Nikkipedia

The Job Centre today was ace, my favourite so far. I caught a glimpse of some of the sort of stuff I’d hoped (and sort of dreaded) seeing when I was there.

Hopefully, you’ll live your life without ever having to visit these god awful places, so you’ll have to make do with the second-hand experience of reading my adventures there.

My previous visits to JC have been really rather uneventful, first time, I was actually in and out of there within the space of 5 minutes. I was impressed.

The second visit, I was slightly late – and fuck do they moan about it, but nonetheless, the transaction was again smooth and speedy, in and out within 10 minutes, with only a brief accosting from security on the way in. I knew where I was going, what I was doing, but apparently THEY *have* to know too. I’m not a hoodie, I don’t wear baseball caps, I was dressed smartly, with shoes on, not the uniform prison-whites that most of them wear, not so much as a cigarette tucked behind my ear, or a packet in my hand. I don’t fit in there, but I’m treated as if I’m one of the scummers regardless.

Today, after the nagging I got for being late, I was there a few minutes early. The security guy today was younger than the Nazi from last time, and gave me a big smile as I pushed the door open, covered head to toe from the freak blizzard that happened the second I got out of my car. I told him I was there to sign, and showed him my Job Club pack, so he knew where I was going (that’s how it works, see, I’m getting it!) He pointed me to where I needed to go, and I thanked him, and headed over to the sofa to wait to sign.

Job Centres have a pitiful amount of seating in the areas where people have to wait to sign. There is a sofa-esque, soft chair by the people you see to sign, it will seat about 4 normal weight people, or 5 undernourished chavs/druggies. There were 2 chavs on the sofa today. They seemed to know each other, they were talking. As they’d parked themselves in an entirely selfish manner, I had no choice but to sit between them, despite their conversation. So I said ‘Hi’ in my cheeriest tone and plonked myself down. They looked baffled.

Flat capped chav, to my right, clearly had a chip on his shoulder. He was angry. He asked hoodie chav (on my left) what the time was. It had just passed 12:20.
“Fuckin’ell mate. I’ve been ‘ere since ten fuckin’ to. They fuckin’ moan when you’re late, but then fuckin’ keep you hanging around when it suits ‘em.”
Hoodie chav mumbled something in agreement. Flat capped chav continued his monologue, repeating the same thing to no-one in particular, complaining what a joke it was. In reply to this, the baseball cap chavs that were standing using the touch screen computer the other side of him joined in to agree what a “loada shit” it was.
“I’m gonna fucking start getting angry, and pointing at people. With my fists.” Flat capped chav said. Quite what that would achieve, I have no idea. He complained again about his wait then shut up.

Another chav, white tracksuit top chav, came over and sat next to flat capped chav.
“Mate, you still ‘ere?”
(I rolled my eyes. Obviously he was still there. Moron.)
“Yeah mate. Been ‘ere since ten to, an I?”
At which point, the security guard came over.
“You can’t sit down yet mate” he said to white tracksuit top chav.
“Why not?”
“Not time for you to sign yet.”
He got up and took 2 steps to his left.
“Alright, I’ll use this fuckin’ job machine” he says, aimlessly prodding at the screen in a ham-fisted manner, without looking at it.
“Jobsworth” said flat capped chav, as the security guard walked off. Classic insult that, coming from someone that’s unemployed. It took a lot for me not to laugh.

It fell silent.

Then my name was called. I stood up. The 5 chavs looked at me simultaneously. I felt sure they were going to murder me.

Less than 5 minutes later, I scurried out of the Job Centre, as quickly as I could. Done, dusted, free. They were all still there, waiting.

The concept of etiquette fascinates me endlessly. Of course, everyone’s opinions differs on all subjects, and comparing these ideas is intriguing to me.

Firstly, I’m not even sure of the etiquette of writing about the subject that I’m intending on writing about – how taboo is it? Is it something that no-one should know, or is it fine to laugh about it? I don’t know, but I will go ahead nevertheless.

