
Write a review of the last movie you saw.
You only asked me that because you know I don’t have a job and spend all day watching telly, didn’t you?
*
Make a list of 5 things you’re afraid to write about.
Finding a job
Not finding a job
Job hunting
How there aren’t many jobs out there at the moment
Ants
*
Pick a topic from the list, and write about it.
I hate the way ants swarm. The only thing they’re good for is marrying uncles with wiry hair, and expensive Christmas presents.
I’m kidding; I have great aunts. And great-aunts. But not great ants.
*
Should everything be done in moderation?
Yes, with four exceptions:
Job hunting
Christmas
Maltesers
Ants – they should be wiped from the face of the earth. If we set all the Occupy, 99% and jobless people on the task, it could be done in a week.
The jobs are much better there: according to the Johannesburg Star, Domino’s Pizza are offering a $31 thousand job – for just ONE hour of work.
My own job hunt can be classed as a waste of my time/disaster/providing employers with the giggle of the day. Lucky I have my writing to fall back on. Oh. Um….
Spud seems to have similar working hours to the Japanese – he went back to school on Monday after a two week half-term break (when all the other schools got only one week), and he’s off tomorrow because of an inset day, giving him a three-day weekend. Good job he has three hours of homework a night or he’ll never pass his GCSEs.
*
Don’t forget to check out my new blog http://sapoems.wordpress.com/. Go on; do it now. You know I’m going to keep nagging until you do.
My four-week work placement ended yesterday, so now I can give you all the gossip: they were three lovely people who made me feel a part of the team and bought me chocolates and a 50 books you must read before you die bookmark as a thank you. Sorry, I don’t do gossip; I’m too busy talking about myself.
I had a great time; I learned a lot about Excel; and I know that I can go back to work after twenty years without too much adjustment. But for now, until a job comes along, I can go back to doing what I do best: eating Maltesers and playing on King.com.
I’m giving myself next week off and then I am going to paint the downstairs toilet. As this will be its third outfit, it is officially the most-decorated room in the house. It needs to be, as it has played host to many a guest, including a rat (uninvited) and a postman (self-invited). There was a hole near the pipes and a rat came up for the winter and squatted in my house. The council exterminator did his job but the rat must have crawled inside the wall instead of doing the decent thing and throwing himself into the outflow, and the house stunk for months. We spent half our grocery budget on air fresheners but we saved loads on the heating bill – no point warming a house that has every door and window open for three months. No cold came in through the toilet, though: the Hub made sure to cement that hole.
I still feel guilty about that rat – what is it with me and rats? – who was just doing what rats do; I sometimes wonder if future archeologists will excavate my home and find a four-legged skeleton next to a paw-written note in the dust: I was poisone…
The postman was a less troublesome visitor. Our regular postman was away and a temporary postman knocked one day, to deliver a package too large for the post box. He was young, new and nervous. He was fumbling through his bag, talking all the time, trying to find our parcel. He finally located it tucked under his arm. I only knew he was a postman by his bag, because he was wrapped in a huge black parka, fur around the hood and all I could see were his eyes until he smiled. I heard his accent and asked if he was South African. Imagine a strong accent: ‘No, I’m from Ghana.’ I told him we had lived in South Africa and he took my hand and shook it warmly and lengthily.
Still holding my hand, he asked, ‘Can I urinate here?’ I have always wondered what postmen do when they need to go, and now I know. If you live long enough, all questions will someday be answered. I replied, ‘Yes, of course.’ What else could I say?
I opened the toilet door, switched on the light, and he went in, unzipped, and did the business. I know this, because he didn’t bother to close the door while he did it. He must have really needed it because he was ages. He came out without washing his hands, shook my hand again, asked for directions to the next address, and left me to clear up the puddle on the seat and floor.
What a nice young man.
At least he wasn’t a dopey young man, which is my clever segue into the saga of Son of Dozy.
