I love signing on in my home town. Desperate slightly eerie people, but none that know you any more. Mainly plumber-types shifting about anxiously, and some hideous creature trying to glam up her lidl existence with a primark handbag, smeared lipstick and a massive belt that her waistline clearly didn’t warrant.
To add to my natural ‘delusions of grandeur’ image, I walk in and I know the girl on the front desk. I used to live with her back in the old dole days, when everyone spent each others giros on a dry packet of golden Virginia.
I also knew her sister (Ibiza 95, brief fling with housemate), so I’m almost family. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, DWP family. The mafia are everywhere.
However, I’m not an official member really, and now I’ve found a job I thought it might be okay to send the old UB40 in and not bother to sign on. I mean, surely that’s a waste of everyone’s time right?
A horrible looming ‘I am poor’ feeling crept over me after another weekend of debauchery in east London, and wincing, I went to the library to look at my online banking.
Online banking and speed dating in a public place? I hear you cry. I actually get off on it in a smug, survivalist kind of way.
Nope. No dole money. PANIC! Do I contact them and risk being told off for not attending, miss high-and-mighty-too-good-for-this-queue? Do I just wait.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,nah, my days in supported housing taught me to CONTACT THEM.
Aha! I have a BT line. But that stupid 0845 number’s been in the news as a royal rip-off (hm, ‘royal’, would love to see Lizzy in the line-up scratching her arse). I cunningly find the local number and off I go. My marvellous powers of negotiation, (that was an interesting course), pay off, and the lady finds my dole card on the top of the pile in the drawer.
So never more shall I arrive like a superstar, fresh out of Cannes, suitcase in my mum’s car, begging for milky tokens. In the old days the tan would have given away a holiday, but for 90p a pop you can turn yourself orange in the back of an amusement arcade nowadays.
Thank God for drawers. And piles.
Monday, 22 June 2009
160609 – What’s my excuse?
So I start a blog and then don’t add to it………………I seemed good at finishing day jobs and other kinds of jobs……..yesssssssss, I think I may have caught some awful carntbearsed disease from jobclub.
So here we go with some random ramblings, since my brain has crawled out of my left ear and slid somewhere between my ribs and economy arsehole.
This is partly due to the fact that Hove Station appears to have run out of Metro. Permanently. Which means no brain-feeding sudoku for Godiva. I still trot up there once daily to check. I usually settle for Friday Ad or some such other free paper (wishful thinking, them were the days). I spend my time cutting coupons out then never using them. There’s a comp on at the moment to win an entire case of Princes pastes! Mmmmmmmm, fish paste. If I get that photo my life will be complete.
Talking of nutritious, delicious cuisine, I went to a council bbq at the weekend. I ate mechanically processed council meat. YUM! My friend got the squits after, that’ll learn her.
My offbeat friend and I were rehearsing for a mass ukulele event, and by accident I ended up running an unofficial kiddies music corner. This seemed okay, until there were four or five of them spreading swu amongst the constituency by vigorously spitting into my harmonica. Urgh. Somewhere in me there is the will not to be killed by hepatitis.
Inspired by the sloppy seconds Friday Ad, I have been finding much pain in advertising my oversized fridge freezer. Made an ex-executive decision to only advertise it online – most people have the internet, and if they’re too stupid to use it, they’re too stupid for my fridge, (we have an unhealthily intense relationship, that’s why I have to set it free).
Eventually a man from the inglourious Burgess Hill turned up to do a swap. Except that when he cleaned his fridge the gas pipe burst in his face. Yes, he had been gassed in the face that morning dear readers, and didn’t even get a cheap thrill out of it.
*Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to romance by boyfriend by gassing in his face? Yellow, apparently*
So I decided last week was a week for breaking things. I have deep cuts on two of my fingers and the lino I bought isn’t wide enough for the bathroom. I blame it on the sun – the sun that never shines…………
Well, what a turn of events eh? This week I can eat my £1.30 low-fat salmon and cucumber sandwich on the beach everyday! (Watch the metal content of your food Godiva, watch it!) People think my tan is from India, but anyone with inside knowledge would know the burgundy tinge can only be that of the great British CFC-fuelled sun.
