This wasn’t supposed to happen. How have the powers that be let this occur? In Marlon Brando’s wheezing words, ‘the horror’. Surely this is a devastating human rights violation? Dear God, I am living back home. Shudders. Living back home. It feels like only yesterday I left that suffocating hole of doom. No disrespect to mum and dad, but I guess I was always that odd breed of teenager who read far too much Sylvia Plath and cared too little about teenage protocol. I used to make earrings out of wine corks. The eco warrior phase was not massively popular with my peers. My university life on the other hand was a blur of self-indulgent independence. A miraculous escape for my agitated eighteen year old self. I was encouraged to be eccentric, to wear pyjamas at all hours of the day, to eat kebabs (not sober obviously) and to be part of a group of friends that were so weirdly wonderful I cried like a little girl when I left them. It was the best of times. Unfortunately now I’m wallowing in the worst of times as a graduate home dweller. An Arts graduate home dweller. Need I say more?
My parents must have had an overwhelming desire to nudge me, nay push me out of the nest. I wasn’t the easiest; the poor sods probably thought they had got shot of me but, like the soap actor that tries and fails to make the transition into serious drama, I keep on coming back. Unconditional love is no longer obligatory when one’s twenty two year old daughter spends her twilight hours consuming cheesecake in a dimly lit room watching Diagnosis Murder re-runs. Re-runs that I methodically record for my evening’s entertainment. Tragic. I mean it’s not really what you expect to happen is it? I was a naïve fool in thinking that a new life awaited for me when university ended. I mused about the working world, pictured myself in one of those suits, you know the ball-bashing ones for hard businesswomen. Alas the recession has crushed my dreams.
I’ll rewind to my graduation. (Although I never actually made it to the ceremony). You see, deterred and aware of the sorry state of affairs that awaited me, I loitered in Africa for three months doing charity work in a school. I had hoped that this would relax me and energise me for the intrepid mass job search I had planned on my return. It did not. I loved Africa too much and left depressed. I knew that my hippy African pants would not be welcome in the working world. When I returned, my hair had grown so long and shaggy I looked like an Afghan hound. I also lost a stone and a half. Of course that has all gone back on now. See cheesecake above. So I cut my hair, dressed more appropriately, and became engulfed into the zombie masses of post graduates trying to get work. It is bloody difficult. The problem with university is that it gives you a superiority complex, without the skills to back it up. So even though I am broke, I’m reluctant to take on certain jobs. I’m sorry if this sounds brattish but I refuse point blank to work in a call centre. I’d rather elope and take my chances on Dale Farm. And for some unknown reason, retail has never really worked for me. Shopping scares me. Just seeing gaggles of determined Primark customers fighting over the last leopard print jumpsuit fills me with terror. It is like gang warfare in there! And not the organised kind, the hardcore guerrilla kind. I genuinely believe the customer is never right, which is not serving me well in a job hunt. I guess I could get my old job back at the lecherous pub down the road but why should I? I should be employable in a field I want to work in. God dammit I’ve learnt about the Renaissance! I’ve studied the entire works of Shakespeare (not the comedies, they are terrible). My days shouldn’t be consisting of watching Loose Women. That is no way to live. The more unpaid internships I send my CV off to, the angrier I get. I am so angry at my unemployable state of affairs, that I have begun morphing into a kind of hybrid of woman/ harpy. And not the sexy femme fatale kind of harpy - the vengeful, unrepentant kind. I find I’m letting rip at the TV like a crazy person. Bloody successful people! Bruce Forsyth should really be pensioned off. See, I can’t help myself! These terrible words are tripping off the tongue. I am being the snappy, bitter, teenager once again. It’s not like I don’t try. Recently I’ve applied for a BBC graduate scheme programme. They have an online personality assessment. I thought honesty was the best policy, now I’m not so sure. I think I may have portrayed myself as a cantankerous litterer. Yes they actually ask if you litter. What is this Jedi mind game? What do they want from me? I dropped litter once, you’ve got me!
Today is the first day all week I have got out of my dad’s jumper. I feel inspired. I think I’ll hand a few CVs in. Well maybe after Location Location. Oh but then Dickinson’s Real Deal is on! Also I must get back for The Eggheads, I haven’t seen CJ for ages. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow. Come on BBC, you know you want me!
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