Aged 16, I was told by a street-wise friend that a year after the first time you have sex, you should have a smear test. She’d just been for her first one. I was horrified at the idea. Not that she’d had hers, and had therefore had popped her cherry aged 15 – that was nothing amongst my friends of the time, one of them was a mere 13, which looking back now, seems awful. We’re all 26 now, to have been sexually active for half our lives already is hideous. What were we all thinking? I digress, it’s the subject of the smear test that horrified me – of course at that age, no detail of anything is left unsaid, so I heard *all* about it. It didn’t sound fun.

I began wondering when I was supposed to have one. Of course, I wasn’t going to ask my mother, and admit what I’d been up to, so I kept quiet. I did everything in my power to dodge the dreaded smear, and the Gods seemed to be on my side. The dates kept changing. It went from a year after losing it, to being 18, to being 21 – I kept somehow avoiding them – it got put up to 25 recently, and somehow I missed it again due to where my birthday fell. I was thrilled.

However, it seems that the time is now upon me. I’ve been caught. I’ve had several letters, which I pretended I didn’t get, but now, I want a repeat prescription of my contraceptive pill, for which I have to have six monthly checks anyway, so when I called to book my check, it was flagged that I had to come in for the smear-test-of-doom. Oh dear. It wasn’t even as easy as, come in tomorrow, or next week. ‘When are you mid-cycle, love?’ When am I what? I haven’t a clue. 10 minutes on the phone later and after lots of head-scratching and comparing diaries, we worked it out. And it’s tomorrow.

As I said, my problem with all of this now, is the etiquette of the situation. Having never had one before, I really don’t know what to expect, my friend’s horror story of 10 years ago is a distant memory. Most importantly, right now, the burning question is the etiquette of the situation. Am I expected to ‘tidy’ my ‘lady garden’? I don’t wish to appear rude and not do so if the answer to that question is yes, yet I don’t want whoever is going to be prodding me to think I’ve made a special effort for the ‘occasion’; Is it an occasion? It’s first thing tomorrow, so I’m not exactly expecting to be wined and dined, but might there be candles and soft music? I at least want the lights to be dimmed. I don’t usually allow people to poke me without any sort of effort on their part.

Now I’ve got into pondering such details, I’m now worrying what I should wear? I don’t want to look keen and go in my shortest skirt, but it feels like I should dress up somehow. Trousers, I’d imagine will be more problematic, and I’ll end up fully half naked. At least with a skirt, it can be more cartoonesque, I’ll hold it up as a barrier so I can’t see what they’re up to. And footwear – socks are a no-no for skirts and trousers – no one likes having their socks left on. This means I’ll have to wear some sort of strappy affair. Can I keep them on while I’m lying down for this hideous test, or do I have to take them off too? Will there be stirrups, my legs in the air? I just don’t know. I’m going to play the whole thing down for now and pretend it’s not happening. I’ll deal with it in the morning.

I used to blog quite a lot – back in the days when myspace was my vice. I would spend my mornings at work furiously typing whatever thoughts had come to me that day – they were often rants. These days I’m all about Twitter – it’s overtaken Facebook, though I maintain a presence on both, and occasionally stop by on myspace for good measure. My blog received kudos and comments galore with my nonsensical witterings, until stupidly, I turned it into my photo gallery in a futile attempt to ‘promote’ my then boyfriend, a DJ, who is now long gone, apart from an entry in my phonebook as ‘Copperknob’. This is my revival of my beloved writings. Should you wish to read the works of old – http://tinyurl.com/nikkismyspaceblog

Apart from spending my life on the internet, stalking celebrities and making cutting remarks at people, I harbour a set of dreams that I endlessly pursue in rather meek forms. I cite myself as a wannabe, I do, I wannabe a writer, musician and beautician. But I seem to be a Jack of all trades, and give up fairly quickly on almost everything, and go back to my daydreaming. Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, this and a HUGE pad full of scribbles, doodles and drunken notes, are my writings – for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to write. I had lessons on the Piano for 8 years, Saxophone, Clarinet, Trumpet, I own 3 guitars, which sit gathering dust, as each time I pick them up and play I remember how much it hurts my fingers. And as for pursuing being a beautician – well, it’s quite different to my 2 other passions, but I have just completed a course to be a nail technician and have 2 more lined up – and I do my make up every day. I live in hope.

