No, but really, how are you?

Right, so I am no closer to finding this “clue”.

Or finding my way out of the war being waged on my body by some lurgy. 5 days and counting of staring at walls and feeling like’ death by head cold’ is leopard crawling through my body.

Or! A new strange phenomenon. Explaining away on an almost daily basis to mates that I am good, happy, smiling and doing juuuuust peachy. Yes. Even in spite of not having a life purpose; a.k.a. cubicle job/ partner earning the moola/ belching teething baby to clasp to my chest in terror.

But no matter what I write, I hear them tut tutting their heads and saying, The Lady Doth Protest Too Much!

No words seem capable of getting through that actually, it is amazing how wonderful unemployment can really be when you accept, embrace and use it to sleep in, pull out stray hairs, and catch up on all sorts of books from economics to French language to oil drilling drunkenness. And on seeing how much money you can spend on a boozy night out with mates before guilt cuts through the gin and hammers a reminder to you of the lack of affordability of this activity. (So far, gin beats guilt any night!)

I have grabbed on and motor-boated the dear “Unemployed” label with relish this time!

[Now if only that label came with more dollar bills to stuff down my “G”.]

But, in friends’ minds, it would appear that unemployed is as unemployed does. Fuck it, Forest, what does that mean anyway?

“Are you ok? No, really?”

“I know these are difficult times”

“Why don’t you go home for a visit” [Because those sneaky airlines are now requesting cash be handed over for their tickets. Capitalist Pigs!]

“Shame hun. You will be ok. You do know that. Don’t forget that. Hun.” [Vomit]

To which, I am forced to rewrite the same email in a multitude of ways.

It’s like trying to convince Aunty Mapel that you love single living and are not weeping your spinster self to sleep each night; to convince First World people that Africa is not just one giant continent filled with dirty children covered in flies sitting in dirty puddles of water; or convince Zuma that Carla Bruni, hot as she is, ain’t gonna accept Wife 5 as her next life role.

I reckon Zuma stands more chance with Carla than I stand with convincing people that cashless unemployment does not mean my world is falling apart at the seams. But that it actually makes for great night-time convos, over mid-strength VB, cause honestly, I can’t afford the gin…