Yesterday evening I decided due to these breakages and my isolation from the media and suchlike that I am not in the land of the living. I have no TV as I thought I’d be ultra modern, (and pikey), and watch catch-up on my laptop. But to have broadband you have to have BT, and that line was broken too. However, the chirpy Ian from Shoreham sorted that out and as of this Friday I should have broadband.
So no telly, no paper, broken phone, dodgy lino. Something had to give. I thought I’d call my trusty friend Jana, with whom I wrote haikus for a year whilst sitting in a box office. I got marched out of that job for having no work ethics. Marvellous! Stick that on yer dole form, and CV while you’re at it!
In my last job I got told off in my appraisal for doing high kicks in the office. They say never put your daughter on the stage, but sometimes I wonder………….
Suddenly I remembered my £2.15 jobclub swimpass! Yippee it’s women’s hour! So I cycled down there and joined far too many oestrogen junkies, but enjoyed my swim. Exiting knickerless, dry-skinned and with goggle-marks, I decided to risk a cycle along the sunsetting seafront then a whiz up to Somerfield where I could slip in, rummage about for some greasy old chicken bones and hope that the hunky eastern europeans wouldn’t notice my panda eyes.
No sooner had I turned for the approach to the beloved 1960s seaside rendezvous Maroccos, than I hear a woman shouting my name. I brake, cock my head round and there she is…………….Jana. Who needs this mobile technology?! So we coffeed and yabbered at the kiosk-style Italian café, and the ideas couldn’t come out quick enough.
Turns out my apathetic attitude to small city apathy was misjusged! She informed me of writers groups, Russian choirs, knitting circles, exhibitions, seafront concerts and event ideas. Wow. For a moment there I became fuelled by a passion for the discovery of this underworld………………but why was my excitement turning to disdain? Oh yes, there it was………………the local feel. The fact it is an underworld. That isn’t ‘the underworld’ of Corrie knicker factory fame, nor the kind movies are made of. In fact I’ve been reading the magnificent Fight Club by Pahalniuk. Y’know, where a man is so desperate to feel something he becomes addicted to self-help groups?.......
When I moved to London I was gigging at Wembley within six months. If I popped for a drink in Soho I’d end up in a sex documentary. If I went out at night I’d end up on exclusive rooftops in private clubs in Kensington, talking to the gardener about the sexual appetite of flamingoes. Decadence. Hedonism. They are not the be-all and end-all I know, and for crick’s sake we’ve got Zoe Ball in Tescos Express down here by the sea! But we also have Chris Eubanks……………………
Do I bother trying to penetrate this dusty culture? Do I create my own? Shall I be so successful that London will beg me for my services? Time will tell.
And time is something I do have.
So here we go with some random ramblings, since my brain has crawled out of my left ear and slid somewhere between my ribs and economy arsehole.
This is partly due to the fact that Hove Station appears to have run out of Metro. Permanently. Which means no brain-feeding sudoku for Godiva. I still trot up there once daily to check. I usually settle for Friday Ad or some such other free paper (wishful thinking, them were the days). I spend my time cutting coupons out then never using them. There’s a comp on at the moment to win an entire case of Princes pastes! Mmmmmmmm, fish paste. If I get that photo my life will be complete.
Talking of nutritious, delicious cuisine, I went to a council bbq at the weekend. I ate mechanically processed council meat. YUM! My friend got the squits after, that’ll learn her.
My offbeat friend and I were rehearsing for a mass ukulele event, and by accident I ended up running an unofficial kiddies music corner. This seemed okay, until there were four or five of them spreading swu amongst the constituency by vigorously spitting into my harmonica. Urgh. Somewhere in me there is the will not to be killed by hepatitis.
Inspired by the sloppy seconds Friday Ad, I have been finding much pain in advertising my oversized fridge freezer. Made an ex-executive decision to only advertise it online – most people have the internet, and if they’re too stupid to use it, they’re too stupid for my fridge, (we have an unhealthily intense relationship, that’s why I have to set it free).
