Didn't get the job.
Therefore, I had to attend another DWP appointment, forty-five minutes of tugging my forelock before my masters at the dole. My smooth talk, a loaf of lies speckled with the odd grain of truth, means I've been granted a further extension of my bail until January. How I wish I could reproduce that sleekit style in job interviews.
But I can't live on what they're allowing me. I've applied to join a cleaning agency, working in people's houses and airbnbs. I have no taste for it, but gaining conventional work is so long-winded a process.
To Boston, where the Shrimps (Morecambe FC) were away on a Tuesday night. I'm still milking the rail pass I should have handed in when I left Transport that Fails, before it expires at the end of the year.
There are a great many East Europeans living there. The men walk round in purple outfits that are half-tracksuit, half-pyjamas. A pint in a normal pub, where some old fellows were playing cribbage, was 2.95; in Wethers it was a pound less than that.
The Boston fans were friendly; some of them walked me to my airbnb, waited while I checked in, taking me back to the pub for a pint before we caught the bus to the ground. We won, a barely believable 4-0, a result which propels us to second from bottom. Afterwards, in the same pub, two enormous pizzas turned up, which were divvied up between the customers.
A few days later I was surprised to appear photographed in an article about Morecambe in the Daily Mail. Their reporter had been amongst us, making up one of the forty-eight who travelled to the game.

I woke up with a start last night. There was a strange sound coming from my living room, like some giant gurgling fish. I realised it was the homebrew I started last night. If it works I'll have five gallons of ale for about 40p per pint.
