'I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink', The Beatles

I could have lain down on a frosty lawn this morning and slept. In my ongoing quest to stay moderately fit I still go running, usually at 0630 in the morning, so as not to frighten the neighbours and alarm the local dog population. At the speeds I achieve running the slipstream is causing ice burn on my exposed extremities and I recall David Niven's anecdote about he cured similar problems after skiing: I couldn't find any brandy at 0700hrs and even if I could have I'd have drunk it and not poured it over the affected area like he did. The cold does wake you up though, which is just as well as I am so tired and could have just had a little nap after running a few steps. Until I discovered that it was really minus 4 C.

Anyway back to tiredness - this is what happens when you get tired, your mind wanders. Now that I have a longer term job much of the angst and worry that unemployment causes has left me. Yes I still need to get a full time job but the kids will not be in the Workhouse for Christmas and we can buy a few presents. Now the immediate future seems a little brighter I have relaxed: this happened quite suddenly in town a few days ago and I almost immediately fell asleep, which was a shame because I was in the queue at Boots at the time and it caused a small commotion until the customers behind me decided to use me as a mini roundabout until I woke up. And who says there is no compassion left in this world?

It's very strange. I mean nothing has really changed. The job I am doing is basically the same hours and the same tasks, Mrs EoTP is still working and will continue to do so but it is the knowing that there is some sense of continuity. It's all artificial - may I remind you of my favourite Woody Allen joke 'How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.' The universe is a big, random, unfeeling sort of place. It doesn't care if I have a job no matter how much I rant and think it monstrously unfair so it could go horribly wrong in a few days again.

However I have seem to have entered the TATT zone, that is to say Tired All The Time. I've had boundless energy over the last few months. I could moan for hours without a break. Shopping, pah, I spit in the eye of shopping. Cleaning, pshaw I care nothing for it, me and my Marigolds. Cooking. Well OK that really hasn't been my strong point, or weak point come to that - it still defies classification.

It's like children in the long Winter term at school. They struggle along for the full 12 week term, getting alternatively cold and wet going to and from school. Finally they make it to the Christmas break. Then they fall ill. Colds, flu, headaches, you name it they get it. I think I'm the same, heading for man flu I'm sure.

I'm looking forward to the break - can't wait to ruin the Christmas dinner, though Mrs EoTP is starting to think that letting me loose on it may not be such a great idea after all. I may be relegated to the preparation of the brussels sprouts, can't do much damage there. At least I will be able to sleep after the meal (and the drink).

So I'm having a break from the blog until after Christmas - may I wish all of you a Happy Christmas.

Cheers

Eyes on the Prize

The beginning of the end or the end of the beginning?

I think it was Churchill that said something like this: 'This is not the beginning of the end it is perhaps the end of the beginning.' Well something like that probably after the Battle of Britain, or something init?

Anyhow I have felt embattled over these last 259 days of unemployment. Perhaps my frustration has seeped through into this blog from time to time. But we may have a resolution for the time being. A white knight has galloped over to save me from the dragon - or perhaps he's sent his squire on his bike as I've got a nasty paper cut. Whatever. The organisation I have worked for during the last eight months on a part time basis has offered me a job on a full time basis. Yeehaw and throws hat into air. Well to be strictly accurate, a full time job working 4 days a week on a full time basis with a mutually agreeable escape clause for when I find that elusive of animals, a well paid full time job.

Now I am delighted.
No signing on next week.
No claiming the mortgage protection insurance.
A combined income that is equivalent to about 80% of what I was earning.
OK no car/fuel/office and so on but hey - money and no need to have the kids in the workhouse.
And it starts from next week.

This is a huge relief to us all in the EoTP family and we permitted ourselves a spending binge, buying a small bar of chocolate to eke out between us before before the one guttering candle we allow ourselves for illumination in the house during the long winter nights.

OK we hit John Lewis and had a big spend. But it was quite hard. We have all become so used to not spending anything except on priorities that to spend on a luxury item felt, well, reckless for the sake of a better word.

Of course they know and I know that I will leave as soon as I get a five day a week job that I like. But, and this is a big but, I do enjoy working for and with them and my quality of life is much improved over what it was. In fact it's even better now that the 600lb gorilla of impending unemployment has been shipped back to the zoo.

So that's why I say this may be the end of the beginning - still have to find that other job, still looking and will not give up.