Eventually a man from the inglourious Burgess Hill turned up to do a swap. Except that when he cleaned his fridge the gas pipe burst in his face. Yes, he had been gassed in the face that morning dear readers, and didn’t even get a cheap thrill out of it.
*Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to romance by boyfriend by gassing in his face? Yellow, apparently*
So I decided last week was a week for breaking things. I have deep cuts on two of my fingers and the lino I bought isn’t wide enough for the bathroom. I blame it on the sun – the sun that never shines…………
Well, what a turn of events eh? This week I can eat my £1.30 low-fat salmon and cucumber sandwich on the beach everyday! (Watch the metal content of your food Godiva, watch it!) People think my tan is from India, but anyone with inside knowledge would know the burgundy tinge can only be that of the great British CFC-fuelled sun.
Yesterday evening I decided due to these breakages and my isolation from the media and suchlike that I am not in the land of the living. I have no TV as I thought I’d be ultra modern, (and pikey), and watch catch-up on my laptop. But to have broadband you have to have BT, and that line was broken too. However, the chirpy Ian from Shoreham sorted that out and as of this Friday I should have broadband.
So no telly, no paper, broken phone, dodgy lino. Something had to give. I thought I’d call my trusty friend Jana, with whom I wrote haikus for a year whilst sitting in a box office. I got marched out of that job for having no work ethics. Marvellous! Stick that on yer dole form, and CV while you’re at it!
In my last job I got told off in my appraisal for doing high kicks in the office. They say never put your daughter on the stage, but sometimes I wonder………….
Suddenly I remembered my £2.15 jobclub swimpass! Yippee it’s women’s hour! So I cycled down there and joined far too many oestrogen junkies, but enjoyed my swim. Exiting knickerless, dry-skinned and with goggle-marks, I decided to risk a cycle along the sunsetting seafront then a whiz up to Somerfield where I could slip in, rummage about for some greasy old chicken bones and hope that the hunky eastern europeans wouldn’t notice my panda eyes.
No sooner had I turned for the approach to the beloved 1960s seaside rendezvous Maroccos, than I hear a woman shouting my name. I brake, cock my head round and there she is…………….Jana. Who needs this mobile technology?! So we coffeed and yabbered at the kiosk-style Italian café, and the ideas couldn’t come out quick enough.
Turns out my apathetic attitude to small city apathy was misjusged! She informed me of writers groups, Russian choirs, knitting circles, exhibitions, seafront concerts and event ideas. Wow. For a moment there I became fuelled by a passion for the discovery of this underworld………………but why was my excitement turning to disdain? Oh yes, there it was………………the local feel. The fact it is an underworld. That isn’t ‘the underworld’ of Corrie knicker factory fame, nor the kind movies are made of. In fact I’ve been reading the magnificent Fight Club by Pahalniuk. Y’know, where a man is so desperate to feel something he becomes addicted to self-help groups?.......
When I moved to London I was gigging at Wembley within six months. If I popped for a drink in Soho I’d end up in a sex documentary. If I went out at night I’d end up on exclusive rooftops in private clubs in Kensington, talking to the gardener about the sexual appetite of flamingoes. Decadence. Hedonism. They are not the be-all and end-all I know, and for crick’s sake we’ve got Zoe Ball in Tescos Express down here by the sea! But we also have Chris Eubanks……………………
Do I bother trying to penetrate this dusty culture? Do I create my own? Shall I be so successful that London will beg me for my services? Time will tell.
And time is something I do have.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
060509 Fun=Work
Shouldn’t. Have:
Smoked loads of spliffs.
Wanked over my friends boyfriend/my ex-boyfriend.
Eaten what I did.
Not gone to the swimming pool.
Lost touch with reality. Sorry, the recession.
Today was cool. I ate cornflakes in the middle of the night. This not smoking thing is tough. And there’s only so long the amoeba’s gonna keep me trim. Must. Get. Exercise. Survival. Of. Fittest.
Anyway, I did babies instead, involving strawberry ice cream, a bit of puke and lots of gossip. She fell asleep on my shoulder and hasn’t done that on anyone else. Feel the vibe, sister. My friend kept calling it karma. Bent double I were.
