Day 95: I Do Not Get The Job

Following a sweaty, ill-prepared and hungover interview for a job I didn't want earlier this week, I receive some truly astonishing "feedback".

To my amazement, I am apparently "obviously very able" and "impressive", but "do not have enough recent FMCG experience" and am "too senior". (Maybe this is HR*-talk, and what they really mean is Too Old.)

Happily, therefore, I do not have to do this job I do not want to do. (I couldn't have worked with them anyway; they are obviously deaf and insane.) I will instead hope to do a non-permanent job I want to do, with people I already know well and like very much.

In the meantime, I've got at least another week of afternoon sleeps and Jeremy Kyle double bills on ITV2.



* Human Resources. Head of Talent. Head of People. Personnel. Real title should be "In charge of salaries and contracts, fire wardens and first aid and that, and get involved if someone you don't fancy touches your boot-ay").

Day 94: I Have A Conversation With A Pedestrian

Driving back from Highgate, a thirty-eight year old pedestrian disguised as a media twat with iPod headphones and a fashionably ironic jersey leaps into the road in front of me. I perform an efficient emergency stop. The man behind me is slightly less efficient, and stops mere millimetres from my plastic bumper. I am Overcome.

He has the grace to take off his headphones and look startled. I lower my window, with Woman's Hour chuntering in the background.

Me: There is a PEDESTRIAN CROSSING TWENTY FEET AWAY YOU KNOB.
Media Boy: Oh fuck off.
Me: Knob.
Media Boy: Twat.
Me: YOU'RE the twat.
Media Boy: No, you're the twat.
Me: Oh GROW up.
Media boy: You can talk.
Me: Fair point.

He looks at me, and I look at him, and we laugh and laugh and laugh. The man behind honks his horn, and I drive off.

Very pleasing.

Day 93: I Am Asked What I Want For My Birthday

I've just called a tin of tomatoes a cunt, and it set me to thinking. "What do you want for your birthday?", my chums say. "You at my house on Saturday", I reply, being fully aware of what I really need.



A new can opener

Mine is shit, but it works. In the shop I see them, and think about getting another one. Then I think: no, the one you have works, don't get it. Then I get fucked off when I use the one I have. It is an eternal circle of pain.

Things I mentioned once that someone remembers and then finds on eBay

e.g. Ant and Bee books, china with the Eric Gill alphabet on it, ashtrays that look like the heads of animals I know. Things like that. Brilliant.


Anything home made

Drawings, jam, drink in bottles, compilation CDs, home-made books. Anything people have made with their own hands. A notable example would be the Barbara Woodhouse pet-training book in which the word 'dog' had been replaced by the word 'wife' throughout, or the picture of Adam and Mary eating pies ("Got any pyes, chief?"), or the drawing of the monkey with its cock out.

Flowers

Can't help it. I like flowers, in bunches, delivered to the door by people in vans with messages dictated down the phone and laboriously written by someone who is barely literate (and would put a smiley face over the 'i' given half a chance). I only ever get them when I'm leaving a job. I used to get them a lot when I was twenty years younger and pretty like a rose. I like to think that if I ever get them again I will skip, blush and think of lipstick. And feel speshul.

Books

Easy, but also very difficult. Best one recently was a book about Shackleton with penguins in it.

Lady stuff

It's true. If you are unemployed you can't be buying that stuff. Candles. You know. But not ones from the Body Shop and that.

Socks

Millions of them, stacked up to the Moon, in matching pairs.

People turning up out of the blue

A Dear And Now Emigrated Friend once travelled to my birthday weekend in the middle of a field in Norfolk by public transport (to a house we couldn't find in a car with the help of an Ordnance Survey map, a magnifying glass and a torch), and appeared as if by Magic, covered in dust and rain, just in time for dinner.

Oh, and cake. I like cake.

Day 93: I Refuse To Think Like A Cat

When in doubt, I use Dog Logic. It is very simple: you look at the evidence before you, and go for the most obvious answer. (He chucked me = he does not want me to be his girlfriend; I am hungry = I will eat; I am not hungry = I will not eat. That sort of thing.)