Bad Heir Day
Spud was out playing football at the park downhill from the house, when the dog decided he wanted another walk. He mithers and mithers and it’s just easier to do as I’m told. As it was cooler, the Hub offered to come with me up to the park at the back of the house. The Hub went on ahead while I locked up and it was just then that Sulky Spud arrived, furious to have lost his £15 World Cup Football (paid for with his own money, hence the fury). He and his friend had spent forty minutes looking for it in the mass of bushes where he had kicked it. He was quite upset and when I told the Hub, we decided to take Spud and go look for it with him. The Hub waded into the bushes and found it within a minute, uncharacteristically forbearing to admonish his silly son for searching with his eyes closed. Spud had a kickabout while the Hub and I chatted to another dog owner; the Hub then gave Spud some advice on back-heeling the ball; had three touches and a heart attack; and we meandered home. Poor Hub: it was uphill all the way.
We had just arrived back when Spud clutched his pockets, anguish in his face and cried, ‘Where’s my phone?’
He was ordered back to the park with my phone to call his phone to locate it and every ten minutes called the home phone to report that there was nothing to report. Making unnecessary phone calls is what teenagers do best. The last call reported that there was no money left on my phone, so the Hub and I were ordered to come down to the park with the Hub’s phone. I insisted that the Hub drive down this time as he would never make it back up the hill, and Toby couldn’t believe his luck at going out for a third time that day, especially in the car, which he loves. Alas, the Tobester was destined to be disappointed; we had just pulled out of our road when we saw Spud running and waving his phone. He couldn’t call us to tell us not to come because making necessary phone calls may not be what teenagers do best but they need credit on their phones when they do do it.
At least he ended the day in possession of the things that matter most to him: phone, ball, dog and doting parents. He was most grateful but I wouldn’t bet on him remembering this day next time he’s mad at us. Being mad at parents is what teenagers do best.
*
I have been so busy this week that I haven’t had much time to write, though I did manage this reverse senryu for Writer’s Island. The prompt is ‘change’.
Afghanistan, 21/6/10
Three hundred dead, and counting:
no change there, then. Brave
men, women, all: no change there.
*
I want to end on a sunny day note so here is something someone posted on Facebook that I thought you might like:
I had a ‘Dear John’ letter from the OU yesterday, advising me that our romance is finally over and they don’t love me like I love them. Study with them? Any time. Work for them? Forget it.
The Hub is outraged on my behalf, something along the lines of: they get people to study with them by telling them their career prospects will improve and then they won’t even employ one of their own swear words I bet whoever got the job hasn’t got an OU degree well it’s their loss more swear words you’d have been brilliant and they lose out lots of swear words but at least I have you at home a bit longer which makes me so happy because you are the most wonderful woman on the planet and I am the luckiest man in the world and I adore you ma cherie and I want to rub your calloused feet until my wrist turns as blue as the word bubble coming from my potty mouth. (I paraphrased a little.)
It’s okay; I forgive them. Our romance may be one-sided but I will always remain true to my first institution, though people may tell me I’m crazy. Don’t let my gut-wrenching, soul destroying, searingly painful experience put you off studying with them – they’re great!
What a busy week I have had. Monday was a public holiday and the Hub and I went to a boot sale and bought other people’s junk. Then we had two visitors bearing gifts, my blonde friend and my kind friend. My blonde friend had wrapped a large box in silver paper and filled it with all the silver items she could find, from tin foil to Silver Spoon sugar, and including a lovely picture frame and a gunk catcher for the sink. It was a thoughtful gift and very much appreciated. I am repaying her by confiscating her goldfish. Every time I visit I nag her to buy him some plants for his bowl and she never gets around to it so I told her I’m finding him a new home, which I have: he’s going to be with her mother’s fish, who lives with my nephew who has several. His name is Bob (the fish, not the nephew) and he has been alive for ever. I’m sure he’ll welcome the new fish with open gills.
My kind friend brought a massive bunch of flowers and an envelope containing £50 in Frankie & Benny’s gift vouchers. As the boys were not here, our plan for our anniversary was to get a Nando’s and a dvd, but all plans are subject to change when there’s free food going.
On Tuesday I started my work placement. I was given basic stuff to do but we all have to start somewhere and the morning flew by. After work (still gives me a rush to say things like that) I went to buy my interview outfit. Discretionary grants are available for people to buy suitable clothes; not working for twenty years comes under the general heading of Scruffbag In Desperate Need Of A Wardrobe, so I had no problems qualifying. I got a lovely herringbone suit, white blouse, shoes, and even a box of knee highs. By the way, I am shopping at BHS from now on: I have never before been into a clothes shop and found clothes that actually fit short, dumpy me without needing major alterations or a lot of safety pins. And it was reasonably priced.
