At (Insert Expletive Here) Last!

I have been invited to an interview.
     Office Junior. Worcester.
     The actual job itself is situated a few minutes walk from the Crowngate Shopping Centre, but the interviews are being conducted through the recruitment website it was advertised through (in this case a company called 'Jark').
     The first time I was subjected to this form of interview process - about 6 and a half years ago, now - this was an incredibly strange and suspicious seeming practice to me, but I quickly learned that it's just the way some company's choose to do it. Out of I think 10 such interviews that I attended over a three year period, only one turned out to be bogus (in Birmingham, this was. I took one look at the supposed 'office' and didn't go in. Which turned out to be good, as the company - I forget the name - was plastered all over the internet soon after warning people that the company was a front for a lucrative scam).
     Anyway, I'm going to give it a shot. At worst, I've wasted the train fare, at best, I'll get a job. And even if not successful, your details are kept on the recruiter's file, which has the potential to prove incredibly useful later on (it was that which led to the job I have now).

I may get it, I may (given the lack of current experience) not. But the point is; I have been invited to an actual interview.

So I am very pleased.
     Yup.

=nods=

Alice x

...UPDATE...

Yeah. I think my initial pleasure was misplaced.
     Having sent a message agreeing on a time, I received a reply confirming it, along with a small list of the things I was expected to bring:

* Birth certificate or Passport
     - for proving country of origin.
* National Insurance Card or proof of National Insurance Number.
     - for proving eligibility to work in the UK.
* Details of bank account.
     - for...?

Yep. I've dealt with this before.
     It isn't a scam. Or at least, it is in my opinion, but legally speaking it's not. This is - most likely - a registration process to join the agency for a "small monthly / weekly fee", in return for which, I will be "guaranteed" work.
     The problem with that - not just for me (which was a while ago) but for others I know of far more recently - is that the type of work offered is so rarely in any way suitable as to make the registration utterly useless. In my case (Hewett Recruitment: Advantage Plus, it was called. To my knowledge this no longer exists, which hopefully means the company wised up and dropped it), I received repeated offers of - definitely - part time and - definitely - temporary contracts. In the case of my cousin - for another example - when she was made redundant recently (I must check the name of the one she joined), she was also offered work; of a completely unsuitable nature in completely unsuitable locations. Once she found a job under her own steam (she is now what I suppose could be called an Assistant Pharmacist) and all was well, she recalled the kind of conversation she ended up having with the eager and well meaning Personal Recruitment Specialist with rueful amusement:

" ...what? what do you mean you can't take on a 3 month contract for an essentially German speaking post in New Zealand? ...You need work in England, you say, and cannot speak German*? ...Well, are you sure??"

...Yep...

Anyway, I am still going on Tuesday.
     Sound crazy? Possibly, However, Jark is a genuine recruitment company - I've checked - and it may be on the up and up; fee paying registration may be a secondary and non essential part of an otherwise legitimate interview for an actual post, rather than an excuse to try and sign me up.
     If not, well, I've spent the money on the train fare, but gained some experience.
     Either way, I shall proceed with caution.

Alice x

* she does speak Italian quite fluently, though. 

Life Trundles On, Chez Collison:

* Grandmama's kitchen refit has finally (mostly) been fitted. The design promised 'more room for storage', so naturally there is now approximately half the amount of space that there was before.
     On the downside, this means that Grandmama - a perpetual and incurable hoarder of food and utensils - has had to get rid of a mass of stuff.
     On the plus side, however, this means that Grandmama - a perpetual and incurable hoarder of food and utensils - has had to get rid of a mass of stuff.
     ...And another plus; it does look terribly nice, and Grandmama is very pleased with it.

* Mother's recent attempt to broaden her mind has gone pretty much as expected. For a while, her usual Agatha Christi novel in the bathroom was replaced with Steven Hawking's "A Brief History Of Time". This led to four days of discontent and general defensiveness - as it became clear to Mother within one page that she hadn't the faintest idea what the celebrated scientific and mathematical genius was talking about - before she finally admitted defeat. Agatha has regained her rightful place on the shelf beside the 'throne' (as MJ calls it), and poor Steven's tome has been relegated to a pile of unwanted literature in the kitchen, destined for the Church raffle.

* ...speaking of Mother, she has finally heard back about her pension. With regards to the lump sum, it is due on 30th September - and is far higher than anticipated, which is very lucky, as Aunt 1 is going to need financial help soon if she is to continue Paddy's treatment regime, which is essential for him to a) live and b) be happy living - and with regards to the monthly payments, that will be slower getting off the mark due to the (stupid) way that the system is worked out, but we should apparently be good to go from November 4th onward.

* Bingo appears to be growing stiffer. We have upped the dose of painkiller to full, but only for two days. Right now we are two days on, two days off, and plan to carry on that way for a few weeks to see what happens. I know that it would be better for Bings to have the full amount every day - the thought of him being in even slight discomfort is a terrifying one for me - but his tummy just can't cope with it. Hopefully this will be an acceptable compromise.

