The Young Ones

So last week I heard the news that Iain Duncan Smith wants to introduce incentives for the unemployed to relocate and seek work elsewhere in order to redistribute unemployment so people can break out from the "ghettos of poverty."
Now I'm aware of Ed Balls tirade against this, the similarities drawn with the old "get on your bike" Tory comment and how this proposal poses difficulties for those who have families and the uncertainty of keeping a job after you've got one. But when considering Duncan Smith's idea, people only seem to be thinking of it in terms of how it will affect those middle aged folks who have been unemployed for a long period of time, and have a council house to lose and a family to consider. No one at all looks at how this could possibly benefit the unemployed youths who are on the scrapheap, not even Duncan Smith himself.
As you're probably aware after visiting this blog, I'm 21 and have been unemployed since leaving college a year ago. It looks to me that it is fucking hopeless out there. I live on a council estate in Surrey which is plagued with underage pregnancy and unemployment. A majority of the people who I went to school with who live here follow an all too familiar pattern of leaving school without GCSEs or with very bad results, getting pregnant/a girl pregnant, and can be seen frequenting the streets having arguments with their partners , pushing their forever multiplying children in their pushchairs, whilst they walk with the generation before them who did the exact same thing. Now I'll take the opportunity here to point out that these people probably aren't trying to look for work, and have chosen unemployment and claim benefits as a lifestyle choice. However, I haven't. And I'm stuck here.
I look for jobs every working day as no one ever posts ads on a weekend. If you find ten new jobs in Leatherhead a week, you're lucky. You're even luckier if you find something you can actually do. At this point after a year of job searching, the only job I've been able to apply for and get an interview for in my home town was that one at Surrey County Council, and they called me last week to say I was unsuccessful. Of course I've widened my job search as far as Kingston one way and Guildford the other, and I've already bitched to you about the having a degree / working unpaid dilemma, and the seldom responses I get back from my applications, so I won't reiterate the extent of the job search frustration I have encountered. One thing I have noticed however when I look outside of my traveling limits is that there is a preponderantly more jobs in the direction of London. I live about 10 miles outside of what is officially considered London and I'm around 45 minutes away from Waterloo. To secure a job I would happily travel for 45 minutes or more, but I am stuck for there is no way I could afford the train fare.
The jobs I am referring to include your generic retail work and bar work. Shops always seem to be hiring at Westfield's and the like and in multiple bars. I must have sent about a hundred applications to different shops by now, and none of them have ever got back to me. They still may not get back to me in London, but at least the opportunities are not as few and far between.
As for bar work in my area, I would have to travel to get there, and that poses as an issue when you have to work late shifts as my last bus and trains would clash with the closing, leaving me stranded or having to permanently take residence at a mate's. If I could be relocated however, this would be solved.
It's not like my aspirations lie in bar and shop work for the rest of my life. But without a degree, and maybe even with one for that matter, I'm going to have to graft. There aren't opportunities for me in Leatherhead, and I need to make money to be able to travel outside of here, or maybe take driving lessons, get a car, and sort it out that way. The problem is that I can't seem to get a job at anything, anywhere. To start making something of myself, I need a bit of money behind me. At least a bit of bloody dosh just to be able to support myself finally.
So what if they got a bunch of people my age who are in a similar position, who want to work and make something of themselves but are struggling to get something in their area, and chuck us all into rented accommodation somewhere where there is more work? Obviously there's the issue of a deposit and if all the residents could find work in time for the next rent due date. So maybe a bunch of us should be given options of where we can relocate to. You pick a place that you can comfortably travel to from your current place of residence, receiving help with travel money if you don't have enough, and start applying to jobs. If you get an interview, you go. If you get the job, you get to move in.
I'm not saying this is flawless, but I believe it's workable. It would help me massively, whether I was relocated somewhere in London or just moved 35 minutes up the road to Surbiton.
After all, this estate terrifies me. I can see what it's done to generations of people. They fester in the ennui of this place. All I've thought about since I can remember is getting out, before I become disillusioned enough to drown with them.