Once I found what I wanted I had to have it written up, then I marched up the hill to the appropriate office to have it approved and then I marched back down again to retrieve my job-winning garments. It wasn’t worth going home because I had to be on Underbank at five-thirty to have my photograph taken with the other £100 Shop Local winners and a random councillor who squeezed to the front of the picture before asking us what the photo shoot was in aid of.
I had an hour or so to kill between engagements so I grabbed a cup of tea and a couple of crumpets from a coffee shop, to the rage of the cook, who yelled at the poor waitress for daring to serve me after four when he only had half an hour to clean up. Getting out of there before he started on me for taking too long to eat, I sat on a bench on Underbank and watched the drunks go by. I didn’t know I was going to do that because I had never before noticed the pub I was sitting opposite. A friendly guy about my age sat on the other end of the bench and interrupted my sudoku to tell me I was nice and it was nice to be nice so his dad always said and what was my name? really? he had a sister called Tilly and I was nice and I was nice looking and I had nice teeth* and it was nice that I was so nice. A much-tattooed man asked him for a light and then sat between us and the friendly guy turned to to him and said he had a nice earring and nice tattoos and what was his name? really? he had a brother called Pete and it was nice to be nice, wasn’t it? He really was a very nice man.
*That was when I knew he was drunk.
I was home for about an hour and then the Hub and I went out for our anniversary meal. We had a pizza starter then a rack of ribs for me and chicken & ribs with a steak side order for the Hub. I had apple & rhubarb crumble for afters. We held hands between courses and reminisced about our wedding and early days and then got into an argument about exactly what percentage of my ribs I had eaten. I still say it was eighty percent but the Hub says 66.6%, or two thirds, to give it its correct title. The meal came to £49.15 with our one drink each so we told the waiter he could keep the change.
Yesterday after work (heeheehee) I met the Hub in Edgeley and we spent some of our £100 on earrings (for me), dustpan and brush (for me; the Hub lives in hope), notebooks (for me), make up (for me), biscuits (for me and Toby), and tank plants (for Bob’s new friend). The Hub got to follow me round.
We met another Bob: the jeweller had two dogs. He told us one was called Ben and the other was Bob, his father. I said I thought Bob’s your uncle. The jeweller changed his mind about giving us discount.
Today I had my pre-interview (panic a lot and choose between eating dry bread for lunch or throwing up), interview (when I came out I thought it had gone well; now I realise I waffled the whole time and made a terrible impression) and post-interview (lie on the couch watching Britain’s Got Talent and decide that if I don’t get the job it’s not my suit’s fault).
And that has been my week so far. I can’t remember the last time I had as many engagements in one day as the Queen and I realise now she must lie on her couch in exhaustion and get Philip to bring her cups of Earl Grey and tell her she’s a brave little soldier, then give her lots of kisses and hugs and things. The British cure-all: tea and crumpet.
I got two pieces of good news yesterday: I passed my interview and I start my work placement on Monday; and I won £100 worth of shopping. I am a little relieved about the interview because it could all have gone horribly wrong: I went to freshen up beforehand and there was an incident in the public toilet. I can’t give you details because I have embarrassed my sons enough and Tory Boy is still hoping for a career in public service; it all worked out for the best in the end, is all I can say.
The competition was run by my landlord, Stockport Homes. A woman phoned to say I had won for this area in their ‘shop local’ competition. I had to say in 100 words why I use my local shopping centre in Castle Street; it was part of the ‘use them or lose them’ campaign, as independents are being squeezed out by big business. Think about it: you can buy your groceries, your furniture, your clothes, your pet needs, your insurance, your lunch, and pretty soon your bank services from Tesco; and you can get it cheaper than any single shop can offer you. Sounds good, but will you think that when the next general election is sponsored by Asda? The candidates will have to start the day with a group hug and a yoghurt. Makes me queasy just thinking about hugs that early in the morning.
I have to spend the money in the local shops and claim it back. I’m not sure how it will work because the lady promised to send me an email with the details and I’m still waiting. Could it be cat-and-mouse, Stockport Homes style? We promise you something great – money, a kitchen – and then you never hear from us again.