* My trainers split across the back this morning, mid shift. They've lasted two months.
     =sighs=
     It would be far better if I could wear my waterproof boots to work, but I can't. They haven't broken in as well as I'd hoped. I took a risk, buying army boots, that they wouldn't stretch as much at the toes - how I wish I could have had the next size up, but it was hopelessly too big - and the risk didn't quite pay off. Nearly, but not quite. Dog walking wise, the boots are perfect: my feet stay dry, and I can walk on pretty much any terrain without the fear of slipping over due to the terrific grip they have. I can only wear the boots for approximately two and a half hours, however, before they begin to pinch my little pinky toes (as I have fractured them both - on separate occasions, thankfully - they are misshapen and fatter than the other toes, which really doesn't help), and three hours before the discomfort passes the baton over to pain.
     So, they are my official super-duper waterproof dog walking boots. I am not sorry I forked out the money for them. These boots will serve my hiking needs for many, many years to come.
     ...As for work, well, trainers are no good. They are too soft, and the seams are not strong enough to cope with the stress put on them by my insoles. So, back to boots I go. Ordinary run-of-the-mill boots, non-waterproof, strong enough to cope with the insoles - hopefully - yet soft enough that my little pinky toes are able to keep from crying.
     I've brought the next size up, though (which with this style is do-able)  just to be safe. So, we'll see...

* The Story is growing, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter. Carrying on like this, I should have finished it by January, which is my goal. It will be the third story I have written in full, and the first that has any real potential. The other two were written years before, and while they have some good ideas and some sections of them are quite good, I wasn't particularly happy with the result. I was stiff sort of 'finding myself', I think, writing wise (God, I hate that phrase!), and it shows.

* The money I've been waiting to hear about has been confirmed. It should be going in on October 10th. As soon as it's in, I'm ringing the college in Worcester and making an appointment to meet the head of the IT department. The sooner I'm enrolled, the better. Even if there's been a mistake, and I have to wait until January to start, I don't care: at least I'll be enrolled ready, and know that it's going to happen.

* My birthday is fast approaching. You know it's close when you find people are asking you sutble, non-obvious questions like; "...so, what did you want for your birthday...?".
     ...I'll be 32.
     Blah,..

* ...did I mention the trainers? Because they split today. Mid shift.

* I finally watched Suicide Squad the other day.
     Not bad. Not bad at all. I'll definitely be watching it again.

* I was the driving force behind stopping Felix - have I mentioned him? He is about 8 years old. and autistic (or so a trusted member of B&Q staff tells me); he comes in with his father every single weekday morning, and has a high fascination with all things mechanical and electrical - from having a meltdown this morning.
     God bless Petal. That mopping machine has stopped many a tantrum simply by driving slowly past, and it's always nice, but the huge beaming smile I got from Felix today was particularly sweet.


...and there you have it, lady and gent: the last few days in bullet points.
     Now, don't you feel special?

Alice X
   

Making Up Your Own Version Of History Is So Much Fun:

This time, it was the turn of Best Friend 0.5(1). 

     The origin of an elaborate and ornate clock in Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery was explained by Best Friend 0.5(1) thus…

***

In 1742, a dark time descended upon Birmingham.

It was the time of the Great Bakers’ Strike.

They had been unhappy for some time. The bakers had complaints a-many regarding their working and living situations. Their houses – behind the bakery – were cramped and decrepit; stifling in summer, frozen in winter, and falling apart at the rafters. The bakery itself was also in dire need of repair; the ovens intermittent and stubborn, oftentimes needing extensive coaxing to merely allow themselves to be lit.

But the most complained about aspect was none of these, dear reader. It was the amount they were paid.

            Contrary to other professions of similar status, which rose with a gentle but reliable consistency with the passing of time, their weekly wage had not risen in two decades or more. Why was not certain. The complaint had been taken to the Town Council more than once, but those in charge of such matters had reportedly bickered, passing the responsibility back and forth repeatedly between them before handing the matter back to the Council head, who then summarily refused to take action as a decision could not be reached.

The matter came to a head on the late eve of February 23^rd, 1742. A great knocking roused the Head Baker – a man who’s given name was Bernard, but who was aptly named Beak by his brethren – from peaceful slumber and drew him to the long since locked Bakery door.

            Noting the tall, shadowed figure of a man through the window pane, Beak contemplated walking away back to the warmth and comfort of his bed, then decided against it. He would probably keep knocking, he reasoned, and hinder any efforts to re-retreat into slumber. So he opened the door.

            It was Nealson, one of the lower members of the Town Council. An odious man, puffed up with false importance and swelled to unnaturalness by the wealth of his ancestors. Peering owlishly inside, he demanded in a voice too loud for the time – with the sour stench of stale beer rich on his breath – that he wanted a fresh cut loaf; heavily grained and plaited if possible.

            Well, Beak replied with the time honoured tact and patience of a man used to dealing with unreasonable members the public that he could not serve him at that time; the last loaf of the last batch had been sold to the last customer seconds before the store closed for the day. And the ovens were dead and cold and would be until 3AM the following day (Beak noted with an internal pang as he said this that that time was fast approaching).

