Right, to be frank I’m getting a bit irked by this unemployment game. Yes, I am technically still a student in that I am enrolled until September on my Masters course, but the only advantage to me in this lies in the fact that I don’t have to use the word ‘scumbag’ when describing my occupation.
The irony is, thanks to my status as the enlightened recipient of an expensive postgraduate education, I cannot claim the dole. No! So instead of claiming money for sitting around relieving itches in my appendages, I have paid my university three and half grand for the privilege. As ball-scratching goes, that’s pretty poor value.
The situation has come to a head in the last week. Never in my life have I expended so much effort for so little return, like a gerbil that has burrowed for fourteen miles only to emerge in front of an opportunistic snake. I am now, once again, facing the possibility of being financially destitute. My problems are compounded by the fact that the board of my university, despite containing some of the most revered and learned brains in the engineering community, couldn’t work out how to fix the heating system in my halls of residence. The result of this is that many of us are being unceremoniously booted out at the end of this month. Our only options are to see out the remainder of our lease in similarly vile, hospital-blue, cigarette-tinged accommodation elsewhere on campus, or to look further afield.
After what feels like eight years of job-seeking but is in reality five days or so, I have not even had so much as a reply. Even if there was an employer who was looking for a ‘Professional Staring Executive – duties include looking wistfully out the window, clock watching and frequent procrastinating with constant visits to the toilet, drinking of coffee and looking on the Internet,’ I feel I’d be destined to not snare the job. Some people have suggested that my difficulties may stem from CV-scanners thinking I am ‘overqualified.’ Which means I feel that it might be wise to not mention either my law degree or my pending Masters, lest my inquisitors wonder what psychological disorder has led to me seeking work as a bog-licker. But then the problem is that, stripped of my academic pomp and circumstance, I’m actually total shit in terms of what they’re looking for. So even the hallowed position of a part-time receptionist is beyond me, simply because I haven’t done it before. I’m fairly confident I know how to pick up a phone and talk into it the lower bit of the handset, but the agencies seem to think otherwise.
Of course, I could always try and get work as a journalist, which is what I’m trying to do, but that seems as likely, at the minute, of me ballet-dancing my way through a gang of youths in East London dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and and still being recognisable at the end.