THE. ZARA. BUSINESS. COAT.

  Your bedroom is small and cool, the window open. The sky is darkening, it is that wonderful colour of a mild autumn, where the colours are rich and the evening is deep.

   It is only seven pm. The house is silent. You can hear the floorboards creak as the breeze rolls in. You sit in shorts and a t-shirt despite the cold, because:  a) you like feeling cold - it matches your emotional demeanour and, b) you are under the false impression that goose bumps aid a toned physique and, c) you want to kid yourself that it is still the summer of the year before; you can still fit into those skimpy hooker numbers; it is still acceptable to be drunk before five am, and, you, my darling, are living in a dream world of university.    

  The truth is. It is only seven pm. And you are done.

  It is so, so quiet. Unnaturally quiet. You are no more important than the people in the jungle living in tribes, who still believe there is a God in the sea that brings the fish and kills with waves.

                                                                                                    

                                                                                            Maybe there is a God who does that?!

  Makes me feel a lot more comfortable in self-sabotaging the telesales job. And VERY thankful I don’t promote cruises. 

  Have you spoken today? Hmmm. You open your mouth to talk, and you’re all croaky, kind of wobbly, like your grandmother. You whisper to yourself, and you watch yourself in the mirror until you start freaking yourself out. You have just been witness to what you would look like, had you been diagnosed with schizophrenia. It is a rare thing to witness in life, but seeing oneself so deranged in actual fact helps oneself to realise why they definitely don’t want to give up on one’s life.  

                                                                                               

And that is when the rattling started…………………..

(After prodding your face to make sure you still had a brain in there.)

 It is coming from your wardrobe. It starts quietly, like a mouse trying to get out of a bag. Then the mouse becomes a cat. Then the cat becomes a dog. Then you leap off your bed and grab the receipts that are rustling crazily on your windowsill, taunted by a breeze that is singing the demands of your outward costs.

It can’t be…….

(Awkward suspense ….)

Not the Zara Business Coat?

 Your symptoms:

-          Pale and shaky

-          Repetitive dreams about killing best friends with scissors you keep in make-up bag. About ghosts that come alive in photos. And about fighting in the war - the trenches still remain but this time you carry a laser gun.

-          Hence forth – an over-active imagination

-          Telephobia (I’m sure we’ve already covered this one in an earlier blog entry)

-          Obsessive daily routine structure. ‘To do list’ is now written on another ‘To do list.’

-          Automated verbal reply strategy now fully implemented in one’s mind.

(“What are you up to?”

“I’m saving up money for travelling.”

“Where are you going?”

“Asia.”)

Fail safe plan that works better than your age-old joke “I don’t plan on being alive past next month.” This comment used to gain too much unwanted attention. People didn’t understand your sense of humour.)

-          Chocolate addiction adding to weight gain

-         HEARING A PERSISTANT RATTLING FROM YOUR WARDROBE.

Not the coat. It can’t be. Not. The. Coat.

For weeks now, this coat has been breeding in your dreams.

It was during the shop, yes – that shop – you know the one I mean, I mean the one where your friends had just landed their jobs and the sun was shining and everyone in the car was playing uplifting dance music and drinking ice cold coca-cola’s and even though it was nearing autumn it was still really warm! Yes. That day. And that shop. The one where you chewed your nails down to the quick and contemplated secretly how much money everybody would be forking out on their new work gear, and you wondered if you should join in too, you know, just to feel a little bit a part of it all??

Ah, that day. The shops reminded you vaguely of London Zoo. The large building with escalators here there and everywhere, like rope bridges in the monkey sanctuary.

And humans were scuttling. Everywhere.

  The smell of success like animal shit, high pitched yips and yaps echoing around the confined space strategically planned to make you feel as though you had all the room in the world. But you weren’t dumb. You could see those walls and you could see that roof and you knew, didn’t you? There was no going back!

  And then, inside the individual glass houses you could see them playing with their treats. Like magpies. Money money money! Oh dear oh dear, you really weren’t feeling too well on the day of this shopping trip, were you? Was it the sun? Hmmm heat stroke, I’d say. You were desperate for a drink at the water hole. A nice large glass of white wine….