            Nealson’s owlish face became more owlish as he stared at the Head Baker, outraged, before reminding him of his station and duty. Beak was a Baker. He was a Councilman. The lower orders were bound to serve those of the upper, and what he – an upper – wanted right at that second from him – a lower – was a fresh cut loaf: so, chop chop. He best get to it.

This was the precise the moment that something deep inside of Beak snapped, and the Great Bakers’ Strike was born.   

“Sod off, you c***t” was the reply Beak gave. An eloquent response given the circumstances, it was agreed by everyone later.

            And then he slammed the door shut.

It was to remain closed for three days after that point. Closed and barred from the inside and all knocks and calls and threats and pleas ignored.

            Then in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness, it was opened again, for approximately 60 seconds. Just enough time for the sign that was found the next day to be attached.

The announcement was simple:

“NO MORE PAY? FINE. NO MORE BREAD”.

The outcry this caused was loud enough to reach villages and towns several miles away. Loud enough for other Bakers to hear it, and immediately follow suit. Pretty soon, there wasn’t a Bakery within the entirety of lower England that was open for serving.

It was a problem, for certain. Councils met day after day as always with only the one subject on the agenda: how to end the strike. Or, to be more precise, how to end the strike without actually parting with any money.

            After two weeks’ worth of debate and deliberation, it was decided that the matter needed to be dealt with with an iron fist. A constable of the Council court was duly dispatched to post an official warning under the door – it had to be underneath, for Beak had wisely boarded the letterbox along with the door – warning them that as Bakers of the Crown, they were bound by said Crown to produce bread. If no bread was produced, then they were acting contrary to their sworn oath and could – and would – be arrested and tried for treason. They had 24 hours to comply.

The Bakers considered this for twelve hours. Then for 12 hours after, they coaxed the ovens back to life and started baking. Then just after, at 7AM, when the servant of the Head Councilman opened his door to retrieve the bottle of milk that had been ordered to be delivered ready for breakfast, he found a large basket covered over with a blanket. Calling to his master, he carried it inside. Upon inspection, the basket was found to contain bread. 

            Flat bread to be precise. Several loaves worth.

            On the top of the loaves was a note. It stated – in between various expletives –that if they wanted bread, they’d got it. One load of flat breads, made with unsweetened dough – there the quip was made ‘because all of you Upper Men are surely sweet enough’ – per day, to feed the Council, or the town, or whomever it pleased, and that was it. No more, no less, until the row was resolved. Until their needs were satisfied – on top of the original demand that their pay be raised to match inflation, it was also requested that an extra half day a week be given off to give the Bakers time to tend to their stricken houses, and also for their equally stricken ovens be paid to either be fixed or replaced – the Bakery doors would remain closed firm.

For a time, things continued in this vein, with neither side showing any sign of relenting. The Councilmen tried various threats to try and force the Bakers’ hand, but nothing worked. They couldn’t even manage to catch whomever it was that Beak was sending to deliver the grudgingly given offering of the day. No matter how closely the Bakery was watched or for how long, somehow the mystery man got through (it was later discovered that there was a disused mining tunnel, which not many knew of, leading right the way under the town).

Eventually, weeks and weeks later, the Councilmen bowed under the pressure brought by the populace – sick as they were of not having bread to go with their meat, and eggs, and fish, and cheese. And this wasn’t to mention the Councilmen themselves, who had had the bread supplied by Beak for all of this time, but were unutterably sick of sourdough – and called a special meeting to which Beak was cordially – and desperately – invited.

He arrived with great ceremony, flanked on either side by the largest Bakers of his brethren. He was offered the best seat in the Council House, and cigars and sweetmeats were wafted enticingly under his nose. He accepted a light for the former and smilingly refused the other – his wife, concerned regarding his health, had him on a low sugar diet – and after a few slow, savouring breaths of the delightful burning stick, he gave another amiable smile – the smile of a humble man that knows victory is close at hand – and asked what he could do for them.

…Well, reader(s), it was all settled very quietly and quickly after that. A special bursary was set aside for the updating of the outdated equipment in the Bakery. The half day was granted – but only on alternate Saturdays – and the long awaited pay rise was finally granted, on the condition that the Bakers wait for the start of the new financial year.

And so, the people rejoiced as the handiwork of the Bakers was restored slowly but surely to the bread and cake starved nation.

To celebrate this happy union, the Watch Makers’ Guild was commissioned to make a clock to commemorate the occasion. They initially refused – upset that due to the alternate half days off the Bakers would no longer be delivering the glorious platter of mixed sweet sandwiches that they had always so enjoyed and looked forward to every week – but a quiet word from Head Baker to Head Maker resolved the issue forthwith and the Guild – after a whispered promise that the platter would still be delivered every Saturday lunchtime providing that they didn’t mention the matter to anyone else – eagerly set to work.

This was the result:

And so it was, and so it is, and so – presumably – it will remain.

     ...Isn't history grand?

The End.