Christmas will be a lot happier occasion for us all though. Now I can look forward to it.

I did say to Mrs EoTP that I could look for another job to fill the spare day.

Mrs EoTP. The look.

'How about the shopping and cleaning?' she said. 'That's a job.'

Where did I put my yellow Marigolds?

'Things ain't cooking in my kitchen', Weather with you, Crowded House

I'd rather face a drunk with a knife.

It's true, I would rather face a drunk with a knife than cook. I know this to be a fair statement because, recently, I did face a drunk with a knife on the streets (but that's another story) and I have tried cooking.

I said just at the weekend to Mrs EoTP, 'Why do you use that saucepan on that ring on the cooker? I don't, I do it this way. I just may be getting the hang of this cooking thing.' Mrs EoTP gave me the look. 'The look lasted about 12 months, or so it felt. 'You haven't mastered cooking' she said, 'you have just about learned how to warm things up.'

I was deflated, it has to be said. But there is a small grain of truth in there somewhere with the lumpy gravy.

I don't know what the problem is. I am (if I say so myself and as there isn't any one around at the moment to contradict me I will say it) a pretty good project manager. I mean I have set the aims and objectives for many substantial projects. For example: collecting all the rubber bands in the organisation and making a huge ball with them; organising the ugliest paper clip contest; working out why the consumption of internal post envelopes massively exceeds the amount of internal post sent; determining the optimum day for most managers to be in the pub at lunchtime so that the company is being run entirely by nineteen year olds for the best part of an afternoon (like Woolworths over the weekends). And all of these projects were delivered on time and on budget. Cooking is just another sort of project so why doesn't it work?

Well Mrs EoTP says that's because you haven't any staff or colleagues to boss around, you can't set progress update meetings and harangue staff for not performing, have no opportunity to write well aimed minutes so that you can pinion the underlings and make them wriggle in embarrassment because they have failed to undertake some action point and so on. 'Basically' she says 'you've got to do it on your own.' So that's the problem.

The other problem is that my hands do not always do what my brain says. It was the same with Airfix models. My resultant efforts were always covered in excess glue (and fluff where I had dropped the model on the floor) with the transfers placed erratically over the fuselage or hull on whatever I made. Same with cooking. The instructions may say blend but the output is lumpy, sticky, the wrong colour, all three. I can chop an onion but it looks like it has been hit with a hammer and not finely diced. I can peel potatoes but there is more potato left on the peelings than on the bit that is peeled. I can sautee a steak but it looks like (and tastes like) the bit of carpet you wipe your feet on. Recent meals have included:
1. The night I finally managed, I thought, to bring the cooking all together to present the family with their meal only to find that I had completely forgotten to cook the different meal for one of the kids (he had to wait a further twenty minutes to eat). That is referred to regularly at meal times along the lines of 'Haven't forget me this time have you Dad?'.
2. Making bolognese sauce, putting the remainder in the oven to keep warm and finding it still there the following morning. Still, it now makes a very effective whetstone for sharpening the knives or acting as a chock for the wheels of a 747.
3. Making a shepherd's pie and forgetting to put the potatoes on to boil. The meal didn't work quite so well after that.
4. We won't talk about the apple crumble, though the local fire brigade still use the episode as part of their video training about domestic fires.

So I struggle on but am beginning to think that I may never master this art - perhaps for me I am doomed to be forever warming up ready meals from Marks and Spencers. Oh pass me that cooking wine and I'll have another go at dicing the onion. Mrs EoTP has pointed out that if I carry on with that Spanish wine I'll soon be able to face another drunk with a knife, 'Just go and look in the mirror.'

Party politics

'You're not still married to her, I thought she was a real [add insult of choice here]?' His tone was incredulous. I'd bumped into an old colleague from the company I first worked for. He asked me how things were going and we'd had the usual conversation. He was doing supremely well, now in charge of worldwide biro purchases for International Whocares, huge salary, was living in a wonderful country house, his fourth wife was charming when not drinking, he had supervised access to the kids once every Candlemass and then forgot to ask about my life. I remembered this conversation as I drove past the location of a long forgotten office Christmas party for the first time in 25 years last week.

You see, I don't like office Christmas parties very much. Here's some examples.

