Jobless but Charitable

No, I don’t have a job yet.

Stating this fact with bald abandon has become an alarmingly regular occurrence, conversationally. It has also begun a habitual, almost ritualistic erosion of my ego. This was possibly needed.

As previously stated, I’ve moved back into the family home for a few weeks (by gum, yes I am a graduate statistic), as the jobless, penniless state doesn’t really work all too well with city living. Surrounded by the temptations of going ‘out’ (alcohol and casinos, lunch dates and coffee) one finds what little one had of finances rapidly depleting. Returning back ‘Up North’ to ‘The Country’ where nothing opens on a Sunday and pubs close at ridiculous hours, I can do nothing with the no money I have but spend my days applying for jobs whilst weeping into a bottle of wine.

I jest.

The problem is, seeing as I never went home much during my university years and I come from a very small town community, old faces from the past keep floating up from the fog and cheerfully asking ‘what I’m up to’. My standard grade maths teacher cheerfully bellowed after me while I was out running, a primary school teacher initiated a chase round Tesco’s (lost ‘em round the seasonal aisle) and a run-in with an ex’s mothers resulted in the ONLY instance of knee-jerk lie:

‘I have, like, a job! Somewhere really cool! And it’s awesome!’

This led to a bit of soul-searching and a decision to broaden my horizons, so when my mother asked me if I’d help out with an Amnesty International Can-Rattling collection, I decided to embrace my altruistic side. Why not?

Partly because it involved getting up at 7am and driving to Inverness. Partly because I had to wear a yellow fluorescent bib, which served to attract an impressive number of wasps. But mostly, because people on the street are nutters.

Being less glib, it has resulted in my first semi-political little doodle. After only 5 minutes of holding a can, wearing a bib, carrying 3 colourful Amnesty balloons, armfuls of stickers and smiling inanely, I was accosted by my first loony.

‘What’s it for then?’ She barked. The old lady had actually bothered crossing the street after spotting me from afar, but the tell-tale sign was that she was not fumbling for her wallet.

‘Amnesty International.’

She looked blank, so I continued helpfully. ‘Human Rights?’

Her face immediately clouded over.

‘Human rights? Human rights?’

Much head shaking and dark muttering accompanied by ‘significant looks’ followed before she dropped her bombshell.

‘I don’t believe in human rights!’ She shrieked. ‘What about our rights? It’s just not right!’

What. A. Nutter.

‘They come over here, steal our jobs, them Arabs, them, others, them...you know’s!’

‘Well, we’re more about, like, anti-torture. Anti-’

‘DEPORT THEM ALL! THAT’S WHAT I SAY!’

You’d think that’d be a one off encounter, but worryingly, there were probably 3 or 4 more after her who hurled pretty much exactly the same torrent of ignorance and hate.

How can anyone be seriously anti human rights? I concluded these same people most probably the give five pounds a month to the RSPCA.

Weirdly, it was an uplifting experience. Not weird in that collecting money for charity was uplifting, but weird in the sense that for every blind idiot, there were 10 more people who would empty their purse of all their change – and not even want a sticker.

Mental lady actually gave me 50p in the end, anyway.

C’est la vie.