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Thursday, 12 March 2015

In which One is fed up with it all…

clarks sandals

‘Based upon the CV you sent us, we will not be progressing your application any further,’ said the polite rejection email.

Sadly, since One has applied for seventy two thousand jobs this week, One can’t recall what the feck that one was.  However, whoever you are, thanks for the one and only acknowledgement One has had!

So, there you have it, Dear Reader, One has no transferable/useful/up to date, skills of any kind and is taking up valuable space on the planet.

Here One is at an advanced age, albeit with the attitude of a teenager, scraping about for gainful employment and being cast aside like an old sea boot.

One is a child of the 1950’s when all little girls, especially in my household, were expected to leave school, bash out a few letters on a manual typewriter for a lascivious boss, nab a bloke down the youth club, marry and start squeezing out the next generation whilst making sure hubby’s ‘tea’ was on the table the minute he walked through the door.

‘Hey little girl, comb your hair, fix your make-up, soon he will open the door,’ went a popular tune of the day…

Nothing would give One greater pleasure than to biff about the galley all day making yummy dinners for the A of the F,  but, for us, that boat has sailed and he is as ‘up the creek without a paddle’ as dear old Lovely One.

Are we downhearted?  Course we fecking are!  Will we be defeated?  Not fecking likely, Dear Reader.

Around this time of year, and at the very latest, Easter, One would be taken out by Nanny Cooper for One’s summer sandals, see above.

Would that One could be transported back, One would bung ‘em on and perambulate down a different road entirely…

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