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Friday, June 15, 2007

I've made an important decision today. It was actually made at 6am this morning, having been awake for two hours eating the contents of the fridge (minus the vegetables), so you know it's going to be good. Of course, if I'd known I had such an ability to get up at 4am and make decisions, I'd have mentioned it on my application to become a postman, but needless to say I didn't. Which might explain why I've heard nothing from them.

Winner (not Michael)Anyhoo, I've decided that I really must finish my novel. I casually mentioned back here, whilst up to my neck in tobogganing geese, clairvoyant bears and the curse of the YMCA (Young Mountaineers Cheese Association) that I'd have it finished within a week. Of course, that was two and a half years ago, and I haven't written another word since. Personally I blame Lisa. Though I haven't yet worked out why.

The other culprit is undoubtedly Paul Burrell, who came into my life during the first week of December 2004, distracted me from my writing, and ultimately led to the creation of my Telly Critic site, which took up most of my time in 2005, until I was forced to give that up too by certain persons (obviously I couldn't name them) who felt that if I'm going to drive 130 miles down to Sussex to spend the weekend with them, then maybe I shouldn't sit with my laptop all day, writing about Wife Swap.

The first half of 2006 was spent trying to save the large sums of money it cost me to move here, and the months since have been spent looking for a job. It's one year ago this weekend since I took possession (in the demonic sense of the word) of this flat, lined it with an impractically-coloured carpet, and spent five hundred quid on a washer-dryer for Lisa to stuff with underwired bras. And with the exception of an unpaid job on The Kemptown Rag, I don't have a lot to show for it.

All of this culminated in a discussion on Wednesday of this week with the Scope Job Broker, my official disability employment adviser, who after seven months of helping me apply for jobs, has finally admitted that no one's going to give me an interview unless I lie about the last thirteen years of my life. If you're a criminal, your conviction's spent after ten years, but if you're depressed it's apparently there for life.

So after eight months of job applications I've now been officially told it's a waste of time, and I need to create an elaborate cover story spanning more than a decade if I ever want to get a job in this town.

So frankly I feel a novel would be less work.

I clearly can't expect anyone else to consider me for employment (that would, I'm told, be asking too much), so if I want that yacht in the Mediterranean, it looks like it's down to me. My novel was much admired by the three people who read it, so as my first year in Brighton comes to an end, I'm going to put the job-hunting on hold, and get on with my writing. Unless anyone from the DSS is reading this, in which case I'm fully committed to my jobsearch, and on the phone to an agency as we speak.

That's the plan anyway. Unfortunately, before I can get on with finishing my novel, I've got to plough through the 50,000 words I've already written. Which for someone who doesn't read, could be a problem.

Incidentally, if anyone's here wondering when the next post from Big Sis is going to appear, I spoke to her this morning and she gave me four excuses for her lack of blogging:
  • She's up to her ears in paperwork related to the shipping of her car to Australia.

  • Her tenants at the Old Dairy in Salisbury are trying to sue her for giving them asthma.

  • Her belongings have been infected by a plant she doesn't own, and have to be destroyed.

  • She's on the run from a dog-eating bear in Los Angeles.
If it were anyone else, I wouldn't believe a word of it, but this is my Big Sis we're talking about, so I know it's all true. Frankly it sounds like a quiet week for her.