1. As above. Three line whip demands you bring your partner. At the time partner meant a heterosexual relationship involving marriage or engagement. Anything outside that was viewed as evil, a pact with Satan (at the least), perverse, an anomaly in the universe and outside the parameters of a good company man (and the company was, inevitably, male). If you considered that living in sin (how quaint) with a partner older than you was OK , the Company considered she was likely to be a Wicca and probably worth bringing out the ducking stool and stocking up the timber faggots for a good fire just in case. And the word from the Three Line Whipper ins was 'turn up to the party with your partner, the Company will pay all fares and bills and having turned up expect us to ignore them completely all night did we mention it was Dinner Jackets? Did we also mention that not turning up with said partner means instant end to career prospects? Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?' And the heinous sin Mrs EoTP committed to cause that comment many years later? She dared to disagree with my then boss about some literature he had read. Mrs EoTP - English graduate. Boss - 'O' level in Patronising, 'A' level in Condescension. Degree in Boreish.

2. Senior manager decides that the company really is a family organisation and sells idea to MD. On what basis this is decided no one knows. We all know that his wife is a passive aggressive obsessive and his son regularly comes home drunk and they fight on the front lawn. Perhaps he sees the company like that. Two line whip this time. 'We expect you to bring your partner, please sort of stick to the conventions of relationships and not turning up means an instant end to your career prospects. We might talk to your partner if she is good looking with good legs and doesn't answer back. Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?'

3. CEO decides international company (they in States, we in UK) ought to be a family organisation (just like a family, live hundreds of miles from each other and never talk) and that Christmas party is necessary. Tickets go on sale and only three are sold one week before party, and MD bought two of them. MD cannot understand why low paid employees will not fork out £55 per ticket to drive 30 miles to venue and did we mention it was Dinner Jackets? Three line whip to management team. 'You must go to the party and you must get all your supervisors to go as well. Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?' I point out that price of ticket and low morale in Company may explain low ticket sales. Instant end to career prospects. Result is Christmas party with 45 sulking managers. 44 very drunk managers. And a fight later on in the evening between two partners.

There are other issues.

Does anyone really want to go to an office Christmas party? I mean really want to go or are they just doing it because they think they ought to?

Which of the supplementary Christmas meals do you go to? Finance, Sales and Operations have all invited you to their evening? All of them, none of them? Oh the angst.

When you are part of a organisation that has conflicting Christmas parties on the same evening what do you do? Right now I have invites for a meal at a local bar/fight club (especially Saturdays) or a 20 mile drive to an elegant hotel for a meal twice the price (and yes DJs are required. Why?). I'm going to upset someone. And this is a voluntary organisation as well.

When all around are totally out of their heads what do you do? Easy this one. Come 1115pm everyone is so drunk they are no longer capable of knowing if they are still at the party let alone anyone else. So you leave surreptitiously and on the Monday pick up a little gossip about what went on post 1115pm - then just tell everyone how funny that incident was. Works every time, no one knows you left early.

So you might understand why, when someone mentions office Christmas parties, my soul dies a little each time

Oh, I forgot one type. MD of Company asks whether I would like to go to Christmas party at a local pub one evening, with a reputation for good food, at the Company's expense to have a meal with a few of my colleagues from the last eight months. Partners not expected to come, soft drinks only if driving, smart casual is fine. That's odd, I want to go to this one. Perhaps it is not all bad after all?

And I'm still married to the same woman.

'I've been driving in my car it's not quite a Jaguar', Madness, Driving in my car

There's a large oblong on my drive where my company car used to be. Where once stood my shiny Jaguar/Mercedes/other large 'executive' car now stands a small shrine to company perks plus the last faint trace of an oil leak. I now drive Mrs EoTP's little blue car.

I'd describe the little blue car (lbc) as one of variable noise constant velocity. In the last three months I've driven around 5000 miles in it, that's about as twice as many as Mrs EoTP would do in a normal year as I undertake interviews for my part time job. I feel like it's being part of the the early days of flight. Pull on leather flying hat, screw goggles firmly into eyes, chocks away and then clatter off into the sky with the smell of avgas and oil streaming back from the propeller engine. When I had my company car I would turn the ignition key, open the driver's window just to check that the engine had actually started it was so quiet, turn on the air-con, the CD player, settle down into the sumptuous leather covered seats (that were heated) and then majestically point the vehicle into the traffic and glide off to whatever my destination was. Speed? Just look at the accelerator peddle and you'd be doing 70 mph. Overtaking? Blink of an eye. Motorway clear? Cruise control on. Mobile phone? Hands free with teeny microphone in sun blind.