So – that’s me. I have a bit of webspace, as you can see, and felt left out that everyone else seems to have WordPress blogs apart from me. I was driving earlier and lots of random thoughts came to me, in the sort of way that they do when I’m driving in rush-hour traffic.
Let me tell you, it’s a real problem. Not only am I trying to concentrate on the driving, but, as those who know me will testify to, I sing all of the time, quite happily to myself, always at the top of my voice when I’m the car. It makes people smile and point at me, but I don’t care. So on top of driving and thinking about that, I’m singing, and then am planning what I want to write in a blog. And to finish the whole lot off nicely, I’m then left with no means of noting down my thoughts, so have to play them endlessly in my head until I get home at which point they end up scribbled on the nearest thing to the door when I get home. This, dear reader, is how I arrived here today.

I love to talk to people. I talk myself into, and back out of all sorts of trouble. I can’t help it. As a people watcher, the internet is a marvel. I used to work in a shop, at Bluewater, where I would spend my days endlessly gazing out at people, laughing at how dressed up they all were to walk around a shopping centre. Everyone wants to be famous. Dressed up in case a talent scout/modelling agent spots them, as apparently happens, according to the glossy mags. Sitting at home reading people’s statuses is modern people watching. Without any of the effort of leaving the house, and no need for the disguise any more.

Recently I’ve pondered on the etiquette of emotional status updates. I have witnessed, and been guilty of, pouring my heart out to the world. It’s a massive conflict in my mind. Some of the people that I am ‘friends’ with on facebook are genuine, lifelong, best friends, whom I could tell anything. Others are people from my past, who I used to quite like so accepted as  ‘friends’ because I am now largely indifferent to. Is it socially acceptable to confess your deepest, darkest, most heartfelt thoughts via a status update, or should we maintain a ‘public face’ so that the world thinks we’re fine? I never know and battle with myself when my status says ‘I’m ok, I’m happy, look how funny I am!’ when really I’m sitting here crying.

When I read my friends updates and they have written something heart-wrenchingly emotional or sad, I sympathise greatly, but at the same time wonder why we announce it for everyone to see – is it just attention seeking? And, is it socially acceptable? And what for the unwitting reader – we’re not all willing confidants. I occasionally feel uncomfortable when my not-so-close friends statuses refer to things that as an accidental reader, I shouldn’t necessarily be privy to. For example, I have some friends whom are friends of friends. I’ve met them a few times. When they’re wondering aloud about how worried they are about their ‘Doctor’s appointment tomorrow’ and sometimes mentioning pregnancy (which I have no knowledge or interest in) – it feels like I’m an intruder. Like a spy, I feel like it’s something that I definitely shouldn’t know. However, there’s always a positive – another friend – not that she really is – I’m not sure why I accepted her – announced (drunkenly, I hope) that she ‘wants to let Matt no* she is so sorry for what said to David, and that she didn’t mean a word of it’ – which is, I suppose, a whole new level, to which I am amused, and proud to be an onlooker. There’s very little in life more amusing to me than such a public confession of this kind. I have to wonder – was it drunkenness? Idiocy? I neither know or really care, though I remain unamused at the thought that a facebook status might win her beau back over from an obvious blunder.
I will have to remain undecided for the time but will err on the side of caution for the time being and maintain my ‘public face’.

This blog was supposed to be a couple of comedy thoughts that I had in the car earlier – I seem to have forgotten to write them, though they’re noted beside me. I’ll save them for another time. Not all of my writings will be this long!

Anyway, it’s likely that you found me through Twitter, if you didn’t, please feel free to follow me – http://twitter.com/nik_kee_dee for daily updates on nothing in particular, I shan’t pretend ‘I’m crazy, me, welcome to my wacky world’ because I think it is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone that says that is surely the dullest person you could wish to meet. I’m a thinker and a wannabe, and I love comedy. Join me if you do too.

I will write again soon.

* For another time. Definitely.