Blood on the Tracks

It's been a tempestuous week so far. There were times when I thought I weren't gonna make it. I had been suffering from these anxiety attacks  over the past fortnight. I'm generally a worrier, but these waves of despair and bodily panic were something else. My thoughts concerning Joel were the cause. I started battling with huge bouts of guilt over still being with him. I know I mustn't be that easy to be around, and that's enough to make me feel guilty when Joel is just so fucking calm and sensitive all the time. Constantly, he wanted to try and make me happy. And he can't. I don't want to get pseudo-philosophical here so I won't, and I'll just say that it was eating me up, because he's too nice for this world. Joel's so nice, it could verges on naivety. It's a lot more intricate than what I'm prepared to go into in a blog post, but I ended it last weekend cos I couldn't take the attacks on my respiratory system and the waves of nausea anymore.

It was every bit as hard as I thought it would be. It killed me. Those first couple of days were awful, it felt like grief. After we broke up (I hate saying that) I still stayed round his and did our usual thing of watching Seinfeld. We even decided to have sex one last time. I left the next day and that's when my anxiety turned into regret, longing and desolation. If Joel wasn't being so fucking wonderful, this would've been a whole lot worse. We've still been talking every day, actually for longer than we ever did (2 and a half hours a day is the average), and he says he still wants to see me as often as before. He basically said everything I wanted to hear. 

Tuesday was my first 24 hours without crying over him. That was a relief. All I wanted to do before that was sleep, but couldn't, and I was struggling to fill in the hours. Just what you need to happen when you're unemployed. On the Sunday, under the influence of a broken heart, I suggested that maybe we should just stay together. I guess my logic was that the panic attacks would be easier to deal with than the longing for Joel and the mourning for what was. To be honest now, I don't think one is any worse than the other. Joel understandably answered in the negative. He said he'd just feel like we were prolonging it and he'd be on tenderhooks as to when the break up would occur again. I'm grateful that he's not been weak in all this like I have.

I went to the pub on Wednesday during the England game with Cassie. I had already drunk a fair bit by the afternoon. I just felt so excitable because of the atmosphere. The upstairs of Kingston's Wetherspoons had been moved around in such a way that it resembled a school assembly. All the singular seats were placed in rows in front of the big screen tele, providing a seating area for what was mainly male fans. Minus a couple of sofas which gave an obscured view of the TV, the rest of the punters had to stand. Our drinks were being served in disposable plastic cups, and there was a real sense of momentum.

After the game we went to the Fighting Cocks. As I sipped at my latest pint, I wished I weren't already drunk so I could enjoy it. I have this really bad habit of not knowing when to stop. I know when to stop drinking but when I'm out, alcohol stimulates my energy levels so much, I just never want to go home. I feel like I'm going to miss something. I can talk about it now cos I'm sober, but I keep doing it. So we stayed all night. My mum's in LA at the moment visiting my sister so she left me with a bit of money to get food and the like. I've obviously interpreted 'food' to mean 'cider.'

I left the Cocks in time for my last bus (11.40) but somehow managed to still miss it. Cassie and I had exchanged words. Some guy at the bus stop just so happened to mention to me that he was stranded, and when I was trying to work out where he was heading, Cassie just blew up in his face. "You're stranded. Oh well I'm sorry. You're a fucking selfish c**t." His face dropped. I couldn't believe what was going on. He left the seat and walked away, and Cassie just went charging over to him in her floral dress and flip flops, calling him a "fucking c**t" right in his face. He stood next to another stranger for protection as he told her to leave him alone. Cassie would walk a few steps, then just go back and swear at him some more. He then understandably started calling her crazy, and shouting towards me that she was nuts.

