Wasting.

I’ll confess, this post is largely a stalling tactic so I don’t have to go shopping for a pair of jeans and a new top. I’m convinced that with just the right amount of swagger, I can pull off the hole-in-the-arse-of-your-trousers look. If I delve into a bad enough mood I’ll go into French Connection and growl at the effeminate shop assistants if they come up to me while I’m trying to find a hoodie with an “X” in the size. Upon finding out that there will invariably be none of them, I’ll leave the shop safe in the knowledge that everyone’s a cunt and there’s a nice told pint of beer or ten waiting for me later on tonight. Then there’s the fact of getting to the fucking shopping centre in the first place, it’s in a town you never want to set foot in. Not because it’s dangerous or anything, but because it was built only a few decades ago, back when town planners seemed to think that in the future the one thing we’ll all want to do in our hovercars is go round roundabouts constantly. Looking at the place on google maps makes it seem as though someone’s thrown knotted anal beads at your screen. And the weather’s shit as well, with that kind of grey sky that tells you it’s going to rain at some point, but it’s going to hold off until the most inopportune time possible, then drop it all on your head.

What have I done today besides procrastinate? Um… signed on! The jobcentre had no nutters in it today, which was a bit of a shame, it’s always good to see some free range mentals bouncing about, so I was stuck with the far more boring sight of men no doubt out of work because whatever seasonal work they had has finished, young girls clinging onto the slight hope that a rich idiot will sweep them off their feet and give them a house to do nothing in, and middle-aged women who all had that face that said “Ah’m jist no fuckin well.” Had an appointment straight after for a work programme, basically they outsource the JC’s job onto a private company with a commission on everyone they get into work. It seems to be the usual fortnightly interview dragged over a longer time, with the offer of free tea or coffee. An agency by any other name… I’d hoped at least for some backdoor into the secret jobs that nobody knows about, but it’s the usual websites and newspapers that I look at and scour through before even leaving the house. At least they’ll send away my CV for me, fulfilling the role of a browser script that’s probably floating about already.

Right, I’m suitably grumpy that I can handle shopping, then tonight I’m going to have a couple small aquariums of alcohol and anything else I can lay my hands on. Wish me luck.