Apparently, her face bore a look of unadulterated horror when, in the middle of her caesarean, they told her they’d fitted her with a catheter:
“oh my god, will I pee without knowing?”
When her husband decided to have a gander at the sex of the baby (nice) he was greeted with the sight of her intestines. Also nice.
Now what was it again that happens to me when I live in Brighton? Oh yes, I get a bit fat, very stoned, wear tracksuit bottoms and have no lustre for my job. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, need time to fix it. But where does the time go in this beautiful unemployed world of mine? It’s one am now and I should be tucked up in bed. But I’m free! I’m free! I can stay up late pretending to be a writer (I use two fingers when I type). Maybe I can go on a jobwise touch-typing course. Yeah man.
Decaf tea’s okay y’know.
I am enjoying this writing lark, but must admit I shall have to return to yesterday’s offering soon to add to it. Oh brain, why art thou not the same speed as my fingers?
Made the mistake of rolling from one chocolate-fuelled engagement into another – “pop over later if you like”. Bearing gifts of second-hand cutlery and plastic mugs, I cycled to Luke’s house. There we ate and smoked till the sun gave up, and entertained a lovely couple by the name of Steve and Bo.
Best remnant of the night a disjointed conflab about united nations leaders and their names. Bankie Moon and the like. Wrote down on an old scrap;
‘Uterus Con Carne, Koffee Anne, Joanne Umley and Alfie Moon’.
Could have been a comedy sketch or just a cartoon. I can imagine a cheesy 50s American voiceover shouting, “and introducing…………………….”. Either that, or a camp, hormone-invested, middle-aged woman a la Marjory Daws having a conversation with her hairdresser. Anyway, comedy ain’t my line of business………………………………….
Gor, did you know that spellcheck doesn’t recognise ‘Alfie’, but does ‘Lumley’?!
Fun can be hard work. I’m used to there being one dominant brain in the room (yours truly), and there were all sorts of smart witty comments being rebounded round the room. Is it because I’m upstaged? Old? Protective of my close friends? There’s always a relief when I get home.
But then, wanking is best done in private I find.
Smoked loads of spliffs.
Wanked over my friends boyfriend/my ex-boyfriend.
Eaten what I did.
Not gone to the swimming pool.
Lost touch with reality. Sorry, the recession.
Today was cool. I ate cornflakes in the middle of the night. This not smoking thing is tough. And there’s only so long the amoeba’s gonna keep me trim. Must. Get. Exercise. Survival. Of. Fittest.
Anyway, I did babies instead, involving strawberry ice cream, a bit of puke and lots of gossip. She fell asleep on my shoulder and hasn’t done that on anyone else. Feel the vibe, sister. My friend kept calling it karma. Bent double I were.
Apparently, her face bore a look of unadulterated horror when, in the middle of her caesarean, they told her they’d fitted her with a catheter:
“oh my god, will I pee without knowing?”
When her husband decided to have a gander at the sex of the baby (nice) he was greeted with the sight of her intestines. Also nice.
Now what was it again that happens to me when I live in Brighton? Oh yes, I get a bit fat, very stoned, wear tracksuit bottoms and have no lustre for my job. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, need time to fix it. But where does the time go in this beautiful unemployed world of mine? It’s one am now and I should be tucked up in bed. But I’m free! I’m free! I can stay up late pretending to be a writer (I use two fingers when I type). Maybe I can go on a jobwise touch-typing course. Yeah man.
Decaf tea’s okay y’know.
I am enjoying this writing lark, but must admit I shall have to return to yesterday’s offering soon to add to it. Oh brain, why art thou not the same speed as my fingers?
Made the mistake of rolling from one chocolate-fuelled engagement into another – “pop over later if you like”. Bearing gifts of second-hand cutlery and plastic mugs, I cycled to Luke’s house. There we ate and smoked till the sun gave up, and entertained a lovely couple by the name of Steve and Bo.
Best remnant of the night a disjointed conflab about united nations leaders and their names. Bankie Moon and the like. Wrote down on an old scrap;
‘Uterus Con Carne, Koffee Anne, Joanne Umley and Alfie Moon’.