But Cat Logic is different. When cats get together of an evening, they do not talk about the weather, or what kind of catfood they like best. They plot endlessly and without cease; they exchange nasty little ruses ("If we get the mouse, how can we torture him?"); they offer each other tips on how to say one thing convincingly while they mean another altogether; they practice their "I'm innocent" faces on each other. Whereas dogs admire in other dogs an ability to chase sticks fast and take up the most room in the dogbasket by the fire, cats admire other cats for their inscrutability and ability to utterly confound anyone who comes in their path. They are mean, and they are contrary.

In summary, cat logic will lead you to over-analyse the problem to hand to the point of insanity, make a squeaking fuss, and remain inscrutable so no-one knows what you are really feeling. That way, you will be sure to tie yourself in knots and render yourself miserable. Cats are cats, so they don't care; but humans shouldn't think like cats. It will make them mad.

Here's how it works.

I am hungry

I will whine and whine and whine and whine and wind myself round your legs until you pay me attention, whether I want it or not.

I am comfortable in your lap.

I will dig my claws in hard, knead you in all the places it hurts the most, then leap off you leaving your lap covered in cat hair.

I love you.

I will bite you hard. It's a sign of affection. If I draw blood, it means I love you even more.

You are allergic to me and do not want me anywhere near you.

I will follow you around interminably and without cease, rub myself on you (sending up clouds of cat allergens), and somehow find my way into your bedroom and into your bed until you throw me out of the door with your eyes streaming.

I am ill.

I will go very quiet and sulky until you realise I may possibly be dying, at which point you will spend £500 taking me to a private veterinary hospital in Wimbledon.

I am going out.

If I find someone who gives me nicer food and has a warmer spot by the radiator, I will leave home and forget you ever existed.

You like me.

I will ignore you.

The fish is no longer in the fishbowl, and a fish tail is hanging out of my mouth.

It wasn't me.

I am thirsty.

I want fresh running water. In fact, leave the bath dripping at the pace I like all day, otherwise I will die of dehydration, and it will be your fault, and you will feel guilty.

You have a new sofa.

I will shred it with my claws in the most obvious place, not round the back where no-one will see it.

You have bought me a new cat bed at great expense from the deaf Scottish woman in Streatham.

I will spurn it, even though it is by the radiator and sit, with my black fur, on your white linen chair. Then I will sit in all the places you don't want me to sit, including the leather armchair which cannot be restored once I have scratched it.

You have emptied my cat litter tray, bleached it and re-filled it, as you do every couple of days.

I will get in it, shit on the floor, then kick up piles of cat litter all over the wooden floorboards.

You have done some washing and folded it neatly on the bed.

I will sit on it. And yawn.

You have visitors.

I will be unspeakably sweet and amenable. When the front door closes on the last guest, I will scoot at speed onto the leather chair, and massage it with my claws.

I want your attention.

Now I have it I will wander off, flicking my tail.

If you are looking for love, look for dog-like people. You may sometimes think they're a bit predictable. You may find it a bit weird when they look at you with love in their eyes. You may feel confused when they put their head on your shoulder and sigh. You may get annoyed when they sleep in the afternoon after lunch in front of the fire. You may become bored by the fact that they always mean what they say (and say what they mean), come home when they say they will, and behave straightforwardly and with loyalty, but on the whole you will know where you stand and if you love them, they will probably quite like it.

Cat-like people will say one thing and mean another, and be unpredictable, and confuse you. They may seem mysterious and exciting; you may be stirred by the fact that they're unpredictable, and that you never quite know whether they like you or not. But you are on a hide into nothing, for as we all know, cats are mad, and the nicer you are to them, the meaner they'll be.*

(If you want to know if someone is a dog or a cat, throw a stick and see what happens.)



* Some cats are like dogs. Cats like that are fucking brilliant, but invariably completely insane. They are affectionate and not needy and jump on high things and sit on your head. Sometimes they will put their head in your mouth when you are sleeping. Not good, but highly entertaining. However, this type of animal is quite confusing and very rare, so probably best avoided.

Day 92: I Watch A Film

Lady in film: "... you look like a black hole."
Me: A black foal?
P: No, a black hole.
Me: A black VOLE? That's a bit weird.
P: (shouting) NO. A BLACK HOLE.
Me: Oh. A black HOLE. I see.
P: Spaz.
Me: Yes.