***

Two Things That I Have Found Out Today:

1. as well as having individual sections of pieces of music - in this case, J.S. Bach's Magnificat - Youtube also sometimes has the individual parts. So as well as following the music along with the backing of the entire chorus (which, to avoid Kidderminster Choral's AGM, is what I have been doing tonight), one can listen to their own line played on all its own.
     How cool is that?!
     I had no idea. I've never looked for an individual part (though having finally noticed, now it seems obvious). Previously I have just typed in the name, found a recording that has actual singing as apposed to merely being played by an orchestra, made sure that it plays all the way through with no interruptions, and then gamely set off.
     This way, though, when I haven't access to the choir (which is 6 days out of the 7), with this piece at least, I can have the best of both worlds: listen to the 2nd Soprano part in detail and allow my brain to take it in, then practice each section as a whole to see how the part fits in.
     Fantastic.

2. my dog REALLY hates it when I practice. I've noticed it more and more. If he is asleep during the process, all well and good (it doesn't seem to actively wake him up), but when he is awake, he tries everything he can think of to get me to stop.
     I thought at first it was my singing that put him off (it certainly puts me off, sometimes), but nope; it's not. It doesn't matter if I sing, or stay silent and follow the music that way, or - as I did this evening - a bit of both: he hates it, and he wants me to stop.
     Right now, he is sulking on his bed, because I wouldn't tolerate him hitting my legs and trying to clamber onto my lap.
     =shakes head=
     ...Funny dog...

Alice x

On A More Positive Note, After Careful Thinking And Consideration, Here Is My Action Plan:

***

IMMEDIATE.

1. continue looking for an administrative/office post.

     ~ tomorrow, for instance, as well as the usual trawl of t’web for jobs, I shall be popping down to a shop I have posted an application for 'Administrative Assistant' position to, to make sure they got it (whilst at the same time showing my face; letting them see that I am neatly turned out, articulate, well mannered…etc. etc.).

2. use what spare time I have to continue with The Story.

     ~ I’ve been mulling over some ideas to help it all fit together better for a while – whilst jotting down small snatches of bits of chapters here and there as they occur – and it’s helped a lot. I feel far more focused and happy with it all now.

3. continue with The Alice Plan.

NEAR FUTURE (6-12 months).

1. enrol in college.

     ~ in the event that the man I’ve spoken to about the course is right (likely); I shall be starting it in about two weeks. In the event that he is wrong (unlikely) and the course works to a term timetable rather than the ‘as suits you’ timetable he described; I shall enrol ready for the next part time semester, which is in January.

2. continue to look for an administrative/office post. In the event that I haven’t found any by the time my course is finished, move to stage two of Job Hunt Plan and start begging for administrative work of a voluntary nature*.

3. continue with The Alice Plan.

4. once Mother’s pension is in place and the money coming in, revert to halving bills and start saving any spare money not used for normal day-to-day living (including medication for the dog) and/or college travel costs in a separate fund ready for the final stage of the Action Plan.

EVENTUAL FUTURE.

1. once a new, better paying job has been found; continue saving for final stage of the Action Plan (hopefully even after additional travel costs, this will be more than could be set aside before).

2. as soon as it becomes feasibly possible, initiate final stage of the Action Plan and put down the necessary deposit on a small flat either closer to where new job is (very likely), or elsewhere in Kidderminster (given state of employment options in town, very unlikely).

3. settle in to new home. Spend a short while getting used to and enjoying it, then re-evaluate life. If completely happy, continue as per. If not, decide upon then work upon possible improvements.

***

And that, dear Reader(s), is my Action Plan (thus far).

Alice x

Drawing A Line Underneath What Turned Out To Be An Unpleasant Episode:

~.START.~

Scene is set; Alice is sat on the train, which is chugging its way towards Worcester. She is on her way to visit Cousin 1, and decides that she has recovered enough from the events of the day before to respond to the “how’d it go” questions that Best Friend 2 and Best Friend 3 have been asking. So, she gets out her mobile, and begins pressing keys. Best Friend 3 is the first to respond, and a conversation takes place...

ALICE: Hi! How goes your Sunday? If you’ve time to read the essay, I thought I’d fill you in on the events after my date, okay? …Well, it seemed great at first. We had had a great time and planned on meeting again. There was even talk of my staying with her overnight and, well, you know (on the one hand, sex on the 2^nd date; VERY soon. On the other; it’s been 10 years, and boy, did I want to!). So it was great. But then, things started to go…wrong. She started sending text messages over and over again, switching between trying to initiate phone sex (NOT my thing) and in not so many words, basically declaring her undying love. Between the text messages and two phone calls (which I couldn’t hear properly because my phone is dying) I learned that we were made for each other, that I was wonderful and lovely (…which I AM, but…), that we were going to live together A.S.A.P, that we were going to build a life together and be happy together forever…etc. etc. I tried to tell her gently that I’m not looking to build a life with anyone just yet – I’ve only just begun really work on building my own – in reply to which I got a mass of desperate texts/calls trying to change my mind. …In the end, I had to be blunt with her. Then, I had to ‘block’ her. The end. X

BEST FRIEND 3: PMSL*! I’m sorry, but that is just so funny! Oh well, at least you didn’t get murdered. Don’t worry, you’ll find someone, there are plenty more fish in the sea. X

ALICE: That’s what the dating website is called: Plenty More Fish. =shrugs= Oh well, it’s led to a funny story, at least. Boy, can I pick ‘em. X 

     …p.s. I’m very glad that I wasn’t murdered, too...