Eventually Cassie sat down, though occasionally swore at him from her seat, her voice echoing down Kingston high street. If I weren't so drunk I'd been embarassed. When I tried diplomatically to tell her to ignore the random stranger, she turned against me. It's as though she thought I was taking his side over hers, which I guess I was, but she seemed to think that she was perfectly in the right to be doing what she was doing. Its stuff like this that makes me uncomfortable around her, and prior to this I had already phoned Joel and asked him if I could stay the night. When this was revealed to Cassie, she began to cry. She demanded that I gave her "one good reason" for not staying at hers. She decided that no reason was good enough. Then between sobs, she said "All I want to do is go back with you to mine, put on The Strokes, and it be like old times." I still have no idea what she intended with that statement as we listen to The Strokes every time we're drinking at hers. I didn't know that something that last happened a week ago was long enough to be considered as "the old times."

I didn't have the patience to stay up with her until four in the morning, having the same conversation we had had at the bus stop. Her behavior all seemed rather manipulative, which is how the argument started in the first place. So her reaction to my analysis was indeed manipulative, proving my point. 

Cassie wouldn't speak to me again until last night when she sent me a text as though making an appointment to meet me at Spoons at one tomorrow. I know if I go I'll end up drinking too much again, thus spending too much, so I said I'd prefer not to but I could go to hers instead if she liked. I'm still awaiting a reply.

That night at Joel's I fell asleep almost immediately, and then when I woke up we had sex. When I asked Joel what it would mean, he said we were "friends who have fun." We've had fun twice since then. It hasn't got messy and confusing yet, and I hope it stays that way.

I Know its Over

I had an interview on Thursday at Surrey County Council. It was for an "apprenticeship in business and administration." I just want a job, so I applied. I was freaking out over what to wear cos the position was officey. My outfit was a mismatch of colours as I put together the smartest jacket, dress and shoes I owned.

The interview was the longest I've ever had. The first stage involved me arranging a list of about eight tasks into an order of priority. I had 15 whole minutes to explain why finding a flip chart for my line manager who has a meeting in 5 minutes was more urgent than filling the photocopier with paper. I was also encouraged to complete a rough draft first. My next bit involved me having to answer the phone when someone rang with a script, to show I could take a message. I got the impression that they were checking that you weren't an idiot.

I was next taken to a woman who was bizarrely called Peter who thought she had met me before. She was just there to fill you in on what an apprenticeship is. It started to seem all so basic. Their approach is to train people up in being able to write a CV, be confident in an interview, and go on towards a career in a county council environment. All I want is to be in bloody employment, none of this tutorial rubbish and hand holding. I started to think that I weren't the target audience for the position. Peter explained that on the job, you would be working towards a NVQ and a key skills qualification to do with your ability to send emails and answer telephones. She pointed out that as I had A levels, I was overqualified, but it made sense if I wanted to add those qualifications to the list.

By the time it came to the official interview I had lost interest, so I was completely relaxed and performed well. Two women interviewed me and gave me a long explanation as to what they do, which I barely listened to. I was asked what my favourite subjects were at school. In retrospect when I thought about this question, it seemed likely that they asked it 'cos they were expecting school leavers who indeed didn't have A levels and in which the NVQ would be a progression, confirming my suspicions that I was not the target audience. I was asked, which I think is now my favourite question of all time, "What experience do you have with email?" They ask the question like one would ask what your experience is with excel, as though there were somehow levels of competency for typing in a box and pressing 'send.' I laughed in disbelief at first, and when their faces didn't break, I answered the question, smiling the whole time at having to make my answer as complicated and impressive as possible.

The gaps in my schooling came up so I had to spill the beans on that whole childhood fiasco. It took them about five minutes to get their heads round it. What was amusing is that their department is education in Surrey, and so I was asked if I received "a lot of help from us." I bluntly told them I hadn't. I mean I was taken out of school for a whole year before they made a decision on alternative education for me. I was an autodidact. They were surprised at my condemnation. I was then asked to explain what I had been doing since November, when I was selling recording experiences. I told them, and the woman who asked wrote in capital letters on my application form "NOTHING." It irked me, but not as much as what happened next. She let out a Father Christmas style laugh, and goes "How on Earth do you support yourself?" I felt like I was under interrogation for being unemployed. Contrary to my alias on here, Dolegirl, I'm not actually on the dole. That's why I'm stuck in on a Friday evening writing letters to the internet. In spite of that though, that woman must've heard of jobseekers allowance. How does she expect me to support myself? It still winds me up now. If you can't get a job, you can't get a job.