                 They drugged you. You were sure of it. That wine! Tut tut tut. You were like a lion after the sedatives, warm and dozy and cuddly and, mmmm  all the lovely clothes to play with, not a care in the world.

They shipped you into Zara, your actions still not entirely your own. And then you saw it. The coat.

The.

Coat.

The coat of dreams.    The coat… of the business woman.

  Your  friend, otherwise known as ‘Fashionable-Friend,’ said with her beautiful smile they ‘were all the rage’, three quarter length, large collar, big black bold buttons, perfect for the mating call of a high-flying homosapien, the fit - just perfect, Fashionable-Friend – “Oh, it’s made for you!”;  you tried it on, in a stupor, oh, lovely lovely lovely, aren’t you simply sexy, yes yes yes please, who wouldn’t employ me in this!?

  As you give a twirl the zoo workers are clapping like encouraging penguins trying to lure in the fish, and you’re swinging around like it’s some kind of fucking ritualistic initiation into the wonderful working world of the powerful woman.

And…..

Well. Not much else to be said really. Except.

They.    Tricked.    You.

Eighty-five pounds. Eighty. Five. Pounds.

Eighty.five.fucking.pounds.and.100.spent.on.car.tax.

Your diagnosis – Zara Coat Guilt.

You fling open your wardrobe, tear the coat off its hanger and make a vow – if you are still unemployed within the next five days, that is it. You are taking it back. It’s there like a little laughing demon haunting you while you sleep – ‘you can’t wear me, you can’t wear me, na, na, na, na, na. ‘

Who goes into London for a casual shop wearing a suit?      NO-ONE.

Who goes into their blasé (yet to be confirmed) waitressing job in a business coat?      LOSERS.

You know your rights. Just avoid the white wine.

In which I assess all the options of 'A Fairly Adequate Life.'

Sometimes I dream I am sat on the edge of the globe.

  It is like a balcony, and the vast never-ending blackness around me is the blanket that keeps me warm; the stars are the candles.

  It is so quiet out here. A time-warp. There is nowhere else to be, there is no-one else to see, there is nothing I need; I am nameless. The earth is my lover who doesn’t have a voice, the sphere is the other half of my heart that beats to a separate rhythm; we do not need one another, but, we know - we both belong.

 I am drinking champagne out of a tall glass, I am smoking a cigarette in a way that Cruella Devil would be proud of. I don’t know if it is possible to smoke in space - but I am. I don’t even know if it possible for me to enjoy the taste of cigarettes. But right now – I am.

  And in the corner of my eye, a satellite waves its little metal arms at me, and falls straight out of orbit.

  I drop my champagne in haste, and the glass smashes, defying all scientific laws; the liquid falling back to earth, like a mini waterfall of beautiful bubbling bliss.

   Oh.

  How odd, I think. That isn’t meant to happen.

  And in my desperate urge to do something random, I leap off the balcony, Batman style, yelling at the satellite – ‘Take me with you!’

Crashing to Earth with an almighty Bang.

And some serious open-top-car hair.  

A current ‘Amber Hillier to-do list’ looks something like this:

-        Get up before eight am to encourage feelings of pro-activity

-        Jog before nine am (reasons as above)

-        Breakfast

-        Shower

-        Check emails (after praying despite lack of religion)

-        Check facebook

-        Contemplate life

-        Consider the state of the weather

-        Re-check emails in the hope that there WAS an important email that I in actual fact missed

-        Send some more emails in the hope of getting important email replies

-        “I’M JUST BUSY BEING BUSY.”

-        Have a poo

-        Go to the bank and delve once again into savings account

-        Spend your savings on car tax (this is still pending…..  to-do-type: URGENT)

-        Search for jobs (ongoing. Also URGENT.)

-        Search for internships (ongoing. SEMI-URGENT)

-        Have a glass of cheap white wine supplied by Grandad Ray (THE MOST URGENT)

-        Meet a friend who will comment on how exhausted you look.

-        Watch the sinking sun and call it a day. It’s been a tough day of hard-earned work without the hard-earned cash.

