Chapter 2.

Well folks here it is, a day I thought (not thought exactly, hoped?) would never come.
The job search... restarts. Oh yes.

It appears that the credit crunch affects even the fairly modest ambitions of a lowly Knowledge Salesman such as (somewhat aspirationally, even hubristically) myself. A lot has happened in the last six months or so, to the economy of course not to me. Petrol's down, Pick'n'mix is dead and the 10p bag of crisps has become an economic impossibility (I ripped that joke off Kevin Bridges, who's pretty funny).

Fortunately, since I am fuelledby non of the above (at least not directly anyway) things in my own little sector of the market jugged along with 'the global economic downturn' a mere fart in the wind. That said, it's (nearly/finally) the school holidays now and I imagine it would take almost super-human powers of parental persuasion to get a child sat (innocently obviously - I've got disclosure - although, disgustingly, the boss of one of the Tuition Agencys with which I WAS affiliated is currently on the run under the disturbing moniker of 'The Radioactive Paedo' - property of Daily Mail, Sun et al) opposite me pen and paper in hand. As a result, I am down to a paltry three hours per week of tutoring supplemented by a few hours of telephone based charity mugging under the ambiguous guise of 'Alumni Services Representive'.

The fun (in the sun) down here, as you can no doubt tell has literally never-ended, which begs the question why end it?

CMSTTM

Well, I am now Calum Mechie Sole Trader (some might want to argue that in many ways I have been Calum Mechie Sole Trader for some time, but that would be churlish). As a company (that's right 'company') we (yes 'we') have business interests in a number of diverse areas ranging from Tele-Research - NOT sales! - to Tuition. If you think this sounds like my relativley little resources have been spread too thinly you would be wrong, frankly.

This in spite of the fact that I have also attained a life-goal in that I am now employed by the eminent Institute of Higher Education that is London's University College (7th best in the world incidentallY). Interestingly on that note: it is often said that the important thing in job-seeking is to get your foot in the door; my question then is has there ever been a more unlikely rise from that of Graduate Fundraiser to the Chair of English Literature? Probably not...

All this time waiting for one job and now many (really many since I have now been signed off by the police and am therefore able to Tutor at will) come along at once. What a happy day this is!

In other news last week I saw (amongst others) Prime Minister Gordon Brown and the feted Olympians Chris Hoy, Rebecca Adlington and Christine O-hoo-roo-drugs. Not too shabby I'm sure you'll agree... Ah London: where the streets are paved with Gold (nice eh?).

Many more days having passed I am still waiting for certain and unwavering proof that I am not a sex-offender. As a result I still haven't made any money. In an attempt, or rather many attempts, to remedy this I have applied in the interim period for, to give a conservative estimate, 20 jobs - thus far, again, to no avail.

This continual failure brings me nicely to a recent revelation. On many occassions recently, and indeed pre-recently, I have sat in rooms and listened to some(kind of) authority figure telling me and my cohort how well we have done to get into that room. This affirmation is generally followed by a statement of the form:

'for every one of you x-many others were rejected'.

- I am not bragging here, please, even if you find the above unpalatably self-gratifying read on -

This statement always makes me think about all the other rooms that I have tried to enter in which no doubt many of the xs are currently sitting listening to the same. I hope that they are feeling as arbitrarily selected as I am (it helps soften the pain of my perpetual state of rejection) because, in all honesty, I am in that room more through good fortune than anything else - and I hope that they are too. I say this (about chance) really because it seems like at most points of my life this statement can be made.

Indeed, it would be most meaningful - in terms of scale - if the Doctor who helped to bring me into this world interrupted my tears to inform me that I had done well to be born into the white british middle-class; telling me that every one of me hundreds of other babies were being born in my minute (thousands that hour and millions that year) without that crucial advantage.

So, in short, I am lucky to be me, sometimes lucky to be where I am and sometimes some other people are more lucky than me.

Why is it called an Internet Cafe?

Some time later.

I now am a fully trained, but not yet fully disclosed, private tutor. This means that, although I can work, I can't since I am still awaiting proof that I am not a danger to my prospective students - hopefully this proof will arrive shortly and I the pennies will follow.

Apart from (in fact with) this the last seven days have been my best in London. I will regale you with the highlights:
On Tuesday I enjoyed my first visited to the Emirates Stadium, which was graced on that occassion by a beautiful exhibition of 'Wengerball' as we 'Gooners' call it - and Carlos Vela, with almost a single flick of his right shoulder (that's right shoulder) restored almost all of the faith that I reported as having lost in a previous post.
On Thursday I registered and enrolled at UCL - which is a great great place - which brought me some new friends and some intellectual stimulation, both of which had been somewhat absence from my capital city existence.
On Saturday we had our first dinner party and inflicted the pungent odour of Garlic upon two of our best friends, which might not sound like much fun, but is to us.

