Another second Friday, another trip to the Jobcentre. Drove my dad’s car up, probably making some curtain twitcher angry all day at how I jumped out of a decent car and wandered into the brew wearing trackies and old battered trainers. When in Rome and all that shit.Went through the normal routine five minutes before I left of jotting down the bare minimum amount needed into my “work diary.” They like to know I’m looking at two different papers and the internet. They got pissy one time when I went in after having just handed in CVs to shops etc, preferring to be lied to in the correct manner.
Got to enjoy the usual menagerie of folk, there’s was the skinny speed user that marched right into the corner, looked out the window and started sucking on his cheeks. He was outdone by the woman who seemed to have Parkinson’s, she managed to shake and fidget six feet to the left then back to the start surprisingly quickly. There was a guy in a suit that had the air of someone who had his own building company that has went to shit but he’s determined to keep up appearances. There was no fat maladjusted geek anywhere in sight, leading me to believe I was it for today. There was a guy with a pair of Dierdre specs and slicked back hair that made him look like Gary Glitter’s pal from the 80s travelling forward in time, sort of fucker you’re mum warned you never to accept sweets off of in the street. There was a black guy there too, which bears mentioning as round here there’s practically no black folk. I’ve got two theories why this is so: First, that when you come from a hot, sunny, part of the world and decide to make a life for yourself in the UK, will you live in the warmest, busiest metropolis down south, where there’s a load of other black folk, maybe family that’s been here a few generations and a bit less of a culture shock? Or will you decide “Fuck vitamin D!” and head off for the coldest, rainiest part of this island where there’s few folk like you? That’s the first theory, the second theory is that there actually are a sizeable number of black people in Scotland, it’s just that they aren’t black anymore. Within a month of arriving (or a fortnight in winter) the lack of good weather, good cheer, and being able to count the number of days with blue skies on one hand turns everyone into the same sort of grey skinned, unhealthy looking mass. Not only does it explain the lack of blacks compared to other parts of the country, but provides a reason for why whenever there is some sunshine everyone strips off and starts chasing skin cancer like it’s going out of fashion. And fake tan.
When my name got called up the advisor didn’t seem too happy to see me. Since I first signed on he’s gotten more and more grumpy every time I’ve seen him. It’s as if he’s the teacher in every high school film that started out all cheerful and optimistic, and slowly but surely been beaten down until he’s nothing more than a miserable wanker that looks down on everyone and hates his work. On the plus side, he doesn’t fuck about with small talk or even pretend that he’ll be able to magic up some employment. It’s just a matter of sit down, look mildly disgusted, sign the paper, with every signature looking different from the last because I’m a mong, then off I go to enjoy another two weeks of trying to scrimp every penny I can. He was sitting at the very far desk in the corner mind you, maybe that’s why his face was tripping him, perhaps he got sent to spend the day in the naughty chair.
Hung out with Hans as well for a while. I keep forgetting that even though she’s so fluent in English and is studying it in uni it’s still a second language for her. I think it happened around about the time she picked up on little mannerisms like saying “Fuckin’…” like most other people would say “um” in a sentence. Scotland isn’t high on the list of places to go to get immersed in the Queen’s English. Anyway, she’d spent the whole day thinking that it was “hellstones” pelting down rather than hailstones, and was impressed at our awesome choice of word to describe whatever it was she called it in German that I’ve now forgotten how to say, but it had surprisingly few syllables at any rate. I wondered for a while whether or not to let her keep on thinking we lived in a land where men were men and everything sounded like a track from a heavy metal album, knowing that her accent would hide it well enough. Kind soul that I am I let her know though. After shooting the shit for a while, including comparing the horrible things we done as kids / to kids (She beat me by abandoning her little brother, telling him they were playing hide and seek and not going back to get him for hours. All I did was tell my ex’s niece that she actually had a big sister, but my dog ate her. Then told her to go put her ear to the dog’s chest, she heard her heartbeat, which I told her was her big sister knocking to get out.), I had to head back home in time to make sure that Goggles didn’t run off and have any fun.
However I was a responsible guardian and cooked dinner for everyone tonight. Well, I say cooked, really I let some stew defrost, boiled some water, added a few gravy granules, chucked in the stew and let it heat up for half an hour, with some yorkshire puddings I found at the bottom of the freezer. So we had a hearty meal of meat and bread while watching Community, and a damn fine scran it was too.
The rest of tonight shall be a boring one, split between the doing a load of clothes washing, Facebook, and Oblivion. I could do with some booze, and would have some but I’m going to go for a drive later on tonight, enjoy a car that goes vvrrooom while I still have the chance. May see about getting a wee stone though…
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