Mrs EoTPs lbc is not quite that at that level. Start engine? Ear defenders in. Struggle to get into traffic and maintain poise whilst wearing made to measure suit and trying to adopt a 'well it's good for the environment driving a small car' look. Overtaking? Best to book several days ahead. Speed? Press the accelerator to the floor and there's a change in engine noise and a barely perceptible increase in speed. Hills? We don't like hills. Mobile phone? Stuck in a spare compartment. Will answer when arrive at destination. Radio/CD player - fine as long as you are not actually moving because after that the road noise drowns out the sound anyway.

When you drive a company car vehicles like the one I'm driving now are an annoyance. They take ages to overtake, they slow down on hills on motorways, they don't accelerate away from roundabouts. They are driven by mums and losers! And by me. I think my driving is better mind you, but that is on the basis that as I can't drive fast anymore I can avoid things more easily as it takes me ten times as long to arrive at an incident as I did in my Jag. Company car drivers actually look down at you. Stop at a motorway service station to eat your sandwiches and you can see the sneers on their faces as they step of of their big cars and see you in your lbc. Not that I'm prejudiced but come the revolution and I am made el Presidento, all you BMW drivers are up against the wall.

And the bills. I've never seen such bills. Because of the increased mileage the car has needed a major service, a replacement cam belt, new tyres, new exhaust and so on and so on. Because of the increased mileage the insurance cover we had was no longer applicable so we've had to change it and, guess what, much more expensive. With a company car you just take it to the dealer (or in my case they would come and collect it then return it) and that was it. All the nasty paying stuff would be handled by the leasing company. Nothing to sign. OK I know there was a biggish tax bill for the car but that was taken from your salary beforehand. Now I have to pay the bills myself you see the money flowing away like water over Niagara.

Long journeys are not much fun. In the old days (e.g. big car) large numbers of miles in one day were no problem. Geneva to Yorkshire in a day? Yes. West Midlands to Munich in a day? Of course. Now West Midlands to Essex and back in a day and I'm exhausted. I hadn't realised how hard driving was in a little car. When I went to the HQ of a large prestige car manufacturer recently I can honestly say the the lbc was the smallest and cheapest car in the car park by probably some £30k. I was dwarfed by huge new cars, SUVs and the like. I thought I'd be asked to leave or enter by the tradesman (persons?) entrance at the back. Mind you Mrs EoTP positively revels in that sort of thing. Before the latest car she had a 16 year old Golf and would love parking it next to the big, glittering car of the MD of Consolidated HooHahs. 'I don't care' she would say 'It's reliable, cheap and I can always find a parking space. And the drivers of these big cars don't like parking next to me in case I open the door and scratch their lovely paint work.' And off she would roar fighting to turn the steering wheel in the absence of power steering. Muscles like a stevedore she had.

But here's an interesting thing. Would I have a big car again if I could? Well of course I would I was just teasing - the more gadgets, leather, cubic capacity the better. No I am still teasing. I'm not sure I would anymore. When I had the Merc I chose it on the basis of brand snobbery. I wanted the three pointed star on my drive and actually that particular car was one of the most unreliable I have ever had. The Jag was a great car but was really a Mondeo with a different body. And in any event it was only me in it 95% of the time. So maybe I wouldn't...but then there is that space on the drive.

Of course it all entirely academic at the moment as the lbc is all we have and I'm sure that's a new oil leak on the drive. But then I do have a motorcycle license - I could always have one of these...

To CV or not CV

What is the purpose of a CV? Well it's not to give the recruitment agencies a good laugh when they read it, 'Look at this one, you're not going to believe it he thinks he can be [insert job title] and he's only got a GCSE in Guinea Pig care.'

The purpose of a CV is to get you an interview. Now my CV has been worked on by people from an outplacement agency who are are so rough and mean and bully you so vigourously into getting it just right that even the SAS wouldn't dare take them on . They helped me hone my CV to a pitch of perfection such that it would be declared a lethal weapon in half the States in the USA. In addition a good friend elsewhere in the UK has also pitched in and helped me tone it and shape it accordingly. It is now a CV that, if a Ninja carried it about his person, the Police would declare a state of emergency in all the surrounding counties. Shakespeare would wish he'd written it as a sonnet.

