My adventures in penury land me with two job applications on my screen, one for MI6, one for Sainsbury’s.
Do I become a spy, or stack shelves in a supermarket? The vacancies are on a recruitment site called Indeed, one after the other: Counter Assistant, Sainsbury’s. Intelligence Officer, London. Just like that. I began googling jobs in a panic because embarrassing things started to happen.
For example, a friend who runs a tack shop gave me a broken bag of feed for the horses, saying, ‘Please, take it, I can’t sell it. Really, you’d be doing me a favour.’ Word has evidently got round that I am succumbing to the pressure of a mortgage and vet bills while persisting with the damn fool idea I have pursued all my life of neither cultivating wealth myself nor marrying into it, instead doing silly things like writing books. What an oversight.
The worst bit is all the suggestions, which invariably begin ‘why don’t you’.
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