BEST FRIEND 3: PMSLM**! I guess it’s something to talk about on the next date?? It was an experience, right? I wonder why she acted like that?

ALICE: I think my profile may have given the wrong impression (not that that fully excuses her behaviour). I put that I was “looking for a relationship”. What I meant was that I would like that someday, after meeting the right girl and taking the time to get to know her, etc. But I guess, “relationship” is such a big word; it covers a wide range of things…

BEST FRIEND 3: yeah. It could be taken the wrong way. I’d change that. Can you?

ALICE: oh, done and done. I’ve reworded the ‘about me’ paragraph carefully, too.

BEST FRIEND 3: good. Well, I’m glad you didn’t get killed.

ALICE: (chuckling to self) …yeah, me too…

Scene ends; with Alice shaking head ruefully, then burying her head back in her notepad to continue the bit of The Story she was working on.

~.END.~

* for those blissfully ignorant of the dreaded ‘text speak’, this translates to Pissing My Self Laughing.

** …Pissing My Self Laughing More…

On A Happier Note, Here Is A (Direct) Quote From Mother:

"Y'know, I did think of the bin, but it was superseded by the lettuce."

...Yeah.
     I stood and blinked for a moment, too.

Alice x

It's Time For Another Picture Post Folk(s):

Yesterday went exactly as I'd hoped it would.

I got on the train, snagged myself a seat by a window, and proceeded to do as I usually do on trains: perch my bag on my bag on my knees, open up my notepad on top of it, and get writing.
     There were delays (as usual) caused by signal problems (also as usual), but I was unconcerned because a) I am well used to travelling via train, b) so were the people I was going to meet and c) I had managed to get to the station in time to catch an earlier one anyway. As it was, the train carrying moi chugged its way into Birmingham Snow Hill at exactly the time the later one should have done, which meant I was right on time.
     Then I made my way out of the station to find Birmingham Cathedral:

This turned out to be a wee bit closer than I had remembered. As Mother brilliantly put it when I returned and recounted my day, it was "...not so much 'exit station, turn right, walk' as; 'exit station, turn right, hop'..."
     Anyway, all was well. I rang Best Friend 0.5(1) - as he now must be known - and he and - as he is now to be called - Best Friend 0.5(2) were hot on my trail.
     10 minutes later, they arrived.

There was some dithering (I love a good Dither, don't you? Best Friend 0.5(2) is particularly excellent at it) with regards to where we should eat, but eventually it was decided that it should be Min Min...

...and off we went.

As we walked, I kept in contact with the fourth of our little group, Best Friend 2, who was running late - I should point out that while she has many excellent qualities and I love her dearly, lateness from this woman is as expected by me as it is from the public transport service - via text. As we actually walked through the door (both Best Friend 0.5(1) and Best Friend 0.5(2) had great fun showing me its 'air-lock' type qualities) she announced that we should go ahead and eat because she had already had lunch. Cue expressions like this from us:

...Yeah...she does this (I'd forgotten).
     So, we pulled faces, sent her a little 'Oh, you' message, and because we - unlike her - were good and hungry, moved swiftly on.

It was decided that rather than order 3 main courses, it would be better to choose four or five (five, as it turned out) starters and have a little bit of each. As I hadn't even heard of the majority that was on the menu, let alone tried it, I thought this to be a spiffy idea.

So, we ordered. While we waited for the food to arrive, we carried on chatting about anything and nothing (I love doing that, too) and traded affectionate insults between ourselves to pass the time before the serious business of Operation Stuff Yourself Silly began.
     In due course, the food appeared.
     To my sheltered and previously unadventurous eyes, the dishes seemed weird and fantastical. The most recognizable one of them looked like this...

...but, never one to shy away from food, I dug in gamely and found them all to be delicious, if a little hard to eat, armed as we were with only chopsticks and a fork.

Just in time for the ordering of dessert(s), Best Friend 2 arrived.
     While we waited and then while we ate, conversation continued unabated. We discussed various aspects of our lives: plans for a Masters Degree - Best Friend 0.5(1) - and a ITQ Level 3 computer course - me - and an engagement - Best Friend 0.5(2) ...when he gets around to it - and for Best Friend 2's husband to find a job, as well as the merits of quitting one's job to 'Find Oneself' whilst funded by one's future fiance - Best Friend 0.5(2) again - and the suggestion that technological untrackabilty gave weight to the suggestion that a workplace photocopier be used to aid in the decorating an office's walls with pornographic material - all of them verses me - and finally, the question of whether hating one's boss/employment should be cause to be allocated some form of disability allowance.
     There was also the chance for Team Best Friends, along with anyone else in the restaurant, to admire my handiwork as I produced my latest masterpiece from the depths of my bag, with the aim of getting one of Team Best Friends to take a picture of it for me. For those interested, here is the result:

