Job centre

I wore my shoes thin looking for a job.

Lindsey and I tried the Royal Britannia Hotel and a couple of other big places but had no luck. We signed on and went to the Job Centre where Lindsey inquired about a clerical vacancy. My eye was caught by a £91 a week job supervising soup kitchens for the homeless (evenings five-to-eleven) and I inquired about it, although I was foolishly honest by admitting I wasn’t wanting a permanent job.

The temporary vacancies pay crap money, but I’ll go back tomorrow and apply, and hope they don’t remember me. I’m overdrawn by £41.

Lindsey and I caught the bus back to Meadspike at teatime and in the evening she, Stu and I went to the Westdorgan, supposedly to meet Barry there at nine, but he never showed up. Later I rang Dad to tell him I might go home for my birthday next Monday and stay for a few days. He was full of news about breeding fire-bellied toads, all the old enthusiasms and preoccupations, which seem secure and unchanging. My mind was at peace as I got off the ‘phone.

Do I fear change?

I’m looking forward to the future and to my time post-finals when my life will be my own. I love life and I feel utterly certain of my burning will to create, which must be part and product of the search for meaning, a search to which my life—all of life—will doubtless be devoted.