Jobseeker

“You've been away quite a while, haven't you?”

Her analysis was spot on. But still, it depended on your perspective. I knew old guys who'd been out there since the sixties.

“Things have changed over the last...” she looked down at my file, “nine years. A lot of things.”

Yes, I knew. Recession. Global warming. Conservatives back in power. Where did she think I'd come from?

“I suppose you've been on a desert island all this time?”

She wasn't even that far off the mark, aside from the vegetation. And the villagers. Desert islands weren't supposed to have them, were they?

“Do you speak English? We can arrange an interpreter...”

“No... I am English.” I spat it out with a not a little spite. Just out of the habit of speaking it, that was all. Tagalog can do that to you. Still forever Cambridgeshire under the tan.

“OK, good,” she looked over me, unsure.

What was it? The ponytail? The tie-dye? The
tatoos? Those modern emblems of Englishness?

“Well," she continued, "as I said, things have changed rather a lot. Have you ever signed on before?”

“No.” I answered proudly. Never. A matter of principle.

“Well, that's good. It's nothing like it used to be."

As well it shouldn't be.

"So... you're looking for work?”

“Yes.” Of course. I was no scrounging layabout. You could hardly blame me for the rising seas. We'd lived ecologically sound lives.

“Well...” impatiently, “what are you doing?”

Ah, the crucial question.

“Well,” I began eagerly, “mostly woodwork so far. Out in the Philippines I used bamboo and coconut trees, but now that I'm back here, I'm keen to broaden into clay and metals. Use what's around. Pamper to the market. You know. Increase my selling potential.”

Showing off, but still a winning proposal.

“No,” she said severely, laughing to herself, “that won't do I'm afraid.”

What?

“I meant, are you looking for actual work?”

Actual work? I'd just come from it. Two or three promising pieces of fine artistry on the go. At it all morning. Just needed a bit of cash. Tide me over to a sale.

“Just as I thought,” she said triumphantly.

“You'll need to get in line with the new regulations, I'm afraid,” looking rather pleased.

“And that means applying for real jobs.”

Real jobs?

“Here, take a look,” she handed me a print-out. I looked over the key words with a sinking heart.

Call centre. Customer Service. Cleaner. Those weren't for me.

“But I'm an artist.” I pleaded.

And a good one at that. Have kindness. I'd lost so much. Come through so much.

She really didn't know the half of it.

“No,” she said anyway, with utter certainty.

“You're a jobseeker.”