Day 112: I Talk To A Civil Servant

If I want to get my mortgage insurance, I have to get the Job Centre to fill out a form. I've been lucky. I've never had to claim benefits. I'm also lucky because I'm middle class, and people on phones in Job Centres and the Police are usually more civil to the middle classes than they are to everyone else. (I will say no more on the subject.)

But even getting an appointment is a mindfuck, involving a 45 minute phone interview for which you have to prepare with fifteen different pieces of paper, reference numbers, your last two payslips, and your genetic fingerprint.

On a slightly more cheery note I, as usual, got the only lunatic working for any Job Centre anywhere in the country.


Right, well that's the money ones done. Now I have to ask you some rather personal questions, some of which I feel are frankly unnecessary, but it's not me who makes the decisions. Right. Ready?
Yes.

Do you live alone?
Yes.

Do you have any dependents?
No. (Does a retarded cat count? And some fleas, and a squirrel or two?)

Do you have any children?
No.

Are you single?
Yes. (But.)

Have you come out of a co-habiting relationship in the last six months?
No.

Have you been pregnant in the last four months?
No.

Are you a carer?
Um, no.

Does anyone care for you on a regular basis?
No.

Long silence. My eyes get a bit hot.

I hate that question. I mean it's not as if things aren't bad enough, what with being unemployed and everything and having to STARE into THAT PARTICULAR VOID, and then someone asks you if anyone cares for you on a regular basis and you have to say NO.
Yes. (Very, very small voice.)

Right, ready for this one?
Go on, give me what you've got.

Have you had to leave your country because of an erupting volcano?
Come on, Richard, you're JOKING. That is NOT on the sheet of paper.

Is so.
Isn't.

Is.
Jesus.

Twenty minutes pass. I have answered 1.34m questions.

... so anyway, if you had not bought your own flat, you would be eligible for that too. But unfortunately, this is a system that rewards the imprudent.
Are you sure you can say that, Richard?

Well I won't tell if you won't.
Go on. Next one.

Right, well, you are eligible for ... well, you'll get your mortgage insurance, no problem, and that's what this is about, but you might as well claim the other benefits at the same time. Can I ask why you didn't register months ago?
Well, I had some money, so I thought ... and I don't really need ... I ...

... how many years have you paid tax and National Insurance?
Um, about ... er ... eighteen?

Exactly.
Yes, but ...

No 'buts'. It's payback time. And you've been a very silly girl if you haven't done it before. Now then, your appointment at Job Centre Plus. Not The Job Centre. Oh no. Job Centre Plus. Where's your nearest?
Dunno. Brixton Hill?

Well of COURSE you wouldn't know. Anyway, it'll be fun. I mean it's a day out for you, bless you.
Richard, you are a DISGRACE.

Oh, don't take on so.
Richard?

Yes?
Do they have marketing jobs at the Job Centre?

Now you know VERY well that that is a VERY naughty question to ask.
Sorry.

Right then. Your skills and qualifications. Got any?
English degree?

Moving on. Can you drive?
Yes.

Clean licence?
Um, no.

Naughty girl.
Richard. I'm 37.

A mere girl.
Richard, what are you doing working for the Job Centre?

Job Centre Plus, if you please. Heaven alone knows, dear girl. Right, that's us done. Do enjoy it on Friday.
Thank you, Richard.

Goodbye, dear girl.
Goodbye, Richard.

Day 112: I Wish I Had Never Suggested Posh Pizza

Tuesday night is Secret Film Society night. It is supposed to be every Tuesday, but it happens some Tuesdays. There are only two members of the Society. One is me, and the other is A Secret Other Member.

Every Tuesday (or some Tuesdays), the Secret Other Member chooses a fillum and puts it on the special Secret Film Society screen, which is as big as my entire flat, and we take a bit of the L-shaped sofa each (it can sit 123 people comfortably), flick pistachio nut shells at each other and buy food down the phone from a person we have never met, who will supposedly deliver it to us by walking up fourteen flights of stairs.

The Secret Other Member lives in a bit of London so fashionable that I do not understand it, despite having lived in London all my life (apart from when I lived in Paris and York). And neither, it seems, do the delivery peoples of Basilico (Islington Branch). We were admiring Jack Nicholson when the phone rang.

"OzymandiaskingofkingschichithepandaPIZZADELIVERYala
recherchedutempsperduLOSTbutros-butrosgaliWHEREYOU?"

We give directions, slowly, repeating the words "parallel with Old Street" and "look it up on your A-Z" over and over, endlessly and without cease.

"OKIsee. Fiveminute."

Time passes. Nicholson raises his eyebrow. I look at the Secret Other Member's arm, and wonder what it would be like grilled with ketchup. I catch him looking at my arm, and sit on it. Of the Bolivian delivery man, there is no sign. The phone rings.

"Ioutside. Ringing bell."

We run to the balcony and lean over. The road is empty, apart from a single Halloween pumpkin and a sweet wrapper.

I phone the pizza shop. I phone the pizza shop again. I have a conversation I do not fully understand with a woman, but everything is to be sent again, this time "with driver more experienced". It is now 10.30pm.

The phone rings, and the Secret Other Member pauses the fillum again, this time on Nicholson's arse.

"WHERE YOU?"

