There have been fewer posts recently as I have a cold. Not just a cold but a full blown gargoyle of a virus which has robbed me of my sense of smell and taste and makes me look as though I’ve been hit in the face by a sledgehammer made of mucus. I doubt even Peter Gabriel would make that into a smash hit.
I tried to take some photographs today of my latest charity shop finds – which are the closest things to awesome you can get without actually being MADE OF PURE SOLID GENIUS – and the results were VILE. I looked like Bet Lynch opening a council tax bill on a particularly vicious mogadon comedown. I look rough as anything and no amount of primping and preening and Instagramming can cover up the fact that I am currently the noisiest mouth breather on the block, snot infused and sleep deprived with an expression which can melt heavy artillery.
So no new post unless you count this one, which I don’t. And no new photos unless you count these, which I don’t.
I am job searching. This makes me one of 2.49 million other people doing the same thing, and we’re all probably applying for the same job. I hate this, I hate having to look for work. I’ve always got jobs before through knowing the right people and if you think that claim makes me sound like some nepotistic glamourpuss then you are wrong my friend, stone cold wrong. Unless you consider a Fax Monitor and a Facilitator glamourous job titles in which case, you must be that man in the trenchcoat who hangs around the shopping centre on the weekends eating scotch eggs.
I had my first and only interview recently and I can honestly say without glibness that I smashed it. I researched the company, I prepared my questions, I practised my ‘friendly’ smile without once breaking into a real one and I made eye contact like a boss. They asked me every question which I’d prepared for and for the ones they didn’t ask I managed to seamlessly segue into my patter like a snake oil salesman. At one point one of the interviewers said,
“You are exactly what we’re looking for.” and clasped her hands in delight.
All was going well until the very end, when I told them I had a child. A pre-school age child. You could see it was all over as I spoke. They were looking at me as if I had just vomited up a handful of cherry stones, as though I had just farted into my cupped hand and thrown it into the interviewers face (an old trick of my brothers. It’s disgusting)
Safe to say I didn’t get the job. I barely got a goodbye as I was left the room.
I know what you’re saying right now. You’re saying,
“Jesus Daisy, you didn’t get the job. Suck it up, and get in line for your handout, dolescum”
To which I would reply first of all, stop talking. It’s a screen and these are words upon it. I can’t hear you, nor do I understand your jivetalk. “Suck it up?” Let me tell you who sucks it up. Your mum.
Now where was I?
They explained that the previous role holder had had problems with childcare for her pre-school aged child and that it had caused issues in her working relationships. I may as well have told them I had previous convictions for embezzlement and identity theft when I told them I had a child, that’s how fast their smiles dropped from their faces.
It’s either that or the fact that on the way in I slapped the male interviewer on the arse, quipped, “Alright, chuckles?” and smelled strongly of gin when I came into the room.
That or the child.
But probably definitely the child.