No, I don’t want your number, no, I don’t want to give you mine


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As regular readers may know, at the moment I am looking for work.  I’m doing volunteering and applying for loads of jobs but no luck yet.  It’s only a matter of time.

What this does mean, however, is that I have to regularly go to the job centre so they can see how I’m getting on and I can get a small amount of money to live on.

About a month ago I had an interview at Sheffield Uni and then had to go in later than usual to the job centre.  Everyone was on their lunch, but I had to go and pick up a little boy I was babysitting, so the supervisor agreed to see me and was lovely and very helpful.  She was going to head downstairs with me to find some extra forms that might be useful for me, but just had to deal with something else, so asked me to wait a second.

Now since I had been to the interview, I was a little dressed up – a 1930s style green dress, cardi, heels and even had foundation and mascara on.  I got up from my seat, started putting on my coat and one of the security guards came over to keep an eye on one of the other visitors and started talking to me.  He said I looked nice, I said thanks, I’ve been to an interview.  He didn’t ask how it went but asked me if I had a boyfriend.

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