-        Ring job centre plus. Fuck. You missed the meeting – it was supposed to be during the scheduled time of ‘contemplating life.’ 

An ‘Amber Hillier-is-potentially-going-to-get-killed-by-a-satellite-at-some-point-tomorrow-night-to-do list’, looks something like this:

-        Sprint as fast as one can for as long as one can to see what one feels like to be completely exhausted. Also aiding process of death

-        Buy a real designer handbag and fill it with sweets and chocolate and coca-cola and go and sit by the canal drinking and eating and getting hyperactive. My favourite day.

-        Throw the real designer handbag in the canal and feel pleasure watching the expensive leather submerge

-        No money. Try and get as far away as possible and make it back before the satellite hits you. Exciting!

-        Learn Chinese

-        Sleep on a dessert, under the stars (not sure how feasible this would be in one night)

-        Tell potential lovers your true feelings for them

-        The above will effect other night events

-        Give all your money and possessions (all you own, not a lot, but it’ll do) to someone that needs it. Like Scottish Colin you met whilst travelling in Switzerland, who stuck up for you when a man asked you to touch his penis. (“You put her hand on your dick I’ll put my dick on your face”)

-        Sky dive. Not really. But it’s a standard aim to have, isn’t it?

-        Take some drugs and have an orgy. Once again, this is just a thought.

  Hmmm…..

 So far I am considering both lists and feeling vaguely unsure which one holds the most suitable life choices, considering my current situation. I feel the first is boring, exhausting and emotionally draining. I feel the latter is exciting, kind of mid-life-crisis style, pushing boundaries as well as an already dwindling bank account. It’s also written under the impression that death is impending, and therefore has no long term benefits. Which is an error considering there is a fairly large chance the satellite won’t hit me. 

And now there is one more list to throw a spanner in the works –

The ‘Josh-thinks-this-should-be-the-most-important-Amber-to-do-list-yet.’:  (written by my boyfriend. Who clearly holds me in high esteem!)

-        Give Josh a blowjob

-        Make him lunch/breakfast/snacks

-        Rub his foot…   Just one of them.

-        Allow him to rest

-        Bring more snacks

-        A further blow job. Sex, depending on whether or not he has had enough rest

-        Rub the other foot

-        More rest

-        Reading time

-        Television time. Bring wine

-        Walk

-        Dinner/snacks

-        Popcorn

-        Sex.

                 Ohhhh!!

Aren’t I just blessed with all the choices!!!!

                                                     “Hello opportunities!!!!” 

PHONE CALL SWEATS: INITIATED.

           I’m starting to get the phone call sweats.

It used to be just the dramatic fear of opening an email – would I have a job reply, would I have a job rejection, would my mother be emailing to ask me about how ‘it’ is all going, will I have been billed for using a service that I have had no idea about, what if, what if, what if?

Job hunting is like being on drugs.

   It involves numerous highs and lows, mood swings, extensive exhaustion coupled with under-eating and then over-indulging. It involves physical effects – irratic behaviour and extreme paranoia, fear of public places and open spaces otherwise known as agoraphobia. It involves hitting the bottle every night and having nightmares about the next time you see an ex-boyfriend and he wonders ‘what are you up to now?’ It involves watching ‘Helicopter heroes’ in the morning and then crying simply because a girl was allergic to a guinea-pig.

And now it involves fear of the phone call.

You can google it.

This shit is real. And it’s happening!

    Telephone phobia

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jump to: navigation, search

Telephone phobia (telephonophobia, telephobia) is reluctance or fear of making or taking phone calls, literally, "fear of telephone".^[1] Telephone phobia is also considered to be a type of Social Phobia or Social anxiety problem.^[1]

Sufferers typically report fear that they would fail to respond appropriately in a telephone conversation,^[1] and fear finding nothing to say, which would end in embarrassing silence, stammering, or stuttering.^[1] The associated avoidance behavior includes asking others (e.g. relatives at home) to take their phone calls and exclusive use of answering machines.^[1] As a result, the sufferers avoid many activities, such as scheduling events or clarifying information.^[2]

Another reason is the sufferers may believe that people who call them bear bad or upsetting news.