The best news, almost, is that the next week promises much more of all of these. I am particularly excited about testing my intellectual mettle against the supposed cream of British Acadermia (it is no exaggeration to say that the majority of my new cohort is Oxbridge-bred) in the somewhat unfamiliar realm of late French Romanticism.

Apologies for the increasing sparcity of posts on this page, AOL have yet to acknowledge our flat and Internet Cafe's aren't much fun. In fact the obnoxious woman enjoying (very audibly) a YouTube broadcast of a Beyonce concert is about to drive me out of this one. Off.

A Happy Daze

Well, it turns out that Jason's Father stupidly believed that I was offering to teach English. Not only that but he informed me that he would pay half my fees up-front with the remainder to follow when he was satisfied that our 12hours together would leave his son 'fluent' - needless to say I passed on that opportunity.

However, I do now have a job - hoorah - as well as two further interviews tomorrow. And, pending CRB (proof, I believe that I am not a paedophile) clearance I will be a fully regstered Tutor to the stars (apparently the agency for whom I work - who charge a princely £55 for an hour of my time - count the illustious Mr Abramovic amongst their clients).

It seems that I am now in a sense at least a Knowledge Salesman; although it could be very legitimately and reasonably argued that I am more of a Prostitute of Knowledge, and you may rest assured that the light-roasting of my dearly held principles that this private position requires is not lost on me, and does cause me some degree of pain and sleeplessness: money does, after all, talk very loudly sometimes.

You may also rest more assuredly knowing that my health and well-being have taken an enormous turn for the better now that I have a permanent address. Our flat is very big and really rather lovely - as well as available for a more-than reasonable overnight rate should you require/wish some time in this Quagmire (I mean city).

That's it for today, and if you miss the self-(indulgently)-loathing tone of the previous posts then I apologise. It seems that you can't be a troubled writer AND live in a generally well-appointed and expensive furnished flat, which does dent my future dreams somewhat.
Regards,
Calum 'Smiler' Mechie.

I saw t4's Steve Jones on an escalator.

A young Frenchman named Jason('s Father) has requested the honour of becoming my first client. Jason and I are hopefully about to embark on a thrice weekly voyage of discovery spanning the next month - what a fortunate fellow.

Perhaps as a consequence of this rare piece of encouragement, or perhaps to address what I feel is a general melancholia, I think I'll list some things that I like about living in London.

1. I like it when a tube arrives at the platform at exactly the same time as I do - secondary to that I also very much enjoy leaping through the closing doors, and watching other people just missing a train on which I am already seated.

2. I like seeing chauffeurs in Mercedes Maybachs trying to squeeze past the millions of bendy-busses (that's 18 metres worth of bendy-bus) that wheeze around the city centre.

3. I like walking really fast while pretending to Tourists that I know exactly where I'm going (this is facilitated by hubris, my phone's access to googlemaps and sheer luck).

4. I like how the southern attitude towards Scotland and the North of England - which are, you would think, synonymous - reinforces my anti-union sentiments. Quite honestly if they're not going to take our money in their McDonald's and Primarks then we shouldn't bother sending it to their parliament.

That is, perhaps, it.

Leads.

In a previous life I was privileged to enjoy the opportunity of observing real office life firsthand. This is a slightly strange experience for many reasons: the sudden insatiable thirst quenched only by copious quantities of cooled water that gurgles as it is dispensed; mysterious oscillations in the rate of time's passage; the exorbitant cost of not even mediocre sandwiches. Strangest, however, is the language, and one term that I heard often in that time was 'lead-gen'.

Lead-generation (to give the above its full airing) is - as far as I could tell - the process by which an introduction is developed into a marketing campaign, and hopefully a sale. As alien as this idea was to me in my naivety I have now realised that lead-generation is a more than useful skill, indeed a necessary one, in the pursuit of gainful employment. I have practiced this technique now on the multifaceted job-market of London Town, with varying degrees of intensity, for approximately two months and finally am able to report that at least two leads have been generated - Hoorah.

In The 40 Year-Old Virgin Seth Rogen's character observes:

'See back when I was growing pot I realised that the more seeds that I planted the more pot I could ultimately smoke'. You see we're all at it: Lead Generation, beautiful.

Anyway, hopeful something meaningful now comes from at least one of these saplings if only so as to free me from the (admittedly self imposed) obligation of recording my search for my fortune.

Thanks for reading.

p.s - If you dislike my style and feel that there are too many commas, dashes and brackets then I apologise (but at the same time I urge you to acknowledge that I resisted the urge to describe Rogen, above, as indulging in 'Weed-Generation'). Frankly I love parentheses like the Pope hates condoms and I don't think either of us will change our views in the near future (for the record that is not too blue, condoms are an entirely necessary part of life and indispensable protectors of lives - I am not responsible for their existence).