Could have been a comedy sketch or just a cartoon. I can imagine a cheesy 50s American voiceover shouting, “and introducing…………………….”. Either that, or a camp, hormone-invested, middle-aged woman a la Marjory Daws having a conversation with her hairdresser. Anyway, comedy ain’t my line of business………………………………….
Gor, did you know that spellcheck doesn’t recognise ‘Alfie’, but does ‘Lumley’?!
Fun can be hard work. I’m used to there being one dominant brain in the room (yours truly), and there were all sorts of smart witty comments being rebounded round the room. Is it because I’m upstaged? Old? Protective of my close friends? There’s always a relief when I get home.
But then, wanking is best done in private I find.
050509 cont…………….at jobclub
Not sure I’m actually all that convincing as a poor cow. One can only be reminded of Spaced, episode 1 series 2, when Daisy gets back from pastures new full of beans and amoeba as I, and goes to sign on. For those not blessed with the DVD, the way it goes is that she waltzes in the office hoping for a breezy time, when in fact she is wearing a traveller’s-special t-shirt and sports a tan. She leaves with nothing.
Firstly, I have to say that I do have some idea of how to carry myself in such an establishment. I was particularly proud of my costume for the affair: a 70s checked jumper with bow that if left to own devices revealed alluring cleavage. A pair of well-fitting h and m office trews. And a pair of chavvy diamante trainers. That’ll learn ‘em.
Well, Daisy is fictional and I may as well be, though that Alice-potion of truth reeks through my malnutritioned veins. So I’ve got all my documents with me and in a proud fashion I hand over my id.
My passport.
Shit.
Will the inoffensive/ineffective/unassuming/uninspiring/inconsequential/non-descript/neither here-nor-there admin clerk see any of my visas from the past ten years? See the stamps from Mumbai stating that a few days before I was in our lost embassy out east? A sticker glares angrily at me from the back of my otherwise unmarked passport (now peeled off) ’26 Jan 2009 Mumbai security’. Sound the alerts! But she smiles, (probably at the photo of me 19 and unscathed), and passes me on to a more social-workeresque colleague.
Jet lag kicks in and I slur my way through the jobseeking interview; trying to answer questions that seem arbitrary as best I can, critiquing the computer system, asking what happens if I get a start date – do I have to still join the cretins in the queue every other Friday? This, apparently, is abnormal behaviour, and rather than answering my deluded questions he comments,
“So is that your thing, then, finding loopholes and mistakes in the system?”
Good god, what have I done?! I was merely asking a realistic question. He told me to not tell them any of this info! Don’t get it, ain’t no good at the old DSS.
So, next jobclub day happens to be less than 12 hours after I get back from Cannes. Which, of course, is also a jobclub, but involves more garlic, but probably an equal amount of unemployed persons. I’ve worked out a less-than-foolproof plan of how to get there. Tick. It involves going straight there from Chelsea the next day, during rush hour. Cross. Probably with a fresh tan/burn. Cross. And my rucksack. Cross. And a French accent……….this ain’t going too well. And I need every god darn penny of that £64.25 – have you seen the price of fish paste?!
Turns out the Vonnegut book is sci-fi. I’m off to read it, ta ta!
Firstly, I have to say that I do have some idea of how to carry myself in such an establishment. I was particularly proud of my costume for the affair: a 70s checked jumper with bow that if left to own devices revealed alluring cleavage. A pair of well-fitting h and m office trews. And a pair of chavvy diamante trainers. That’ll learn ‘em.
Well, Daisy is fictional and I may as well be, though that Alice-potion of truth reeks through my malnutritioned veins. So I’ve got all my documents with me and in a proud fashion I hand over my id.
My passport.
Shit.
Will the inoffensive/ineffective/unassuming/uninspiring/inconsequential/non-descript/neither here-nor-there admin clerk see any of my visas from the past ten years? See the stamps from Mumbai stating that a few days before I was in our lost embassy out east? A sticker glares angrily at me from the back of my otherwise unmarked passport (now peeled off) ’26 Jan 2009 Mumbai security’. Sound the alerts! But she smiles, (probably at the photo of me 19 and unscathed), and passes me on to a more social-workeresque colleague.