Again, we repeat the words "parallel with Old Street" and "look it up on your A-Z". The Secret Other Member takes the phone and is heard to say: "No. No. Listen, stop talking and listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. NOW." By now, it is nearly 11. In the film, it is snowing, but we are not watching The Shining. (I know this because there is no blood gushing from the lift Nicholson has just opened and also I am watching the fillum. If it were The Shining I would not be watching it, for I am Very Scared of horror films and avoid them.)

Twenty minutes later, the door buzzes. Secret Other Member falls off the sofa in shock, weakened by food deprivation. He crawls to the door and lifts the intercom phone reception handpiece equipment.

"YOU COME GET. I NOT LEAVE BIKE. CHILDREN STEAL."

I hear a gasp as Secret Other Member shoots to his feet, draws a sharp breath, and bellows:

"NO-ONE WILL STEAL YOUR BIKE. YOU WILL START WALKING UP THE STAIRS IMMEDIATELY. I will meet you halfway."

Secret Other Member does indeed meet him halfway, only to be berated by the delivery man for making him leave his bike. I hear a scuffle and a crash; a distant door slams, and a tiny motorbike starts up. Secret Other Member reappears with boxes, stumbling weakly towards the kitchen.

I barely bother with the salad I have ordered (the salad that cancels out cheese. If you don't know this tip, is Splendid. Like food eaten in cars and when travelling, which has no calories, if you order a salad with a pizza the pizza will contain no calories). We eat our pizza. (Not bad, as it goes.)

No other sound can then be heard other than the mechanical squeak of Nicholson's eyebrow, and the solemn chomp-chomp of the Secret Film Society.

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Picture 5

Whilst I ponder the Awfulness that is people who go "I used to be..." the whole time (as if anyone cares), I give you the fifth splendid monkey to arrive in my inbox. Working Kitten sent it (I do not believe she has a blog, otherwise I would link to it), and it is accompanied by a Mysterious Note.

"It is called Purple Turkey Onion Monkey and came about in one of those random office boredom day conversations with a Gentleman Caller, and now is embodied in both art form and spoken / shouted ringtone (incorporating an excitable 'Woo Hoo!' at the end), which drives my other house sharers batty. Apparently, PTOMs are somewhat mischievous and have been known to lurk outside our office buildings waiting to strike as one departs the building."

Purple Turkey Onion Monkey is notable by his home-madeness, and therefore a Strong Contender.

Perhaps Kitten can tell us what PTOM is reaching for with his enormously long arm? An elusive Gentleman Caller, perhaps? Or maybe an enormous bunch of purple onions? Who can tell.















Well done, Working Kitten!

Day 112: I Bang My Head, And Gain An Hour

Jesus CHRIST. Today is not Halloween, it is "Bang Your Head Repeatedly, You Fucking Cretin" day.

1. Bend over with head in fridge to see if the smell is the cheese from Friday (yes); rear up in horror as cheese stench hits; whack head on half-open cupboard door above.

2. Bend over to empty washing machine. Discover have put one of those stupid foot-covering 'gym socks' in a dodgy shade of pink in with white wash. Curse. Leap up. Bash head on half-open cupboard door above.

3. Bend over to remove 'trainers' from feet, smelling slightly like an enormous hamster. Unfold self, bash head on open locker door above. Shout FUCK, then SORRY. Realise no-one in changing room. Start singing along to Neil Diamond in a sarcastic voice, thinking am still alone. Turn round and see changing room suddenly full. Two observations here: 1) I cannot sing; 2) I was singing along to Neil Diamond.

4. Open car door. Try and execute elaborate twist 'n' turn entry move due to car parked 5 inches from my own. Somehow wrench ankle, stumble, hit head on door.

However, being a cretin has its advantages. I have been able to change the time on my mobile telephonic device and radio alarm clock (stuck on Radio 4, the only other choice being Bangin' Drrrrrumandbass FM, broadcast from a shed two doors down). My computer, which is in fact Alive, adjusted its own clocks. But I have so far been unable to change the time on Blogger, the TV, the oven and in my car, and have been slightly Panicked all day, thinking it was (for example) 3, when it was in fact 2.

Now I find myself with a whole hour in which to rub my head and adjust my clocks. And also ponder the following question, raised this weekend: if you were going to produce a grapefruit-flavoured fizzy pop in a can, would you think Creskin is a good name for it? We're still not sure.

PS: The monkeys you see above adorning this delightful clock are squirrel monkeys. This Is Not A Joke.

Day 112: I Have A Seasonal Idea

Today I shall take a large pumpkin in my hands, walk to the end of my road, get on the 59 bus, get off outside the Old Vic in Waterloo, go inside, seek out Kevin Spacey and place my large pumpkin over his head with some force.

If my plan works, we will not be able to hear his voice or see his face any more. He will therefore no longer able to conduct unspeakably self-regarding interviews on the Television and the Radio, pose for his disgustingly smug publicity photographs that are then plastered all over London and that I have to look at with my eyes, or talk about his "craft" at press conferences. I not care if "at heart", he has "always been a stage actor." I do not care if he thinks London is his spiritual home. I do not care if it is a privilege for him to work at the Old Vic. I want him to go away, taking his stupid creepy now-slightly-British accent away with him.

Do not put comments on this post telling me he is a good actor. I am aware that he is good at pretending to be someone else. But the man is a knob*, and nothing you can say can convince me otherwise.


* He is not interesting enough to be called a 'cunt', and isn't stupid so can't be called a 'twat'. Knob seems about right.