Operation Sort Yer Life Out is in full swing.
After watching The Secret on Netflix, I spent the whole next day focusing on the belief that when I got home from work, there was going to be an envelope with money in it for me. And low and behold, when I pushed open the front door, there was an envelope on the floor.
I ripped it open excitedly in anticipation of the fortune the universe was about to bestow upon me. I’d asked, I’d believed….but what I actually received was a bill for three hundred quid.
So now I know that telepathic money-making is out of the equation, I’m going to look for a real job.
Career is firmly on hold. I’m not even going to burden my brains looking for the next rung on the ladder. Not just yet…and I’m actually really looking forward to switching my head off, meeting lovely people and giving awful service with a genuine smile.
If Carlsberg did CVs….
Working life started with me being a paperboy doing the early morning shift.
I was supposed to walk up and down the streets of Aigburth with newspapers in this little wheelbarrow type thing, but I ended up getting lazy and making my poor mother wake up at 5am to drive me round. It probably cost her more in petrol than what I was getting paid…. So that one didn’t last long.
I spent two years working behind the counter at Woolworth’s selling Play Station games before their release date, wearing a uniform that was five sizes too big and a name badge saying “Ethel” (they couldn’t be bothered making one for me with my real name).
Then one summer I had a very bizarre role as a text relay assistant which basically involved reading out texts from deaf people and typing back to them.
You had to say whatever they’ve typed verbatim. Usually it was calling the bank or paying a phone bill, but there were a few occasions where I had the awkward task of dialling up a sex line or facilitating an argument between couples.
It feels quite odd calling somebody you’ve never met a selfish prick for not replying to your messages.
CHICKENS DON’T HAVE LIPS
For a short time, I was officially the world’s worst waitress. In fact, when I told my dad I was looking to do it again he looked extremely concerned.
Last time you were a waitress you burned your finger through to the bone
He’s got a point, I did put the hospital in hospitality, twice actually – the second time I nearly cut my finger off opening a can of kidney beans. But I’m twelve years older and a tiny bit wiser now, so I think I’ll be fine.
I mean, I now know that if the kitchen tell me to tell table thirteen we’re out of chicken lips, they’re winding me up – because chickens don’t actually have lips.
I can now also quite quickly distinguish between calamari and onion rings, AND I know that when somebody orders a steak and ale pie, you don’t need to ask them how they want the steak done.
I GOT THIS
Yesterday I walked into a bar and was chatting to the manager as he was fixing up our drinks. He mocked me for being thirty-three and having a car crash of a life (the whole jobless, homeless, single thing) and I’m not sure whether it was out of pity or genuine need, but he offered me a weekend job.
I haven’t pulled a pint for fifteen years but I think I could handle it. And this isn’t the type of place where a fat, toothless old man would say “if I was your dad I’d still be getting baths with you”. And even if that did happen now, he’d be getting his pint served all over his face and a sharp right hook.
So I happily accepted the job offer and gave him my number. Although I did say I’ve got to check my diary as I’ve got loads of plans so can probably only work one weekend in August. He pulled a funny face and laughed at me when I was walking away, so I’m probably best not banking on a phone call.
Telepathic money making doesn’t work, and part-time employment is no use as I find it really inconvenient giving up my social life.
Back to square one.