Jet lag kicks in and I slur my way through the jobseeking interview; trying to answer questions that seem arbitrary as best I can, critiquing the computer system, asking what happens if I get a start date – do I have to still join the cretins in the queue every other Friday? This, apparently, is abnormal behaviour, and rather than answering my deluded questions he comments,
“So is that your thing, then, finding loopholes and mistakes in the system?”
Good god, what have I done?! I was merely asking a realistic question. He told me to not tell them any of this info! Don’t get it, ain’t no good at the old DSS.
So, next jobclub day happens to be less than 12 hours after I get back from Cannes. Which, of course, is also a jobclub, but involves more garlic, but probably an equal amount of unemployed persons. I’ve worked out a less-than-foolproof plan of how to get there. Tick. It involves going straight there from Chelsea the next day, during rush hour. Cross. Probably with a fresh tan/burn. Cross. And my rucksack. Cross. And a French accent……….this ain’t going too well. And I need every god darn penny of that £64.25 – have you seen the price of fish paste?!
Turns out the Vonnegut book is sci-fi. I’m off to read it, ta ta!
050509 On the dole again
I want to write, therefore I shall. What would Joanne Umley do?
Been back from India a week (and a bit, but in denial due to diminishing bank balance).
I am officially a dole-ite. Again. But it’s been a while, and last time didn’t really count seeing as I was awarded £2.60 a week, and I walked in the dole office and my piggy feet auto-marched me straight the hell outta there.
Hm.
Can’t have really needed the £2.60? I hear you tut.
I play the Part fairly well; I mean I’m really trying to get into the scene. I’m a WRITER you see, an artiste, not like the rest of 'em.
Today I found it slightly difficult to continue this philosophy. Even with the blinkers on, as I left number 13 in my six-year-old-three-quid-from-mark-one tracksuit bottoms, (I kid you not), I thought I’d head for the library.
But first, one must venture down the centre of commerce in Hove known as George Street.
Flashing back to a Simon Pegg film, the street appears full of yellow-toothed zombies. There’s a fruit and veg stall for God’s sake. But Wetherspoons prevails.
I walk past a red polo-shirted girl, one of her legs crossed over the other in her polyester black trousers, twirling her hair whilst on the phone in an imaginary tea break:
“Yeah, and then he didn’t even………………………….”, I walked quickly past, dreading my ears hearing the woeful tales of bank-holiday abuse.
*ASIDE*
I wonder if the girl who lives downstairs is on ben-e-fits (pronounced ben-ee-fits with a squint on the ‘fits’). This ponder is based on the fact that if I am toileting at night my bathroom smells of burnt-on fish fingers. The golden food tells all.
Anyway, after the delights of Boots (adult with learning disability reads smoothie ingredients out loud whilst I queue to bask in the brilliance of my BMI – swift exit), I also grace Superdrug and Savers with my presence. I’m looking for hair dye, (Cannes next week, can’t look like Rajhastani gypsy at the roots don’t you know).
I love my idle price comparisoning. I buy a useless bunch of stuff including an extremely foreign-looking fake choc dip. Which was disgusting, but not much fat – be it delicious palm oil n all that. I cannot, however, remember which colour I dye my hair. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm, don’t make that mistake Zoe. Not again.
I do, eventually, make it to the library. I toss my out-of-date temporary membership card at the man behind the counter. I am now a full member! I have a leaflet that tells me my allowance. Excellent. And I’m armed with a whole treeful of useless local publications. That’s the spirit. Apparently I can enlist on a course in Egyptian Dance on a Tuesday morning with Sheila, that’ll get me back into work I tell ya.
I go up to the IT suite (ahem, go with it). There are all SORTS of undesirables in here. A girl with her mum/sister/pimp looking at flushed pictures of a sweaty holiday. The thing next to me on a dating website. Yes, in a public library. He smells of sperm or suchlike. Another spitting angry girl takes up residence the other side. She is either bipolar, or my twin.