Once dessert was dispensed with, we left and made for somewhere else to camp out.
     On route, we stopped in a Chinese confectionery store to look for Matcha Kit-Kats (Best Friend 0.5(1) and Best Friend 0.5(2)) and sweet biscuity things flavoured with Hawthorn (Best Friend 2).
     After a trek through a crowded part of town - during which Best Friend 0.5(1) had to keep reminding me to breathe - we finally arrived at EAT:

Best Friend 0.5(1) wanted to stop at EAT especially, due to his determination for me to try one of these:

...Yep...
     My first impression was that it looked like a milkshake gone wrong. It was mint green and incredibly gloopy, but to my surprise it was actually quite nice. It wasn't the gastronomical delight that the boys had claimed it to be, or at least not to me, but, yep. Nice, I guess.

Midway through the Matcha Munching (...can one 'munch' a drink?...), a guy called 'Rich' showed up. Apparently, in a moment of weakness, Best Friend 0.5(2) had agreed to help him move house. We all shook hands and said pleased to meet you and such, and then immediately returned to the debate that had been raging before his arrival; should washing done every day (YES!) or not (NO!). One argument (mine) was it should be done every day if possible (it isn't always possible, obviously, but mostly it is) because that's what responsible people do, and in any case, it takes approximately 10-bloody-minutes. The other argument (theirs) was that it didn't matter, the job wasn't going anywhere, after a full day at work including travel they had more important things to do (these 'important things' ranged from going out somewhere to having sex to watching the television), and that I "would understand when I lived by myself". I countered this with the comment that it depends on the person, not the location (after all, there are people that work 12-14 hour days that keep their entire house free of even the smallest spec of grime while at the other end of the spectrum there are folk that don't have a job at all and live in a veritable pigsty), and repeated that it takes 10-bloody-minutes. Rinse, wash, repeat. There were other arguments too; tumble drying verses hanging clothes up by hand, for example, but it was the Washing Up Debate that took the majority of the attention, and quite rightly so.
     Towards the end of the W.U.D, Rich and Best Friend 0.5(2) left to move Rich from one house to another. Then, once we had given up the W.U.D as a lost cause, I amused the other two of Team Remaining Friends with the anecdote of my River Cruise Experience - short version; a rift between the group members due to a dog made it a memorable occasion, I shall tell you about it sometime - as we finished our Matchas, before Team Remaining Friends got moving as well.

...As a brief aside, my choice of coat drew some surprised glances from passersby (along with, at some point, rueful head shakes from each and every member of Team Best friends). It's the only waterproof one I have, now my less standout-ish anorak is out of commission (short version: the cat got hold of it), and it looks like this:

...yeah.
     I know.
     But it works!

...Anyhoot...

We headed for a place called Cass Art so that Best Friend 2 could pick up an easel. From the outside, it looks as though it is quite a small, and unassuming kind of place, but inside, it looks like this:

 Cool, huh? The Aladdin's Cave of Paint...
     While we waited for Best Friend 2 to secure her easel, plus a few other things, myself and Best Friend 0.5(1) stood off to one side to wait. The W.U.D was rekindled briefly, then abandoned once we realized we were going round in circles (yet again).

After that, we headed towards a shopping centre in search of a hat and a rucksack (Best Friend.2 again). On route, we got distracted by and wasted a lot of time in a wondrous shop called Tiger, which sells all manner of marvelous, fun and useless things:

A while after that, once we had exhausted the possibilities of finding either a suitable rucksack or hat in the centre, we adjurned to the floor below - which handily contained one of the many entrances to New Street Railway Station - so that we could sit down, as we were all tired by that point and my heels were beginning to complain.
     A few minutes after that Team Remaining Friends decided to call it a day. Best Friend 2 went into New Street to await her train, while myself and Best Friend 0.5(1) made our way back to Snow Hill in order for me to catch mine (train) and him to catch his (bus).

While we waited for the train, we chatted about various things - that we had had a great day (answer: definitely), whether I intended to keep The Alice Plan going (answer: yes), when the best time might be for us to meet again (answer: possibly in a month or so, if not, during the next half term holiday), and what Best Friend 0.5(1) planned on having for dinner (answer: eggs).

Just before the 18:53 pulled in, Best Friend 0.5(1) told me he expected to see a Blog post describing my day in detail, to which I graciously replied, "of course".

So!
     Here it is.
     With pictures.
     Just for you.

Thank you. That is all.

=bows. walks off=

Alice x

A Few Things That Have Occurred To Me Over The Past Few Days:

1. with a few notable exceptions, it takes Bingo approximately one hundreth of the time it takes me to make his toys to destroy them.
     - but for those 2-10 minutes per time, boy; does he have fun!