As is common with various fears and phobias, there is a wide spectrum of severity of the fear of phone conversations and the corresponding difficulties.^[1] In 1993 it was reported that about 2.5 million people in Great Britain have telephone phobia.^[3]

   The truth is, I have no idea how many people now have my mobile telephone number. I have signed up and registered to so many jobsites, websites, shitsites, I don’t know if I am being rung by a friend or a foe or a potential employer. The other night, whilst drunk, I realised (the morning after whilst doing a standard phone check) that I had been called by a random number at eleven pm, and I’d actually engaged in a three minute conversation. Now, three minutes is quite a long time. However, I have no recollection of this number, nor the phone call, nor any idea of who could have rang.

  I have deleted the number (it scared me a little, the day after) and refused to call it back.

 So…. It’s just another little something to ponder over, don’t you think?

PART TIME JOBS ARE EQUALLY HARD TO COME BY!

Sometimes I dream I am sat on the edge of the globe.

  It is like a balcony, and the vast never-ending blackness around me is the blanket that keeps me warm; the stars are the candles.

  It is so quiet out here. A time-warp. There is nowhere else to be, there is no-one else to see, there is nothing I need; I am nameless. The earth is my lover who doesn’t have a voice, the sphere is the other half of my heart that beats to a separate rhythm; we do not need one another, but, we know - we both belong.

  Here, on the balcony, is where I am at my most calm, where I can keep my eyes on all those poor souls that are slaving away on the end of a phone, working in their telesales positions and shaking with inexplicable shame  when their rude customers say ‘I’m not buying shit’ and hang up.

   Ah… you smile as you realise that that rude customer is in actual fact your old-fashioned Grandfather, the one that is pro-pregnancy but strongly against sex. With anyone. Ever. (Except if it is him who is the one that is doing it…. He certainly was a bit of a cheeky monkey in the prime of his days.)

   Here on the balcony he is making you proud. You pour yourself a large glass of cheap white wine, courtesy of the old man himself, ‘Raymond’ a diabetic who never fails to drink under three glasses a night. And you toast your future prospects –

Buggies, nappies and those cute little baby shoes that you always say you’re going to buy, save for the fact that the cost fifteen pounds for under fifteen centimetres of a square of fabric. And not even a rubber sole.

                                                                                There is just one little issue. As ever.

                                                                                                                                                               

……………………… Money.

Things are looking up!

 

 Today, you went to the job centre. You prepared a long lost of shit that you’ve been doing, you wrote out every single action that you have taken towards the path of respectable humanship – towards the past of self-worth, brain-building, cheek-flushing, absolutely self-rewarding self-fullfilling employment.  

(Que dramatic sounding, operatic music, bright sunshine, daisies and puppies rolling down hills like furry balls of happy fluff.)

Boy oh boy, have you been a busy bee!

The other day – after the dramatic failure of the telephone interview, in which Simon (and bless his soul I have saved his number; I have contemplated calling him on numerous occasions, during lonely hours, simply hoping for a chat and a nice few words about the concept of life.) Anyway, in which Simon rang you back and informed you  - (“Cool cool cool, Amber, I’m terribly sorry you haven’t got the job.)

(Amber, relieved)       Simon, that is no problem

(Simon)                        Cool, cool, cool, I’m guessing good news then.

(Amber)                       Yep. Feeling good about this.

(Simon)                        That’s really good good good to hear Amber. You’re a lovely girl, like I said, personality – off the charts. Right then. Totes. That’s nice.

(Amber, totes?!)         Sure is….  Wonderful.            

(Simon)                        You got it sorted, girl. Seriously. If ever you get a phone call from someone with a west-country accent trying to make a rap, you’re going to know it’s Simon from Ascent!

I feel like there is a very long pause on either end of the phone; are both of us equally as confused as one another?

(What? Did he? Did I actually imagine that? Or is he still talking to me?)

(Simon, still talking)    Yeah.. so… That’s nice.

