Poverty and cold are wearing at your Humble Narrator's bones. I don't know where my next packet of fags is coming from....
I mean this invigilating shit is all very fine - but Lords knows when I get paid. End of the month? Don't make me laugh! End of two months has been the case before! They don't treat me like YOU do, o ' my brothers, with kindness and understanding. They treat me like something they've found under their shoe, I tell you.
In my old stomping ground, wasn't I. A big supermarket to be exact. I used to be on their checkouts. When I started this blog, in fact. Every little helps apparently. It ain't helping me at the moment, mate! And I nearly ... so very nearly, asked them to take me back.
Now, I know this seems a step backwards but there are still so many things about that sweatshop that I miss. Nosing at people's shopping, chatting to customers about the menopause (birds anyway), the fag breaks, er ........
However, my wrist has still not recovered from that RSI shit - they warn you about that in their pamphlet - and if symptons persist, see a doctor. Well, they are persisting, loves. My wrist aches now after only a handful of typing. My smoking one too!
And another point being, that I can't piss them about again. If I stay there, I stay there for good. And that frightens me rigid!
The manager said that because I left on good terms, there's a strong chance they'll take me back. Well, I legged it then and there!
However, sulking in the kitchen, I lamely thought of looking up the personnel managers' number. Just then, something came up on the Blackberry. It was an email from the assistant editor of Woman's Weekly! My heart and liver! Oh God, I thought, she's going to tell me my latest story for consideration was shit! I still can't get over the brutality of these emails. I miss the subtely of a brown envelope through the letterbox.
Well, I lit up there and then, and with shaking hands, opened the thing up!
We like your story, it went, predictable but nicely done (cheeky cow!), and we offer you £150.
Thats two stories I've sold now. Was this a sign that I was now a proper writer and didn't have to work at the supermarket anymore? Or was it a coincidence, and that I should get off my arse and go to work like lesser mortals?
A walk up to the fag shop, I think.