2. if I continue trawling the internet for jobs on a daily basis, I am going to go insane.
     - after another frustrating week, I've decided to settle on Moday, Wednesday and Friday for the full search, and checking for any job related e-mails the other days.
     ...I do end up applying for any suitable posts that pop up therein, admittedly, but those are few and far between due to the recruitment website(s) habit(s) of ignoring my saved searches and instead taking random words out of my CV and using whatever the words are as the basis of "hey; you may want to apply for this!".
     ...seriously. The last job alert had the sentence: "here are 10 jobs that match your search criteria, key words/phrases selected for search: 'the', 'birds'."

=SIGHS=

3. it is becoming apparent that the main reason Mother and myself have lived in the same house together such beautiful harmony for so long is because until very recently she spent 90% of her time outside of said house.
     - seriously. Discounting the days that I was out and about doing various things myself, I used to have the majority of weekday afternoons to myself. I came back from work, and the house was empty, and stayed that way from that moment on until at least 3PM - 5PM (or later) if she was at a school - but now, I come home from work, and; she is there. And she stays there until 3PM before leaving for her shift at The Grandmama's (where she now works, 12 hours per week), sometimes 4PM. So between at least 1PM and 3PM there we are; both there together at the same time. In the living room, which during the afternoons, as I said; I used to have to myself, with the television playing reruns of Star Trek (which no matter how quietly she has it on, seems to pierce straight through my earphones in a way that no other television show can) while I am trying to conduct a job search and apply for jobs or concentrate on The Story or write a Blog post or just to simply BE.
     ...seriously (again). GAH! I love her, and she loves me, and we still enjoy the things we both enjoyed doing together just as we always have, but; GAH!
     ...Give me back my free afternoons, damn it!

=SIGHS (again)=


4. my fringe swept over to the right hand side of my forehead looks very nice.
     - on the same token, said fringe swept over the other way - to try and conceal a small flaw just above my left eye, which thanks to The Grandpapa I am now rather conscious of  - just looks weird. I have no idea why, it just does(n't work).

Alice x

Two Encounters.

ENCOUNTER 1:

Some boys - I'm not good with ages; mid/late teens at a rough guess - walking past nudged one another and sniggered as they walked past me. Sadly, that is not uncommon; it happens with depressing frequency (though in true cowardly fashion, of course only when there are several of them against the one of me), and oftentimes the sniggers are accompanied by some slur or other directed at my weight.
     So, having seen them coming and noted the familiar smirks and body language, I donned my Impassive Face and inwardly braced myself for whatever might be about to be either said or yelled. But this time, rather than some version or other of "fattie!" what I got was "dyke!"
     ...I blinked. That was unusual. I hadn't been called that before. "LESbian", certainly - screamed from a passing car (hence the first part of the word being in capitals, as it was louder) and aimed at myself and Best Friend 2 as we walked along the pavement arm-in-arm - but never "dyke".
     A split second later, I heard a sigh, and turning my head, I realized that their sniggers and scorn had - just this once - not been directed at me, but at someone else. She was very tall, and very thin, dressed in a pale shirt, dark blue leggings and big clumpy boots. Her skin was very pale, and her blond hair - what there was of it - was very, very short and combed back.
     She glared after them over her shoulder, then glanced over at me and rolled her eyes.

"I'm not," she confided, testily, one woman to another; "but pricks like that make me wish I was".

Well, yes.
     Quite.

ENCOUNTER 2:

Reader(s), after all this time, I didn't think it likely that I would see them again, but today I did.
     Remember this lady?
 http://onefatgirlandherthoughts.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/yet-another-overheard-conversation.html

Well, today, I saw her again. And this time, I spoke to her.
     She was hobbling along, clinging to her long-suffering son's arm, wittering away about what she was going to make him for lunch when they got back - from the sound of it, there were a lot of choices and she was switching back and forth between them - while he walked stoically beside her with that same look of practiced patience on his face.
     We reached the escalator at the same time, and as per usual, I gestured that they should get on ahead of me, given the ongoing problem my brain has with regards to getting on which can sometimes be time consuming. This caused Crisp Lady - as I have called her in my head ever since that fateful day - to beam at me.

"Why thank you, my dear", she said, solicitously

"You're welcome", I replied.

I managed to put my foot down after letting just two steps pass by, and as I left the escalator a few seconds later, I could hear Crisp Lady's voice as she carried on talking to her son in a soft yet unstoppable wave of words.
     A lovely young lady that, she was saying...manners are hard to come by these days, not many have them now...it wasn't the same in her day; people had respect then...but a lovely young lady; his brother Keith would do well to find a girl like that...a person couldn't play the lad forever, he should settle down...and she looked nice; a nice girl with good hips, after all you need good hips to have children...speaking of children; when were him and Loraine going to start...they weren't getting any younger...were they trying?...they needed to be trying...what kind of underpants did he wear? Because apparently that could make a big difference...

We separated at the end of the street before I heard what, if anything, the poor boy said in response to (any of) that.
     As before, I was sorry to see them go.
     And worse, this time, as I was left in suspense.

...what kind of underpants DOES he wear...?

Alice x

I Think My Subconscious Is Trying To Tell Me Something...

I am sat in a room. It is a plain, nondescript sort of room with beige coloured walls and biege coloured carpets; no pictures, no posters, no windows, no (other) colour, no life.