(Amber, suddenly desperate) Simon! Will I ever see you again?!

(Simon, laughing)        Oh, Amber. I might see you cheerleading somewhere. One day.

(I suddenly realise how nice it was to feel that Simon had been there, like a blanket of hope dressed up in a suit with a teddy bear head and over-gelled hair. Even though he was only trying to get me a job because he knew he’d make money out of it.)

(Amber, weakly)         Ok, Simon.

(Simon)                        Good luck, Amber.

(Amber)                       You too.

You too?

(Simon)                        Bye, then

(Amber)                       Nice to meet you. Bye.

Hangs up.

Anyway.

He probably hung up, dropped the weird accent and swore under his breath ‘bloody bitch. Didn’t even try to get the job. After all the help I’d given her! She went straight for the self-sabotage.’

And believe me, I’ve found out, I’m not the only self-sabotager! You only have to go down the job centre and have a look round… you’ll see the youngsters with faces as though they’ve just been told their cat has died, looking at a computer screen and saying to someone that blatantly hates their own job and therefore wants to share the pain through their own paid employment,

‘no, I don’t think shelf-stocking is for me.’

‘What about paper-filing?’

‘Sales negotiating?

‘Marketing….’                                                                                     What even is that?

‘What about answering the phone in the hairdresses?’

‘What about working full time as a recruitment advisor?’                Fuck no.

‘What about cooking chicken in KFC?’

‘What about cleaning our offices?’

‘What about –

I was thinking something along the lines of maybe counselling work, or grievance services, you know, like… helping people?

‘You did geography. You don’t need a degree to work out that if you want to be a counsellor it isn’t going to be in this life.’

You’re sitting in the job centre and it’s like watching mass murder. Everyone around you is slowly dying, as though intoxicated by poisonous air.

Every individual in there is in there because they are cursing their choice of degree. Or lack of degree. Either way. A degree and a lack of are all the same things now.

So anyway, you’ve compiled this list of all the things you’ve been doing and you’re happy with yourself. And you turn up. And you sit down. And the lady says ‘hello’ and I say ‘hello’ and then she says, ‘sign here’ and I do, and then she says ‘you may leave.’

And I’m like, ‘what?!’

And she smiles like she’s a Goddess and she’s like, ‘you’re payment has gone through’ and I’m like… ‘don’t we… we don’t have to… talk, do we?’

And she says ‘no.’

And I leave.

Like Bambi. Who has been through a lot at a very young age but who is still resolutely enjoying himself. And I got away without even buying a car park ticket!

So, on the spur of good luck and unnatural positivity – Sarah and I thought it time to battle it out with our CVs and just apply for part time work in the meantime. So we jump in the car and have a drive round and eat chocolate biscuits and listen to music and hand in our CVs and we’re like ‘Yes! We are so being pro-active!’

Until we hit the Minnow.

We don’t even know how to pronounce the name. We have decided not to speak of it out loud. (Sarah still goes red with embarrassment.)  

We pull in. So far we have been successful. We have been in to some very friendly, nice looking places and we are smiling. The sun is shining into the car and a natural looking glow has formed across our foreheads and our eyes look bright and white.

The Minnow was Sarah’s suggestion. A last minute choice. Spontaneous. Pro-active.

We enter. It’s very posh. Black tables outside on black decking, with glasses of wine and beers and wicker chairs. It’s all very European. Reminds me of Spain. Inside there are pictures painted on the walls of Lobsters burning in boiling pots. A small frown forms on my forehead, but we proceed.

We stand by the bar. We joke about how obvious we are, holding our CVs and waiting for attention. A team. I am reminded of the film ‘step brothers’ and contemplate how I would feel if Sarah was to do a really loud, long fart.

The bar man calls the manager over. He says ‘we’re looking for employees, actually.’

The manager arrives. He is South-African. And angry looking. He looks like he deals drugs on the side but is really smart and hides it really well – you know, one of the really good drug dealers that deals for the more upper class customers.

He wears a shirt and tie, he has a trimmed beard that has a reddish tint; really deep intense eyes.

He says ‘Come this way,’ and we proceed to sit at a table where he formally introduces himself.

