Well, three days and a couple of paper cuts later, and I've successfully completed my job application for the Brighton Argus (that's the newspaper, not the catalogue shop in Western Road). It was touch and go for a while though - at the eleventh hour I realised I'd forgotten I used to write for Jim Henson (two years after he died - I refused to let his death come between us), and had to re-jig my whole CV to fit it in. It's funny the things you forget. I'll probably find I wrote a few early episodes of The Simpsons but it's since slipped my mind. Anyhoo, I've also included three examples of my work, and told them I write a lot of fiction. Which I then proved by describing myself as "an experienced and accomplished writer".*

I have to question my own dedication though. I was in Sussex Stationers yesterday afternoon buying paper for my CV, when someone at the till announced that Jimmy Somerville was walking past the window. Obviously the Argus job description mentions the ability to secure interviews with popstars (and kooks), and I felt little Jimmy scored on both counts, but ultimately I couldn't shake the feeling that running out of the shop and down the road after Mr Somerville was altogether too much effort. And besides, if there's one thing which is going to impress a Features Editor, it's the ability to choose the right paper. So I stayed in the warm and spent three quid on A4.

I'm confident of success though. On my way home, I passed a restaurant with the sign "Please use side door for deliverys", and a greengrocer selling "Chessnuts", so there's clearly a lack of decent writers in Brighton.

In other news, I watched Wolf Creek on DVD last night. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, but can someone please explain to me (preferably without resorting to pretentious lines about the Australian Outback being the fifth character) why nothing whatsoever happens in the first half of the movie. Seriously, nothing. If there'd been any paint drying nearby, I would have found that more distracting. Personally I couldn't wait for someone to turn up and start hacking the actors to death. But to my eternal relief, after forty-five minutes he did, and I'm pleased to say the second half was genuinely traumatic and mentally disturbing in a clinical sense. So thanks Mum, it was the perfect Christmas gift.

*That's a joke, if anyone from the Argus is reading this. I am experienced and accomplished. No, really. Ask my mother.