It is ages since I last won anything. At least I do occasionally win stuff: the poor Hub has only ever won one competition, and that because the odds were stacked in his favour. He put petrol in the car one day and went to pay for it, when he noticed a sign above a box inviting him to put his name in for the chance of winning an England shirt; the date showed it was the last day of the competition. As he dropped his entry form in the attendant said, ‘You’ll probably win that.’ ‘Really?’ the Hub replied. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘You’re the only person who’s entered.’
*
I still miss napowrimo so I am going to take part in some weekly poetry prompt exercises. This first one is from http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/ We have to write a poem inspired by Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956.
Here’s mine:
Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956
Alice – louche, right-eyed and pushy.
Nailed by the artist.
There are no shivarees at this party.
Carroll quivers in his grave, unveiled
to 21st Century eyes as
Charles Dodgson, paedophile.
Truth huddles, sad, like long-held pain.
*
*
‘Shivaree’ was yesterday’s Word of the Day from Dictionary.com and I just had to use it:
1. A mock serenade with kettles, pans, horns, and other noisemakers given for a newly married couple.
2. An elaborate, noisy celebration.
*
This prompt is fromhttp://writersisland.wordpress.com/ We have to write about an imaginary friend. My poem is based on something that happened with my boys when they were younger; I have to find a better title:
A Tale Of Friends And Brothers
Two brothers, eleven and six.
Six – being six – had John
and Michael living in his head.
John and Michael and Six
were inseparable until the day
Eleven – being eleven – ate John.
Six wailed; Mother bellowed,
‘Eleven, sick him up at once!’
Eleven feigned retching.
John was returned
to his rightful mind.
Yesterday was a good day and, incredibly, there was no chocolate involved. First, I received an email to say that one of my poems has been accepted by puppywolf for their Best of Manchester Poets collection. Then the Hub received an email to say we are back on the list. What list? you ask. The new kitchen and bathroom list, I reply.
You may remember that I embraced a stranger bearing kitchen plans last January. It is now May and there is no new kitchen in sight. Someone told me that they had received their new kitchen and bathroom within two months of the plans being drawn up, so I sent a querying email to Stockport Homes. The reply stated we were not on the list and not likely to be on the list until 2012. The puffaHub expanded to three times his normal size and emailed back in polite outrage to say that it wasn’t good enough; to question why they would have someone draw up plans two years before necessary; to complain at their shabby treatment of us; and with a promise to contact our local councillors. Guess what? We’re back on the list.
I need the work to be done so I can get on with the hall decorating: I’m panting to get painting to release pent-up paint expression but there’s no point painting until the work is done. To keep me quiet, I have started peeling off the downstairs toilet paper. I mostly do it while I’m in there, if you get my drift. It’s painstakingly slow work, though, so I’m thinking of posting a sign: Guests should feel free to strip to pass the time.
The third bit of good news is that our Beloved Job Hunt Leader called to offer me a work placement at Base Camp. It is four weeks of part-time unpaid work with no job at the end of it but it is something to put on the cv and I would be on the spot to hear about the latest vacancies. I would be working in admin and I am under no illusions: several times in the past four weeks, she mentioned that the admin guy who left was not replaced and the work was handed onto her, on top of her normal job, so I’d be doing her a favour; but I’ll get a reference from it and some up-to-date work experience. I have an interview with the Boss on Monday and, so long as he doesn’t read this, I think it will be fine.
It’s like the old saying: you have to accept that some days you are the pigeon and some days you are the statue. Today I am the pigeon.
Yesterday was my last day of Housewives’ Club: we have officially been launched, and celebrated with sausages and sweets. We even had something to celebrate, because our first member received a call to say she had got a job and starts on Monday. She definitely deserves it because she was the most determined of us all and worked her backside off to get one. She’s a bad influence on me, however, because now she has shown it can be done, I’ll have to do it. No more sitting around writing nonsense and eating crisps for me. Motivation is a terrible thing; it plays havoc with your idle time.