I'm not sure if the working prospects have ever been like this for a generation before. I left there completely deflated, and I feel myself drowning in the ennui around me and choking on the evidence that there isn't an escape route. I apply for shop work, bars and so on, and they don't get back to you, I apply for this and I'm overqualified and probably over grown, but you can't set your sights higher without being told that you have to have a degree, then the rest will let you have a stab without one, but you have to do it for free and spend a good hundred or so pounds on traveling to London every day. Employers are taking advantage of the shortage of jobs and young people's plight by making them work full time for free for a few months, and warning you that its an invaluable opportunity because no one will pay you until you've got some experience. I think that still wouldn't be enough. You could probably make a habit of going from one unpaid vacancy to another, 'cos that is all there is. No one wants to hire anybody.

I love England, but I don't think there's anything here for us now. The older people seem alright. They're all being kept in made up jobs just to ensure people are in work. At that interview, one of the women said that there were a thousand people in the department for Surrey. What are they all doing?

I don't know what to do next. I'm on the scrapheap. I left college a year ago and I haven't managed to secure one paid position. I consider things such as becoming self employed, but you can't do that without having money to get going. Even a hundred or two. My bank card is obsolete. I haven't used a cash machine once this year. I don't know when I will again.

The Fraudulent Case of Alex Wrigley

In a Baldrick-esque moment, I had a cunning plan today. After so many job applications and a pathetic percentage of responses back, my imagination begins to wander as I try and find new and creative ways to get someone to give me a job. Or, as this case may be, trick them into giving me a job.

The position in question is a snooker bar that's meant to be reopening in a nearby town. I've never seen it or heard of it, though I frequent the town as it is the home of my dear bulimia inducing friend. I saw the advert on the day it came out (I check job listings a couple of times a day) and sent off my CV with haste. I was stunned when I logged into my email the next day to find a response. An actual response! I was faced with two questions: A) Was I going to leave my present internship as a blog coordinator and if so, how much notice would be required? And B) How did I plan on getting home after a late shift which would finish at around 12.15?

I replied with as much gusto as one could possibly muster in an email, and explained that the internship was done entirely from home, and only required a day of my time therefore no schedule clashes and no notice periods. I went on to inform the all powerful Job Determinator that I was fully flexible, but would prefer to finish shifts in time for my last bus home, which comes at 11.40, though would be able to work til close on occasion if it were required. I figured I could always stay at Cassie's, who I imagine wouldn't be too far away as she lives near the high street, or go to Joel's, where there is a 24 hour bus service to his place from Kingston. 

I have waited and waited. And after getting me all fired up, I am yet to receive a response back. And this was a week ago. I'm becoming quite pushy in the job hunting stakes, so I emailed him again mid week, reiterating my answers and forthrightly requesting that the Job Determinator (JD, for ease of typing) let me know if he is interested as soon as possible so I can continue with my job search. Still no reply.

And this is where the cunning plan occurred to me. If only I knew if the JD had seen the emails, I could work out if he was ignoring me for whatever fucking reason, or if he simply hasn't got round to picking people. I then had the idea to send JD another application. A made up application in fact, from an email address especially created for the purpose. Once I thought of it, it didn't seem that bad an idea. 

I created a CV for a male called Alex Wrigley (which is a pseudonym for my actual made up application to avoid my meticulous plan being scuppered). I gave Alex the same amount of qualifications and bar experience as me, and I gave him my dad's address, which is in my town but not close enough to be coincidental. I kept it simple. This JD doesn't strike me as too scrutinizing (I couldn't say specifically what I'm basing that judgment on). Since sending the application, I've checked 'Alex's' gmail account about three times. There is no word yet, which possibly means the JD isn't ignoring me. It is the weekend, however. 

