Reality Bites

Come with me for a second.

It’s eleven in the morning. Somehow, I’ve managed to drag my tired arse out of bed. How I’m staying in bed till this late is beyond me. I have no job as of yet, so I don’t work on the ridiculous hours that my house mates seem to work on.

My room mate Sil wakes up at the same time. She sounds exhausted, and I feel bad for her, because I do not for one tiny second envy her job. We bid each other good morning and briefly compare notes on the night before.

Then, I get dressed. Mum calls, with a short brief on her day. I am mostly still in dream land. I text ILB, who was kind enough to help me with my CV the other day, to let him know I’m going to the Job Centre.

On the way, I buy breakfast. Breakfast in this case is cold pain au chocolate, which is still making my stomach a mess right now. I sit down somewhere and eat, before I gather sense and head towards the place I assume the Job Centre is at.

Now, I know what I’m like when I’m trying to find a new place. I look it up on Google Maps, try and memorize, forget the next day and end up on the wrong side of town. I still remember the first time I went to London Fetish Fair and nearly ended up… well, somewhere I didn’t need to be at all.

Of course, this is all a case of history repeating itself. I end up with my pants drenched from the rain (and ripped, may I add, making me look like a slattern), on a bus to Neasden. Neasden being literally five minutes away on foot.

I find the Centre after a short walk and actually stop and praise Jebus. It’s warm. It has WiFi. It’s… incredibly sparse. I sit down on a couch and    wait.

And wait, and wait again.

Eventually, I go look upstairs, where there appears to be more staff, only to get sent away immediately by a massive security guard with weird hair.

Downstairs, back in Sparta, I wait.

Until I get urged by a fellow waitee to ask the only person at the counters for help.

So, I do.

“Hello!” I say, trying to look my positive and charming self (whilst looking like a drowned kitten). “I wanted to know how I can apply for JSA.”

“Do you have an appointment?”


“Here is the phone number to call. Goodbye and thank you.”

And that’s it. I’m back outside in the grey wetness.

On my way back, I stop for a bap. I read The Mirror and have a little cry because I’m cold and I hate people.

On the bus back, I realize that I’m a massive tit and could have easily gone further on foot. Ah well.

I stop at the news agents and treat myself to The Guardian and a three-pack of Ferrero Rocher.

And I find myself back at the internet cafe again, sulking because I now realize that I need to set up an appointment first.

You may think that us sex blog folk lead a very glam lifestyle, but next time you’re out on the street, lost in the pissing rain, spare a thought for your friendly neighbourhood Barenaked Lady. Chances are, she is out there too…



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1 Comment

  1. Ah, the joys of the Job Centre – the only thing I can say about my current (utterly crap) job is that at least I don’t have to deal with that garbage anymore… the security guards roaming about, the dead-eyed and hopeless sitting around, the endless waiting even if you DO have an appointment, and the constant hectoring undertone that makes you feel guilty for having lost your job, and for being generally alive. Seems my last JSA application got flushed down a toilet somewhere in Basildon, so I never did find out if I still qualified – certainly didn’t get a penny so no one could accuse me of being a benefit scrounger. Don’t envy you going into this highly dispiriting process…


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