My chair is one of those in a large circle in the middle of the otherwise empty room. My co-sitters are all women, dressed in exactly the same outfit - dark grey blouse, black trousers, black socks, black shoes - with identical features and identical eyes (brown) and identical hair (also brown) cut and styled in an identical way.
     I, with my blond hair and blue eyes, red blouse and black skirt over red tights, look starkly out of place. But that's okay. After all, everybody is different.
     ...Well, not these girls, obviously. But other than that, everybody is different...

We sit for a few minutes before a man comes in through a door in the corner; the only thing that breaks the monotony of beige from one end of the room to another. The man is tall with black hair and olive coloured skin. He is dressed entirely in white.
     He smiles at us. Taking the sole free chair in the circle, he moves it into the middle, setting himself apart. Then he introduces himself. His name is Matthew - "please, call me 'Matt', okay?" - and he is going to be conducting the group interview that we have been invited to attend that day.
     To begin; he asks us all our names in turn, requesting that we state our ages as well. I am discomfited to find that I am the eldest, at 31. Everybody else is in their twenties; 26 to be exact. The voices of the other girls, like their appearance and dress, are monotone and sound exactly the same. Only the names are different.

It proceeds from there as one might expect from a group interview, with a series of allegedly informal and random questions ('just for fun!') asked to each of us in turn. Matt listens to our answers carefully, occasionally making notes on a clipboard. I am, while not fully at ease - I have always hated group interviews, despite the fact that 5 out of 6 of them have led to success (and the sixth was due to the job being not as advertised, rather than anything I did) - confident that I am making a good impression.
     I generally do,
     To start, I have an aura of 'niceness' that people are drawn to; my rosy, smiling face puts people looking at me at ease. This in turn is backed up by the way I naturally speak, which pegs me as educated, but not smugly so, while at the same time reassuringly polite and respectful. Then, to crown it off; my vivid and colourful imagination comes in handy, setting my answers to the seemingly-pointless-but-actually-cleverly-revealing questions apart, showing me to be a quick and independent thinker.

...Another 'fun' question, another good answer when the turn to reply reaches me that Matt smiles at approvingly as he continues to scribble on his clipboard. Inwardly, I nod to myself, pleased.
     This is good.
     Things are going well.

...Then, Matt turns his attention away from the group as a whole and directs it straight upon me.

"Now, Alice," he says, shifting position in his chair and crossing his legs; "a question just for you."

Another inward nod. I have seen this before. The interviewer picks a few people out of the crowd to direct a snap question to, to see how the individual will react. Due to what a friend has delightfully described as my "magnetic people puller face", I am nearly always one of those picked on, and my answer has never failed me yet.
     So, I smile and nod; ready, and Matt smiles and nods back; also ready, fixing me with his unnerving and level stare before he starts speaking again.

"I was just wondering; what gives you the right to sit here amongst these fine, upstanding people, as though you had even the slightest prayer of getting this job," noting my taken-aback expression, his mouth twitches in satisfaction as he continues; "I mean, really, you seem nice and everything, and you're obviously intelligent, but honestly; it takes a certain kind of person to work as an Administrator, and you, my lovely, are most definitely not it. The other people here are, but you are not. Because the other people here - these fine, upstanding people - are not employed as a cleaner."

Cue: a large gasp from each person uttered at the same time.
     The girls turn to look at me with identically shocked, horrified and disgusted expressions on their identical faces. Then, in unison, they each lift their right hand to point at me as they begin to chant, in unison, in their low, monotone voices:

"Cleaner, cleaner,! Doesn't belong, doesn't belong! Cleaner, cleaner! Doesn't belong, doesn't belong!"

...And so it goes on.
     Wash, rinse, repeat.

As the chanting continues, I sigh a resigned sigh, and turn to the nearest chanter to say:

"You know, I know this is a nightmare and so it isn't real, but I really don't like this at all."

...And then, I wake up.


Alice x

Frust-bloody-ated:

I am - was - midway through a job hunt.
     There are 12 jobs that I could be, and should be, applying for today.

But I can't.
     ...Why, I hear (the two of) you ask?
     Because: the Jobmatch website isn't working.
     Nor is Reed. Or Total Jobs. Or Jobsite. Or any of the others. I've tried them all, several times. None of them are online.

I have no idea why. Other websites seem to be running normally - including this one - but none of the sites that I need to apply for the jobs.
     I can't ring, or write, or anything else; it's all done online. I don't even have a company to contact by e-mail; 99% of the posts are advertised through recruitment agencies with as few details given as possible.

So, for now, I am stuck.
     How long for?
     ...I have no clue.

=SIGHS. STROKES DOG. WAITS FOR WEBSITES TO WORK=

Alice x

UPDATE:

Success.
     After further research, the 12 jobs were whittled down to 8, and some of them are a bit unlikely, given the training and experience that are desired and/or required, but hey; 8 jobs applied for is better than none, and nothing ventured then nothing gained, right?
     Right.

Today has been a productive day.
     I feel pleased with how today has gone...