When I told Joel about the plan, he asked didactically, "And what is the point of all this?" Well at first it was just something to occupy my job seeking mind, but then I realised that if JD replies to Alex, I'll know I am for some reason being ignored. This may not seem that important, and really, I guess it isn't, but it's just so painfully tedious applying to these menial, minimum wage jobs, having the skills to do them and highlighting that, only to never, ever get a response. I hate to think how much of my life has been wasted on unanswered job applications. A second point to this experiment is that if JD replies to Alex, and invites him to an interview, training session or whatever, providing all contact is made through email, I will have the time and date of when this is taking place and so can show up myself. Now that does sound a little crazy, but I can't be worrying about money for much longer. I don't have any. I'm not even signed on. To me it seems that applying for a job is more like entering a competition at the moment. There's a slim chance that your name might just be pulled out the hat. The other day I randomly entered a competition for a trip to New York. It was some Sex and the City 2 promotion thing. It seemed quick and easy, so I just entered. I actually feel like I have more chance of winning that competition than what I do of getting a job in the next three months. Let's go wild: make it six!

So I leave you with the words of the wonderful Morrissey: I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving, England is mine, it owes me a living...

Ruffian Image

Been a long time, eh? I kind of got disheartened when I found there weren't any comments left for my previous posts. Since my last one, I have had a regular urge to write another entry despite no one reading them, as one day someone just might. Soon the gap will be too large for me to justify posting again, so I figured I better get on and do it now. 

Last time I spoke, I was preparing for an interview as a support worker. After I was kept waiting half an hour past my scheduled interview time, I was invited into a poky room with two women.Why does it take two people to interview, these days?

My first question was "Name as many disabilities as you can," followed by "What do you know about disabilities?" These questions embarrassed me. Interviews are stressful when you're asked questions you haven't prepared for, but I was so concerned with my words, being diplomatic, yet hoping it wasn't too much or too little for me to answer the question sufficiently. As for the list of disabilities, I could answer it for so long, but then my mind went blank, and I started wondering what could be considered a disability. After I had made my way through about ten, I paused as my mind searched, and I actually contemplated whether Dyslexia would be considered a disability.

Despite what was my worst interview up to that point, I got a call back. I didn't go. The role involved going to care homes and bathing the residents, dressing them, feeding them and so on. I didn't think it was for me.

About a month later, I managed to land myself another job interview and I felt positive that I would get this one. It was for a new jewellery shop that was opening in Kingston. I wore the same as I did to my last interview: Black Uggs, tights, black and white Zara skirt and a black V neck jumper that I've had for years, from Dorothy Perkins. I don't own a suit, and I can make myself look pretty formal in this get up if I sit and stand in the right way. It was a cold day so I was wearing my Topshop parka. It's pretty big and unflattering, but I'd take it off for the interview.

When I got there, there were two other girls, suited and booted. They looked smart. Sophisticated, even. I felt underdressed. When I was invited into the interview room, there were two men: One pretty young, maybe early thirties, and the other going on fifty. "That's a big coat," was the first thing the younger guy said to me after the initial meet and greet. My face must've reddened. When I took it off, they both looked me up and down. I think I lost it right there. The interview went on for about 15 minutes, which is quite long in my experience. From the very first question I was asked, the younger guy just seemed to not be interested. He never held eye contact with me, something that I always make sure I do in interviews, and he said "Yeah," after every three words I said. I'm guessing to prove he was listening whilst he tapped his pen and spun his gaze over the walls. The interview, question and answer wise, went well. A little over a week later, for the first time in my life, I received an email telling me I didn't get the job. I was disappointed and I wondered what was so different about this one to all the others for me not to get it. All I can put it down to is the way I was dressed, and that kills me. The other girls didn't even have coats over their suit jackets, and it was freezing outside. It made me feel a bit of a scum bag. Not that I looked like one. All imperfections weren't visible to the naked eye, such as the white deodorant stains on the top I wore. It was only a bloody jewellery shop. I didn't even wear a suit to that internship I did up in London. And that was a big deal.