Sarah and I sit next to one another. I can feel her do a little tremble and I suppress a giggle. And he dives right into the interview.   

‘Have you ever waitressed before?’

‘How many hours?’

‘How many tables?’

‘Where was the restaurant?’

‘What was their food like, how much did they charge, what wage were you on?’

‘Are ready for the tough environment?’

‘Waitressing is hard.’

‘Tough.’

‘Minimum wage.’

‘TOP QUALITY SERVICE.’

‘Christmas day is a must. As is New years eve. There is no time off.’

‘Did I tell you, waitressing is TOUGH.’

‘You are required to treat the customers like gold. Like GOLD.

‘My guests are eating my very best food. They deserve the best.’

‘My food is the best, the service should match.’

‘My food is unbeatable. You won’t ever be able to afford to eat it.’

‘My waitresses are like slaves. They say little and do a lot.’

‘Are you going to get your roots done?’

‘You can’t be eating when you’re on the job.’ (Looking at our stomachs) ‘It’s for the best.’

The whole time I am staring at him, he is playing with the stubble on his beard. I am quite vaguely disgusted, though I aware this is hidden on my face. I do not hear a word he is saying. I know for a fact I do not want to work for this man. He keeps calling it ‘his food.’ But he isn’t the chef. He is the manager. I am confused.

He starts listing the requirements of the position. He suggests we get out a pen and paper. I have a pen and paper, but tell him I don’t. He ploughs on regardless –

‘Carrying plates blah blah blah…’

‘Serving drinks blah blah blah…’

‘Upselling blah blah blah…’

‘Wearing blah blah blah…’

‘Hairstyles blah blah blah…’

‘Rich and famous (yeah right) blah blah blah…’

I’m thinking what a waste of all our times. Sarah and I could be at home, applying for jobs. He could be in the kitchen, wanking over his lobster.

He goes off to find a router. As he leaves, I turn to Sarah and suppress a laugh, whilst mouthing ‘dickhead.’ I catch sight of her, pale and palid, covering her mouth with her hands.

He has scared the living fucking daylights out of her. I mean. She is shaking. And her nervous rash has re-appeared. It’s snaking its way around her neck.    

I start to laugh out loud.

She shakes her head; there are tears in her eyes. “Don’t! He might hear.”

(Amber)           Let’s leave. Shall we just escape, now?

(Sarah)                        He’s getting a router

(Amber)           Fuck it. We haven’t agreed to anything yet.

(Sarah tries to large double doors nearby. They are locked. She runs back.)

(Sarah)                        Fuck.

(Amber)           Chill. We don’t have to turn up.

(Sarah)                        I lied. I’ve never waitressed before.

(Amber)           It’s fine.

(Sarah)                        I can’t do it. I’m not cut out for this. He said it was really hard!

(Amber)           It’s stressful.

(Sarah)                        Will he know I lied?!

(Amber)           Let’s just leave!

(Sarah)                        Will I be able to hold the plates? Can you teach me? Show me how to do it?

(Amber)           Sarah, you got a first class honours.

(Sarah)            What do you do? So shall I say this? ‘What can I get you to drink?’ What about ‘would you like any coffee? I’ve never carries a tray full of drinks, either. I’m no good with balance.

(Amber)           Fuck, Sarah.

He returns.

He asks me when I am free for my trial shift. At the weekend?

(Amber)           I have a friend staying at the weekend.

(South-African)            What about Sunday?

(Amber)           That’s still the weekend.

(South-African)            Can you not take a couple of hours out?

(Amber)           She’s coming from Newcastle. Her mother and father are getting a divorce and I promised I’d look after her.

Bang, boom. Hello drama degree. Fuck you Bachelor of Sciences.

Sarah is not so lucky. She agrees to the shift the following evening and begs me to join her in a waitressing role play.

We leave and the sun mocks us. Sarah remains trembling. As we get out the front door we start to run, jump into the car and proceed a get-a-away drive, Sarah almost stalling at the junction in her haste. We then get stuck in traffic. And the evening becomes once again contemplative.