The morning started with the usual business of signing forms and receiving information, but then our Beloved Leader* brought out Have you ever played it? It’s a cross between Trivial Pursuit, Pictionary and Give Us A Clue, played in teams. Pity the poor women trapped in a team with me – and the employer unlucky enough to eventually land me. I introduce into evidence the following conversation:
Me: [Reading from a card] Taking turns, spell the word ‘symphony’ backwards, a letter at a time. Team Mate: Why? Me: It says on the card, spell the word ‘symphony’ backwards. TM: Why? Me: [Patiently] That’s what it says on the card: spell ‘symphony’ backwards. TM: [Even more patiently] Yes, Y. Egg Timer:Brrrrriiiinnnngggggggg!!! [or whatever noise egg timers make when the sand runs out]
This was the same poor team mate I accidentally stabbed in the face with a pencil: I had to draw a peacock with my eyes closed and when someone in my team got the answer I threw my arms in the air and shouted, ‘Yayyyy,’ forgetting that my eyes were closed and I still had a pencil in my hand. This team mate happened to be leaning over the pad at the time…never mind, pencils aren’t filled with lead anymore and the hole will soon heal, I’m sure. I hope. Someone else had to see to her face because I had accidentally trapped her hand between her chair and mine earlier in the day. I really like her, honest. Not sure she feels the same way about me, though.
*
*This might sound mocking but actually she was lovely; really helpful and keen to get us all into work. I like her a lot.
*
Yesterday’s game reminded me of this senryu I wrote a couple of years ago:
Good fun yesterday at Housewives ‘r’ Us: we had a debate on the relative merits of employment versus unemployment. The consensus seemed to be that the number one reason any of us wanted to work was to escape the kids. Second was money, because it enabled us to bribe them to let us go.
I have to say I am really enjoying the daily routine of having to shower, catch a bus and take a packed lunch. It’s nice to have a reason to get up in the morning besides beat my best score. I have been floundering a little since graduating; I just don’t have enough to do and housework has never interested me beyond straightening the cushions in the lounge. I am really hopeful that this will lead to a job. I hear the hospital is looking for cleaners.
*
*
Day 20’s prompt was ‘perfectly flawed’. I’m going to paste part of it here because I like the story: In ancient times, Persian rug makers were deeply religious and believed that only God could make something perfect. They would deliberately drop in a small faulty stitch, a flaw, into each Persian rug. In doing so, a ‘Persian Flaw’ revealed the rug maker’s devotion to God — Karel Weijand. Yesterday was a good day and I got a senryu out of it; I had to really think to find the flaw because I was happy, but I have a good standby; see if you can spot it:
I think we’ll have some Mango Groove because we haven’t had any for a while. I love this track because when you hear it you just have to dance.
I am feeling optimistic today. Yesterday’s getting lazy housewives into gainful employment session was much better. I think perhaps Our Leader was gauging character the first time, seeing who needs reining in and who needs dragging out by the neck. When the loudest of us decided to call a smoke break the OL was quick to stop her, and she immediately backed down and sat down. Like children, we just need clear guidance and to know our boundaries.
We are given half an hour for lunch and it was interesting to see who brought their own and who could afford McDonalds, a packet of crisps, a chocolate and a cool drink. Those who profess to be poorest bought take out; the rest of us brought packed lunches, including one who dipped her cold Coronation Chicken sandwich in her tomato cupasoup – bleuggh! The girl who can’t fill her cupboard brought nothing at all and wouldn’t accept anything except a spare cupasoup; I suppose she couldn’t face the sandwich.
*
*
The prompt is ‘heroes’. I wrote the first one in response; the second has nothing to do with the theme but I am sharing it because it prompted the third, which I wrote after hearing a story told to me by a fellow poet; and it contains useful information for goldfish owners. Apologies if you’ve seen the last two before.
I believe in freedom of expression but I am repulsed by pictures of babies dressed as brutal murderers. I believe in saving the planet and clean clothes but you have to respect a majority vote so long as no-one is getting hurt.
I believe I have nothing to blog about today so I thought you might like some odd news. If I find any, I’ll let you know.
This is turning out to be a funny month. I have hardly written anything since Christmas but suddenly I am busy with writing events; as well as those I have told you about, I am going to workshop On The Parkwith Year Six children at the school where I help out. After their SATs, of course, so I have weeks to not sleep at night, worrying about it.
It occurred to me to look for writing jobs i.e. full-time, salaried positions that require me to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard, as well as admin jobs. And they are out there! I am not qualified for any of them, sadly, but that’s a minor detail.
I’m feeling a little sad today because I have my last writing class tonight. I have thoroughly enjoyed it and I have learned a lot. It was my third creative writing course since finishing with the OU. I’ll have to find another college but Stockport is rapidly running out.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
Here’s mine:
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)