After that I continued to do the rounds with my applications only to be met with the same old story of no response. My 21st Birthday came and went in April, and I was still unemployed. About a week after, I signed up to some temping agency for bar and plate waiting work. The ad made it sound really exciting and a bit of a doss, saying it was for special events like weddings and functions, and you just brought the plates out basically. I was asked in for an interview on Friday morning at 9 am. The day before I had been out with my dad, something we often do. We went up to London to run a few errands, then spent the rest of the day getting pissed up. We went to this amazing pub called The Windsor or something, I can't remember, but it was full of pictures of famous people from Eastenders actors, to Mick Jagger, to Johnny Cash to the Queen Mum. It was wonderful in there, and I got talking to one of the staff who said she was leaving. I got really excited, and after drinking a six pound bottle of cider from a previous pub, I fantasized about working there, talking to the punters about the pictures and waiting for Mick Jagger to one day walk through the door. In the old light of sobriety, this obviously was impractical as it was about two hours away from home. I got mashed with dad. We went to that pub where Dickens used to go, and we went to The Tipperary. When I got up the next morning, I was hungover and still drunk. 

I walked into the office and was faced with a twenty something lad in a big coat. There was a fluffy dog running about the place. I was giving about four different forms to fill out. The dog kept coming up to me which put me in a strange position as all I wanted to do was cuddle it. I don't know how they get anything done with the pooch jumping around, all playful and adorable.

After the form filling, the guy tried to give me my first job. "What are you doing today?" he asked me. This terrified me, as I'd have to answer before I knew why, and if I said yes, I could be stuck with something awful. I gave a vague response. "I've got a job for you, from eleven 'til five." He paused and looked at me sheepishly. "It's washing dishes in a school kitchen. At a Private school." It being a private school just seemed to make it personal. I made my excuses and left. To this day I have not done a job for the agency. Everything that comes up, though it hasn't been washing dishes, has been in random places like Wooton which I couldn't get to without driving. 

Last month I came across an ad for an internship at this magazine dedicated to female writers. I applied to it and I got an interview, which was arranged for the following day. I started freaking out, then I realised that the interview was to be conducted by phone. I could wear what I want. A woman with an American accent called me, who happens to be the editor, and I awaited a call back. It didn't come. The phone barely left my sight, in fear of missing the call. Then last Thursday I logged into my email and found a message from the magazine. I thought it would be to turn me down, but it wasn't. I had got the gig. The whole thing is done virtually as well, so there's no travel expenses at all. I simply do my research at home and report to the editor about how I'm getting on. There's meetings every Monday on Skype and that's about it. No cost. Barely any sacrifice as they only want a day of your time each week. This continues until the end of August. I'm not really quite sure what I'm going to get out of it. It is unpaid, there are two other interns (both yanks), and it seems that the whole magazine is a labour of love, so I'm not expecting a paid opportunity after this. I guess it's just something to put on your CV, which may provide the foot in the door for what I want to get into.

So that's a piece of good news, and it gives me an alibi when I'm asked that awful question of "What are you up to at the moment?" Instead of skirting around the oh so dirty word that is 'unemployed,' I shall say "I am currently doing a three month internship for a magazine which promotes women's literature and expression." Lovely. Oh, and my specific role is as a blog coordinator, which means I'm head hunting women writers to contribute as guest bloggers to the magazine. I find that kind of ironic (not too ironic) as I evidently write a blog. Maybe irony is not the word. 

So I have an alibi but no wage, therefore making me still officially unemployed. I can't see how I can get an internship for a magazine, which would be a high in demand opportunity, where people from the states and here have applied, yet I can't get a job in a jewellery shop. If it weren't for me managing to get the gig for the internship in London last year, I'd start thinking it's cos I look like some sort of ruffian.