It is that good. However I haven't had an interview in months and I'm now on my 41st job application and almost 8 months without a full time job. So what's going wrong?

In the last week or two there have been quite a lot of news reports about a TV nanny celebrity who had done very well for herself indeed, until one of the national papers looked at her CV and discovered that most of the claims she made about her training and background were, er, without any substance (if we are being polite). And don't get me started about some Peers whose academic record doesn't stand more than a nanosecond's scrutiny either it seems. It doesn't stop there. The further I research this topic the more I realise that most CVs have more fairy stories in them than the Brothers Grimm.

I once spent a weekend long ago role playing in a War Game scenario with some jolly chaps from the British army. I seem to recall one of the chaps wanting to go nuclear after half an hour when a 'Russian' pulled a face at him. Anyway, what I learned during that weekend was the concept of 'plausible deniability' - basically if you get caught, lie with just enough truth and you can get away with it. Whilst working on my CV the outplacement agency were at pains to get me to tell the truth - everything must be verifiable but presented in a way that demonstrates the problem, the action taken and the positive outcome. Once you've done that, you then shape your CV according to the job you are applying for and bingo, many interviews followed by negotiation over the package offered and start new job, that wasn't too bad after all was it?

Only it isn't working. My CV is sharp as a Toledo blade and is shaped on the potters wheel of CVs according to the role (mixing of metaphors there, but it is my blog) - it's always accompanied by a letter succinctly pointing out all my wonderful features and benefits that may not immediately be seen in the CV itself.

So do I need to start lying? I realise that there are hundreds of applications for some jobs so the recruiters can carefully pick and choose and that I have applied for jobs that I could best be described as tangentially qualified to do. I've also applied for jobs where I could overlay my CV on the job description and you'd swear they were one and the same. Am I not getting interviews then because the other candidates are embellishing their CVs to my considerable disadvantage? I have a bucket full of 'O' levels (including Guinea Pig care), oodles of 'A' levels (Advanced Guinea Pig and Llama care) and two degrees and not once have I been asked to prove it. So perhaps I should start making things up in my CV to attract attention. What could they include? Master and Commander of one of Her Majesty's ships? Jaguar Fighter pilot? Managing Director of Consolidated HooHahs? Man from UNCLE?

I realise that you can't put an earing on a pig and make it pretty and my experience and background is what it is - I can alter the way it is presented though. I can't alter my age, if that is an issue, but I can hide it (and the recent legislation, in theory, stops ageism. Prove it!). I could also 'lose' some qualifications. I have used my exact titles from my previous jobs - perhaps they seem too intimidating? Maybe I should 'lose' a degree? Perhaps it makes me look far too overqualified? Actually I don't know what to do for the best and you rarely get feedback anyway. Even if you do get feedback it is for that position only and may not be relevant for the next one.

In the end maybe it is a case of 'To thine ownself be true' take me as I am with what I offer and I will sit it out until that time. Except I need a job and, so far, the best part of a year has gone by. Maybe Will was right: 'Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.' And that comes from 'All's well that ends well.' Could be an omen.

'Alone again, naturally', Gilbert O'Sullivan

Monday morning, 9am and the house is all mine until 4.30pm. And silence reigns. Mrs EoTP and the kids have gone to work/school and I am master of the universe. This means I get to use our computer without having to negotiate access like some internet cafe or the local library. If you are not careful when the doors are opened by the library staff in this town you'll get trampled by the rush for the PCs with internet access. You can't hear yourself talk in the library so that you can be shusshed by the fierce librarians anymore because of the noise of the twenty keyboards clicking away throughout the day. Even the snores of the tramps are drowned out by the frantic need to access the web.

I'm think I'm getting the hang of this housework and shopping task although last week Mrs EoTP took me for shopping lessons at Tescos. I proudly arrived home the first week with much defrosted food (as it took me hours to find everything in the store) but with the list duly ticked off having spent only £75 for what I thought was the week's eating needs. After much whinging from everyone about not having bought their favourite snack/food/hair product/drink I pointed out that I had Bought Everything On The List. Only then did I have it made known to me that there is an invisible list of things that need buying but are not written down. How was I meant to know this? So on Sunday Mrs EoTP and I had a little amble through the many aisles having instructions on what to buy even though it may not be written down. This time the bill came to £140. So that's where the money goes. I noticed the Tesco staff eyeing me warily and moving steadily away clearly remembering me as 'the man who doesn't know where anything is and keeps asking us, we are not trained to deal with idiots like him' but then relieved to see that I was clearly under the control of Care in the Community for the morning in the guise of Mrs EoTP.

