Searching for the Perfect Cardigan

An absolute rotter of a day – a complete shitbag from soup to nuts. A day where freezing, torrential rain vied with painful comical mishaps and impending poverty in a battle royale to unhinge me completely.

One thing which always makes me giggle is when I inadvertently scream out well-known comedy catchphrases in blatant frustration. So it was today, when trying to retrieve a box of Ready Brek from a high shelf that I jostled a box of Alpen which plummeted towards me, spewing its malty contents in every direction, which caused me to exclaim ‘what are the chances of that happening?’

The day failed to improve when I left the house. Once I was well away from any sort of shelter the heavens would open in extreme anger, and once shelter would be reached, it would go all sunny. At the exposed bus stop, I’d wait long enough that frustration would take hold, so I’d dash to the next stop, only for a bus to emerge from nowhere and hurtle passed me.

Then, when I was an annoying distance from the house, the recruiter I was planning to see today called to say. ‘You have got your passport haven’t you?’ No, why? Are we going away somewhere? ‘You will need your passport. It’s a requirement’ So I had to return home and repeat the process, rain, missed bus, walk, rain, missed bus.

Prior to this proposed recruiter interview, I planned to continue my pointless cardigan quest. What I am looking for is a horrible cardigan. I want to resurrect my comedy character, Les Hope, but to do this I need to find his cardigan. I can picture it in my mind, grey, polyester, slightly greasy, perhaps with a chevron pattern, vile. But I cannot find it. I have visited every charity shop in North London, but they are too tasteful. It’s all Armani and designer gear, no foul clothing a tramp would turn his nose up at.

I took a break from pointless cardigan hunting for lunch. There was an amazing scene in the grim Camden pub that I chose due to the monsoon which chose to shed its filthy, watery load on me at that moment. Two groups of old people, at separate tables, were trading insults at the top of their lungs. One in the party was called Donut. They really seemed to despise each other:

‘You didn’t buy him a drink did you. He’s always cadging off people’
‘Why don’t you mind your own fucking business’
‘You’re such a bullshitter, why don’t you fuck off?’
‘Whose talking to you? Why don’t you fuck off?’

There was talk of prising someone’s coffin open and stealing the contents. They then started to talk about Germany, and the possibility of taking one of them to Belgium and leaving them there. I say talk, it was more gummy screeching. It was quite entertaining.

So to the recruiters. They really are an odd breed. She made the mistake of asking me why I left my last post. After several minutes of bile spewing, she said:

‘One thing companies hate to hear from prospective employees is…well…bitterness is too strong a word’

She went on to tell me how much she loved her job.

‘I love it. I’m addicted. I can’t stop. My boyfriend does it to, we both do it together. We can’t get enough. Of course he was in the hospital at the weekend. He was just overworked and dehydrated. But then he’s only got one kidney anyway’

I’m not entirely sure she’s the perfect person to find me an appointment.

So I returned home in more endless pissing rain. There is no milk. I cannot face going outside again. All is misery.