Job Search: Midnight Mayhem

If you are a passionate accountant, this might work.

Twenty minutes ago I thought it a rather decent idea to send the below email to a potential employer. I would like to emphasise that I am not drunk, and do not intend to get drunk, even though I have every reason to do so. (Please note that the addressee has been blacked out, as I am still a bit embarrassed, and God knows they might offer me a job)




'A Clouded Morning XXXXXX Team!


For it will be a clouded morning when this email reaches you, I checked the weather, the rain only starts mid-afternoonish.
I - currently unemployed, with too much creative energy - am looking for a job to keep me from writing email opening lines such as the above. I read that you are looking for individuals with sparkling personalities to join your team, and I am confident that I am such a person (think RPatz in Twilight for sparkling equivalent).


Other than in sparkling, I am proficient in 'out-of-the-box'-thinking, I have a passion for grammar, and I look extremely good in a hat (for reference see the hat picture attached to my CV). Pretty soon, I will also be the proud holder of an MA in Cultural and Creative Industries, which means that there is some substance under the hat too. Over the course of the last year, I busied myself taking courses on Fashion and Society, Visual Culture, and working as a XXXX at the XXXXXX (just round the corner), where I have picked up one or the other party trick in marketing, customer services and event organisation. I am far from being the perfect Renaissance woman, though, and this is where you come in: I need a place to start a stellar career in Marketing. So, if there is an opportunity in your office for a brilliant (yes - in addition to sparkling!), determined, and inspired postgraduate, I would be more than happy to accept. What I have been thinking about (fantasising, really) is a paid Intern/Assistant position, where I would have room for growth in my ambitions, as well as headroom to wear outrageous hats.


If you think that the person writing such a weird email at midnight could be the ideal addition to you team, please get in touch. I live around the corner and could come in for an interview at a moment's notice.


I spare you the boring end of all cover emails.



My best wishes,'


The world's biggest twat. 



I am not sure whether it is the copious amount of antibiotics I am consuming presently that has lead me to send this piece of pretentious muck, or whether it is just my true twat-nature shining through. The company will forthwith delete all their contact addresses from the website, and return to the good old Royal Mail for all their communication. Because of people like me. Self-important idiots like me, who think that their midnight scribbles will make tuppence of a difference to the lives of professional creatives, who probably won't even read beyond the second line. But how, how do I know? With all the applications I have written, I might as well apply for the post of Prime Minister (memo to myself, check with No. 10 website if there is a vacancy), and feign interest for politics and people and shit. Like, totally my thing, right, people and stuff.

I would make an impeccable circus tent designer.

I am aware that this is me on repeat, yesterday's re-run, available on iPlayer - forever. I have seven different versions of my CV saved to my desktop, and counting, including a semi-fictional version for very special occasions (say, the application for a Time Lord position, or an internship with Ray Bradbury). I have even made an Excel sheet about myself that I have then turned into a 3D pie chart. Pathetic. Nobody cares, do they?
 It is hard to say, since most replies I receive are generic HR answers, 'Dear Please Insert Here, we regret to inform you that on this occasion, you just sucked and we're like soooo not gonna hire you, because nobody here gives a shit about your experience, because we can't stand you anyway. But do keep an eye out for further vacancies. Regards, HR Copy Paste Template'.


Anyone for dessert? 

(again I accidentally tagged Tom Hiddleston, so he has to get a mention too)

My neighbour's head and other egg-shaped jokes

Where is the fun gone? Jokes used to be funnier, laughing was laughier (yes, autocorrect, I want to write laughier!) and situations not this tense. Tense as in, interviewing strangers to come and live with me (ok, us) and trying not to kill myself for asking about hobbies and interests - under these labels. No, no, no, no. (hitting knee on desk, howling with pain, stumping - sprained foot, howling some more) Now that I have left a rather prestigious (blah) British university behind me, life is so infinitely beige. Beiger than beige, sand-coloured at best, maybe even nude, as in Kate Middleton's nude platform heels that have been much discussed in the Daily Mail and that are even more boring, now that they have been properly exposed.

Mincemeating shoes has never been fun.

Neither has googeling cooker lights. (Yes autocorrect, googeling is a word)

So this is my spare time occupation. Sigh

Somewhere between the last couple of Tschardonnéis (as opposed to Chardonnays served elsewhere) and the mini organic baked potatoes, it went horribly wrong. Life in its beignets (I keep this, it was meant to be 'beigeness' but obviously autocorrect has other things in mind #fatwriter) has no highlights, no chocolate chips, no glazing. It's plain beige. To the extend that I am watching Alan Titchmarch on 'Elizabeth: Queen, Wife, Mohter' (ay autocorrect! you correct me everywhere else, and then leave this?????) while I am writing this to balance out the creative input. To keep me awake too, painkillers for the afore mentioned sprained foot are taking their toll. And no, NHS tyrant, I will NOT keep my foot quiet for the next 6 weeks. I. Have. A. Life. Albeit beige.

Yesterday Once upon a time that happens to be just yesterday (that is today; tomorrow of course, it will no longer be yesterday #beige #petty) I went to the British Museum (I limped from Holborn and let myself fall down the stairs to the Lecture Theatre) for a bit of culture that I'd almost forgotten about. I booked the tickets in early April, not knowing that I would fancy some Shakespearian drama in June, just sort of hoping I'd not been run over by a bus by that time. And surprise, Henry V The Hollow Crown is a rather good play adaptation with Tom Hiddleston as King Hal. The man himself was there too, for a bit of fan-bathing, as well as some other British film royalty. And there was lots of wine, which was more important than Hiddleston in a suit. Representing our local monarchy, another citizen from the land of the 'I've never met anyone from there' accompanied me to savour the fruits of my early booking. #drunkandgreedy

We both agreed that it was worth not watching ITV's Friday night program in our pjs, to go to the BM.

Today The following day, in the land of the sleeping prince from downstairs, my hunter and gatherer instincts called me to the City Centre. Nature's signs and sounds announced the quarterly shedding of the shop floor-skins with brightly coloured signs ('SALE') and the sound of a new beginning (walking past McDo I heard Peer Gynt, I kid you not). My natural instinct tells me that I need more footwear to get me through the summer into fall, as well as some overpriced carrying devices for the incredible amount of things that I .... carry around with me. Thus I ventured into a tourist-infested centre, where, upon arrival, I regretted with immediate immediacy to ever have set a foot on the pavement outside Oxford Circus Station. #cringe 

However, I had not yet seen the full extend of the situation. When I'd fought my way out of the masses (limping like a shot bambi) I spotted Tom Hiddleston, lurking around - stalking me, no doubt. Again, careful to be careful, I tried to walk past, not letting him spot that I'd spotted him. Dear inexistent reader, stalkers, so I thought, were only stalking people less famous than myself. Never, so I believed, would anybody dare following me, the highest of all higher profiles, to the effect that I made my way, hasting hastily, to the nearest Underground. I had to leave multiple pairs of foot protectors and several carrying devices on the shop floors, returning empty-handed and scared. I have decided not to leave the house again until I know with certain certainty that my stalker has left the country. I may have to put him under surveillance.

Thus I remain here, in the outskirts of E2, with nothing but my books (which, surprisingly, are very beige) and the notes in my books. #smartass

Some books are real gems when it come to the notes. 

Until life is again filled with free wine and fountains of Italian Prosecco.