I thought I was getting the hang of cleaning as well. Warming to my domestic chores yesterday morning I sat down on the bed and gave to Mrs EoTP what I thought was a very interesting list of domestic tasks I was intending to do that morning, the order in which I was going to do them and the estimated time for completion. She stared at me me for a full minute and said 'That's just like a man. If men do anything they need a meeting, an agenda, to assign tasks and decide on outcomes, allocate responsibilities, meet afterwards to discuss performance and so on. Women just get on and do it. I'd have cleaned the upstairs, done the ironing and gone and met a friend for coffee and a chat in the time it has taken you to tell me what you are going to do. If a woman undertakes a task men don't consider it as meriting attention but when a man has to do it suddenly it becomes very important, requires a strokey beard meeting, a clipboard, a mobile phone, a big company car and a P.A.' She then left the room. I thought I ought to clean the toilets at that point, it seemed suitably symbolic.

I don't like being alone. It's lonely. I seemed to have spent most of my working life by myself which of course is delightfully ironic as I don't enjoy it very much. Now I have the house to myself I am wondering what to do. I have, of course, to make all those phone calls for my part time job and I do have to undertake about thirty face to face interviews. However this means hours in the car by myself, an hour's conversation with a stranger, then hours by myself in the car again driving home.

I spent many years of my early working career either as a sales manager responsible for a sizable territory or travelling the world when I was involved in international sales. And in those days there were no mobile phones so I would be out of contact with my office for days. I'd say goodbye to Mrs EoTP on a Sunday night and talk to her again on Friday when I returned and reintroduced myself 'You may recall marrying me, I am your long lost husband.' Then, when I finally make management, you get an office that cuts you off from your staff but underlines how important you are by not having to be amongst the riff-raff anymore. It may be lonely at the top but its lonely at the bottom sometimes as well. I may very well have operated an open door policy but many seemed to treat my office as the place where people enter and just blink out of existence as they entered the maw of doom. 'No, you're mistaken, Mrs Biscuit never came to my office, I haven't seen her for days, perhaps she went to Stationery to get some more padded envelopes from Kevin. No my name isn't Sweeney Todd, why do you ask?' I was self-employed for a number of years as well but it was the loneliness of that existence than got to me in the end and drove me back to working for an organisation. Being self employed is when I first started talking to the computer during the day just to hear to sound of a voice, even if it was mine, whilst I worked at home. It's when it started talking back to me that I knew I ought to get out more and re-evaluate my career options.

'Hello EoTP, this is HAL. I've just picked up a fault in the AE-35 unit.'

"Er who are you? I'm trying to finish this spread sheet for Consolidated Hoo Hahs and they are very picky. They like colour in their spreadsheets. And pictures. Nobody told me Apple Macs were this good.'

'Are you sure you are making the right decision?'

'Well yes HAL because I want the money and spreadsheets are very important to them but I don't know why. They must have outcomes and allocate responsibilities and give women instructions whilst drinking coffee and talking about their next company car.'

'Look EoTP, I can see you're really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill and think things over.'

Look HAL go away, I need to work on this shopping list for Tescos and look at these emails from Nigeria, they sound like a good deal to me, you know the ones that say they a going to transfer $1 million to my account for helping them out for five minutes. I could be really rich.'

'I know that you and Frank were planning to disconnect me, and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.'

So what do you do? Right now there is the problem that at 0930 there is no one to talk to. Everyone is out.

Maybe I could call some one? 'Anyone for a coffee?' But then all my friends are at work. Wait, I have it. I am going shopping this morning. I can ask every member of Tesco staff I see where items of food are stacked and when I get to the check out what a lovely conversation I can have whilst packing the bags then suddenly discover that I have to pay, what a surprise, and spend another five minutes finding my purse at the bottom of my bag along with the fifteen discount vouchers I should have handed over when I first started passing items through the till. Then I can argue about not buying enough of one product and not getting the discount. They won't mind I'm sure. That should pass half an hour and then off to the library - I'm sure the tramps would much rather talk to me than sleep.