I Looked into a Job One Day

I Looked into a Job One Day.



The lord, God, as nature intended to hang it all on the wall, tilted, and throw a custard pie at. Full in the face of all that was unholy, and unjust. Not just in my peeps, but others; the question still sat: sucking on its own. What could be done with this little thing that I held in my hand?



The answer: two up, a pen.



Spelt correctly, its policies gave a copy from history which failed to wet the pallet of the dissolved blues, yellows, reds, and artificial greens. So what colours are left or right handed? I thought.

In the margins of each page in brutishly, bold brail: ‘OFFICIAL USE ONLY.’

I stopped day dreaming, and decided to fill in the form in question:



            1.Field four sided, three hedges, and two rabid ducks: How do they escape? I did the numbers, not in A, B, C, Ds, but I had to ask: ‘Excuse me Sir! What kind of form is this?’



‘What form? Just sign your name,’ said the jobs advisor. The clock said all day, as I realised that it would be me who had to fill this in. I asked again:



‘Do I have to start at the beginning Mr!’



‘What’s the matter with you?’

 

‘Not much. I don’t understand the question, that’s all.’



‘Who does? Just write. It’s not a test!’



‘The…! The, the. The, the…the: In cognitive behavioural therapy, worries can be taken away by saying ‘the’ out-loud at irregular intervals.’ (Mellie, Roger, p. un deux trois).



I wrote my name in the question one slot, and hoped…! By now, I was at juxtapositions between which best shoe to put forward to question:



              2.What is the capital middle of England?



I sat staring at all four words till I literally had all seventeen answers to the question. Then the buzzer went off:

‘Now, let’s see who’s in the money this fortnight,’ said the jobs geezer watching the spinning wheel. ‘The bonus number is....’



And there it was on the end of a stick, slightly rotten, a vegetable that silently squealed a crotchet of: ‘EEYA.’ The job which the man offered could have been any-time, or where’s with any black box recording, but it was in fact the star prize! I had been offered a part-time job in Iceland. 16 hours at £6.08 per hour, less council tax, less rent, less bus fares, and all you can eat on the loading bay. I did the sum right. I was a packet of out of date frozen party prawns down on the whole deal. I shook the hand of the man who helped put me in this position, and said,



‘I don’t feel well, enough! What’s the number to be sick in this place?’



‘No number. Just pick anyone,’ he said pointing to the wall where a row of solitary phones hung. I walked over, and picked up a receiver:



‘Hello?’ I said. An automated orator told me the full story:



‘You have reached the end of the line for incapacity benefit. In picking up this phone, you have recognised that you have insight into your own behaviour, and thought patterns. You have become independent from all first principle teaching methods. Social and psychological projections from birth have failed in relating any positive transference to counter, genuinely, to any worth of beast or man….To continue press:



              3.Who did you kill the first time you played the lottery and why?

‘Yes, yeah; yesss! ’ I said again.



‘We will send out the forms. You will need a sick note!’



‘How many?’ I said peering around the room.  The voice on the line went dead.



And that’s the full picture, clear, as true, and as manageable as it gets. After dipping my toe in the jobs market, I decided it best to go back home. I cooked a nice Jamie Oliver; (pucker) smoked more sold drugs, drank hideously, and had excitable conversation with myself and others. So, how was your day?



Signed…. Off!



Word Count 666 (excluding the title, these words; the word (‘Word Count.’).