It's been an interesting day.
I had an appointment with an employment agency this morning, they phoned yesterday and said they really liked my C.V. and thought they could put quite a bit of work my way (Hoorah! Yippee! w00t! etc). So I donned my favourite suit, grabbed my passport and N.I card (they need to make sure you're not an illegal immigrant before they can put you forward for jobs ... although I'm fairly sure my accent is a bit of a giveaway on that front), a copy of my C.V and qualification certificates and headed into town.
The glorious weather hasn't abated yet and I happily wandered through the park, admiring the daffodils and blossoming trees and said hello to the ducks (I like to do that, I know they can't reply but I think they appreciate the gesture all the same).
On reaching the employment agency's office I was given a pile of forms (Dostoevsky's work again, I think) to fill in. It's amazing, I can remember all my times tables and all manner of other useless facts and figures and yet even after being asked at least 5 times for my mobile number and rooting around for it on said mobile, I STILL couldn't remember it!
I then had to do a couple of tests; pretty basic stuff, and then there were yet more forms to fill in whilst the consultant went and checked their database for any jobs they might be able to put me forward for, so I figuratively rolled up my sleeves and settled down for the long haul.
The office had a number of cubicles sectioned off, for people like me to write their autobiographies in and for the consultants to be able to interview clients in private. Only problem was, they weren't at all private. The walls were clearly incredibly thin because I could hear all of the conversation from the next cubicle. It was a gentleman, well spoken and middle aged by the sounds of it, who clearly wasn't having much success with temping:
Consultant: "It's getting to the stage now where I really don't know how much more we can do for you"
Man: "There must be other jobs"
Consultant: "Well yes, there are ... but you must admit that it has proved almost impossible for us to find something that you're happy to do".
Man: "I don't like filing"
Consultant: "No I know, but filing is often a basic requirement of office work"
Man: "And I'm not very good with computers"
Consultant: "In this day and age no office is going to be without them"
Man: "And I don't like speaking to people on the telephone"
Consultant: (starting to sound just a little bit irritable) "We're quite aware of what you DON'T like to do, Robert. We've put you forward for 11 positions in the last six weeks, 5 of them you refused to even consider, 4 of them you lasted less than a week and the other 2 ... less than a day! What is it you DO want to do?"
Man: "I'd like to work in an abattoir"
Very long pause
Consultant: "Robert, we are an employment agency specialising in office support"
Man: "Do you know anyone who might be able to get me a job in an abattoir?"
It was kinda creepy listening to him, even with the paper-thin walls between us. I imagined him carrying various tools of torture around in a doctors bag, stalking through the Norfolk streets with a big cape and top hat, looking for hapless pigs to slaughter whilst muttering "sausages" under his fetid breath.
I found myself torn between wanting to catch a glimpse of him, (just so I'd know what he looked like and could give him a wide berth if I ever found myself within a 50 mile radius of him) and hoping he'd have left by time I did, he creeped me out that much.
Fortunately he had and I left the premises unmolested and with an assurance from the consultant that they hoped to find something for me soon. Big sighs of relief on all counts then.
I was supposed to meet my mum for lunch but she'd gotten caught up in extreme retail therapy and asked me to amuse myself for another half hour. I grumpily agreed and wandered off looking for adventure. Which I soon found in Sainsbury's of all places!
I went in with the aim of buying some bananas and cat biscuit (not to be consumed together, btw) and having meandered down the aisles I soon found the bakery section.
Now if any of you read Mr London Street's blog (which I certainly hope you DO, because the man is truly gifted) then you will know that a debate on scones has been verily raging amongst him and his many friends and followers. First there was the all important question of pronunciation ... is it scone, to rhyme with "Gone" (yes, it IS, btw) or to rhyme with "Moan" (his choice of rhyming words, not mine)?
Secondly, and far more contentiously it seems, was the question "What comes first? The jam or the cream?" (Answer: Jam first, because jam by its very nature needs to be spread and how can you possibly spread something onto a non-solid, flumpy mass such as cream?)
Anyway, there's been a lot of argument from clearly misguided souls who haven't the first clue about scone etiquette, so when I saw some cream scones twinkling at me from the refrigerated shelving unit I decided to seize the moment and settle the matter once and for all.
Until that moment in time, I had never appreciated just how tricky it can be verifying whether a scone has jam or cream first when it's neatly packaged in a little box and with several aged folk staring at you as though you just escaped from Bedlam. I wanted to take some photos, but the elderly become amazingly hostile when they see scones being tampered with, so I left it.
Simple answer though: Jam first (Ha!)
I had planned to leave it there, but I know how pedantic and troublesome some people can be, big bunch of doubting Thomas' that you are, I just knew you would say it was inconclusive proof.
So I went to Tescos. Where I nearly had to wrestle a wrinkly for the last box. (It's such a good job I'm younger and faster).
Anyway, their scones had jam first too (Double Ha!)
But "let's be fair", I thought ... "best of three".
And then I went to Marks & Spencers. (Where I was rather snootily asked if I intended to buy the scones after I'd finished manhandling them, by a lady with the most outrageous leopard print coat, beehive hairdo and painted on eyebrows)
And guess what? It turns out that M&S scones have jam first too. *smug, superior grin*
And this isn't just delicious little rounds of stodgy goodness, slathered with the finest strawberry preserve and thick, heart-attack inducing Devonshire cream ... this is grossly overpriced delicious little rounds of stodgy goodness, slathered with the finest strawberry preserve and thick, heart-attack inducing Devonshire cream; this is food made especially for middle-class snobs.
So there you have it! Totally conclusive. Three out of three. Jam first.
The matter is now closed.
Ps: Guess what I'm having for dinner?
