Swings And Roundabouts

"Gave you this I.O.U. today; it said good for one galaxy. Once I build my rocket to the stars, we'll fly away just you and me."

Before I get into what I hope will be my final entry on the subject of job-hunting, I'd like to point this out. It's an interesting dissection of Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves that leads into a discussion of writing and the concept of a 'voice'. Read it, then read The Elements Of Style, a work that really WILL hand you your grammatically incorrect arse.

If I could, I'd also like to pre-empt the flurry of grammar-related e-mail that will undoubtedly result from my referring to Strunk yet again. I'm aware that my grammar is not perfect by any standards but my own. But - and trust me on this - it's better than yours.

Onto business...

I've spent the last few days staying at N's. Not only was he good enough to offer me a refuge from the horrifying shitrain my life has become, but he also loaned me two hundred pounds to get me through the time of the month when all my bills come in. Consider this a salute to the man who will only ever be known in this blog as N, and a reminder that I still have some friends who'll put up with me when I can't do anything but piss and moan about how much it all sucks.

That said, things weren't looking at all good for me until today. The longer I stay here, the more interest my parents take in my well-being and my life. On Saturday, my mum helpfully pointed out that she'd seen a pub in Shenley called The King William that was looking for staff. As I'd just borrowed twenty pounds from her to pay for my fare to N's, I was suddenly obligated to check it out.

To be honest, I actually had a good feeling as I strolled up the hill towards Shenley on Sunday evening. It was a hot day on its last legs, staggering beneath the wonderful onslaught of a warm evening more than happy to turn its face to the breeze once in a while. I was taking a healthy walk through the greener part of the area in which I live, there was a possibility of finding a job on my journey, and I wouldn't be returning home for several days. At that moment, those were all reasons to be cheerful.

So I walked. And walked. And walked. I didn't remember Shenley being so far away. I certainly didn't remember this little road winding through the middle of nowhere. The markings of civilisation were gradually disappearing, and after forty minutes of walking, I realised that I was less than an hour from finding myself on a deserted country road at night. No lights, few cars, increasing possibility of being raped by gypsies and/or gored by a large woodland beast of some description. The fact that such fears might become a nightly occurence were I to find and take a job in Shenley crossed my mind, and suddenly my mum's enthusiasm for what she'd assured me was a 'nice little pub' seemed like something that had happened a long, long time ago.

Fortunately, I reached Shenley before night fell. Unfortunately, The King William was possibly the most awful little hole of a pub I've ever had the misfortune of patronising. Believe me, friends, that's going some.

A nightmare: You walk through the door of what looks - from the outside - like a small, friendly pub. It is poorly-lit and smells of stale beer. It looks unlikely that the tables have been cleared at all today; ashtrays are full, dirty glasses are everywhere, flies crawling nonchalantly up the sides, as if safe in the knowledge that they won't be disturbed anytime soon. Three men sit at the bar. They are undoubtedly locals. They are also undoubtedly alcoholics. An experienced barman can tell on sight. A table to the left of the three is inhabited by what a cruel and cynical bastard might refer to as Borehamwood Slappers. They are drinking the kind of alcohol that comes in bottles with colourful labels, wearing the kind of clothes designed for ladies several sizes smaller than they, and talking in the kind of loud voices designed for expletives, flirting with fat alcoholics in football shirts, and calling any more attractive women 'slags' shortly before hitting them with one of the aforementioned bottles.

You go to the bar because you were already walking in that direction and you know it'll look really weird if you turn around and walk straight back out. Remember, you're a veteran of both pubs and this area, and 'Weird', in a situation like this one, is likely a prelude to physical injury.

There is no-one behind the bar. Everyone is looking at you. Then, like a reminder that even a terminal cynic can be horrified, one of the Slappers gets up, struts around the bar with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice clutched in one meaty fist, and says the four words you're praying are some kind of aural hallucination.

"Can I 'elp ya?"

"If I had a gun," you want to say, "this place would already be a morgue."

Instead: "I'll have a JD and Coke, please."

She serves you your drink. You pay and find a reasonably sanitary table in the corner. They all stare at you while you empty your glass as quickly as you can manage without looking like you want to leg it.

Then you leg it.

I arrived home three days later with my stomach churning. I had applied for all the jobs I could reasonably apply for. Though N had loaned me some money, it wouldn't last much longer than a few weeks. No-one was calling me back. No-one, I surmised, was interested in a twenty-five year old man who didn't want a proper job. My parents were right.

And then my phone rang.

And now I have a job in the very same hotel where I uttered the following line: "Jesus, the incompetence of you people is unbelievable. All I'm asking you for is a fucking job. Considering the idiots you employ, I'd be a godsend."

This is, of course, the very first job I applied for when I came back from Gaddesden Row eight weeks ago. This is the job I wanted because it's practically outside my front door. This is my first choice.

So...I got exactly what I wanted, only I had to pay for it with two months of fear and loathing. For that, I intend to get rather drunk this evening, if only to restore the karmic balance of my world.