Low blood sugar forces me to hunt out a salmon sandwich, but on my merry way I chant the mantra ‘toilet books sandwich’, ‘toilet books sandwich’. On the way to the toilet the rancid security brushes past me. Eurggh. I find a Vonnegut and a Palahniuk which’ll do for now, and decide to use ‘self-scan’. Or not. Mr Security guided me through the magical electronic process.
“Ooooooooooooooooooooooo, Kurt Vonnegut, sci-fi!”
“It’s not”, I growl.
“What is it then if it’s not sci-fi. Look, it says sci-fi on the cover.”
“Have you read any Vonnegut?” I spat. And with that I was owf to Tescos, absolutely mortified by this contact with an apparent library employee.
Been back from India a week (and a bit, but in denial due to diminishing bank balance).
I am officially a dole-ite. Again. But it’s been a while, and last time didn’t really count seeing as I was awarded £2.60 a week, and I walked in the dole office and my piggy feet auto-marched me straight the hell outta there.
Hm.
Can’t have really needed the £2.60? I hear you tut.
I play the Part fairly well; I mean I’m really trying to get into the scene. I’m a WRITER you see, an artiste, not like the rest of 'em.
Today I found it slightly difficult to continue this philosophy. Even with the blinkers on, as I left number 13 in my six-year-old-three-quid-from-mark-one tracksuit bottoms, (I kid you not), I thought I’d head for the library.
But first, one must venture down the centre of commerce in Hove known as George Street.
Flashing back to a Simon Pegg film, the street appears full of yellow-toothed zombies. There’s a fruit and veg stall for God’s sake. But Wetherspoons prevails.
I walk past a red polo-shirted girl, one of her legs crossed over the other in her polyester black trousers, twirling her hair whilst on the phone in an imaginary tea break:
“Yeah, and then he didn’t even………………………….”, I walked quickly past, dreading my ears hearing the woeful tales of bank-holiday abuse.
*ASIDE*
I wonder if the girl who lives downstairs is on ben-e-fits (pronounced ben-ee-fits with a squint on the ‘fits’). This ponder is based on the fact that if I am toileting at night my bathroom smells of burnt-on fish fingers. The golden food tells all.
Anyway, after the delights of Boots (adult with learning disability reads smoothie ingredients out loud whilst I queue to bask in the brilliance of my BMI – swift exit), I also grace Superdrug and Savers with my presence. I’m looking for hair dye, (Cannes next week, can’t look like Rajhastani gypsy at the roots don’t you know).
I love my idle price comparisoning. I buy a useless bunch of stuff including an extremely foreign-looking fake choc dip. Which was disgusting, but not much fat – be it delicious palm oil n all that. I cannot, however, remember which colour I dye my hair. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm, don’t make that mistake Zoe. Not again.
I do, eventually, make it to the library. I toss my out-of-date temporary membership card at the man behind the counter. I am now a full member! I have a leaflet that tells me my allowance. Excellent. And I’m armed with a whole treeful of useless local publications. That’s the spirit. Apparently I can enlist on a course in Egyptian Dance on a Tuesday morning with Sheila, that’ll get me back into work I tell ya.
I go up to the IT suite (ahem, go with it). There are all SORTS of undesirables in here. A girl with her mum/sister/pimp looking at flushed pictures of a sweaty holiday. The thing next to me on a dating website. Yes, in a public library. He smells of sperm or suchlike. Another spitting angry girl takes up residence the other side. She is either bipolar, or my twin.
Low blood sugar forces me to hunt out a salmon sandwich, but on my merry way I chant the mantra ‘toilet books sandwich’, ‘toilet books sandwich’. On the way to the toilet the rancid security brushes past me. Eurggh. I find a Vonnegut and a Palahniuk which’ll do for now, and decide to use ‘self-scan’. Or not. Mr Security guided me through the magical electronic process.
“Ooooooooooooooooooooooo, Kurt Vonnegut, sci-fi!”
“It’s not”, I growl.
“What is it then if it’s not sci-fi. Look, it says sci-fi on the cover.”
“Have you read any Vonnegut?” I spat. And with that I was owf to Tescos, absolutely mortified by this contact with an apparent library employee.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
