It’s still 30 degrees at 4:30 when I rise to watch Arsenal play a London derby with Fulham. The Gunners take an early lead, have a defender red-carded 12 minutes from time, and concede goals at 85 and 90+3 minutes. Utterly deflated, I head out with the Jack Russell at 6:30. I’m sweating by the time we return and continue to drip all day.
I dial the number the Centrelink customer liaison officer has given me and choose various options that eventually get me into a queue with a potential wait of ten minutes plus. The water for my eggs boils so I hang up. Later after a 23 minute wait I lodge my desire to seek ‘income support’ and a phone interview is appointed for Thursday week.
A woman from AMES calls me but I miss her call. I want to volunteer to be a home tutor for migrants learning English. I’ve downloaded the position description and the application form. She gives me the address of their outer eastern suburbs office and possible training dates if I’m accepted, that is, that the police check does not reveal my long criminal history of a parking fine in 1973 in Adelaide.
The bank sends me a curiously worded letter. They all but force me to have a credit card limit of $13,000 then chastise and fine me for being late in paying them $25. As a “long-term valued customer” I think they should offer me a nicely-worded warning first. Fuck them.
My telephone company sends me a bill for $227.42. This is about what I pay each month for my landline, smartphone, internet connection and pay TV. They charge me $6 for calling number display, despite my phone having no such facility. I can’t be bothered waiting 23 minutes on the phone at my own cost to argue the toss with them.
Today is the day that I am officially unemployed, although Centrelink assure me that they won’t believe it unless I obtain a ‘certificate of separation’ from my now former employer. Apparently the letter from my manager thanking me for doing a good job will not suffice. I compose an email to my former employer requesting this document.
This afternoon I have an hour-long massage. The therapist tells me that my calves have shortened because I don’t stretch them enough. She suggests I stretch them 23 hours a day or risk turning into a hunchback.
Rock on.
No comments:
Post a Comment