Carrots and other important things

Today, I checked my carrots. They are growing well. The radishes however are not. Learn from this and do not plant radishes in July, especially if there is a heatwave. Luckily though there is no hosepipe ban here so although I lack a hosepipe, I can use the watering can. When I say 'can use the can', I can't really as Hinba has bitten a huge hole in it, which means I have to stick my finger into the hole as I carry the can outside to water the carrots.

It's all got a bit much.

I definitely need to get a job.

Depressingly, the average hourly salary in Glasgow is between £5 and £7/hour. I have therefore signed up and am waiting eagerly to see if I am onto the next round, for the following:

1. Chef at 'Bella Pasta', Central Glasgow ("but I can't cook" I said. "That's ok, we train" they said...) I did however have to use a monumental amount of effort not to crumble into tears when they asked for references. (References for what? I've just told you I can't cook..)

2. 5 recruitment consultancies. All of which were filled with nervous spotty teens being asked if they had office skills and then hanging their heads when they were informed they'd have to spend the next ten years in call centres.

3. Waitress at funky bar. Them: "We pay five five" Me: "What, fifty five pounds a shift?" (thinking, FORGET IT) Them: "No, five pounds five pence per hour." Me, trying to mask crestfallen face: "Ah" Them: "Can you send me your CV?" Me outloud: "Ah, yes, sure" Me thinking "WHAT DO YOU WANT MY CV FOR? ALL I NEED TO DO IS PULL A PINT." Jesus

So, job hunting isn't fantastic I have to admit.

I have however, started volunteering. Thursday afternoons are now spent at Motiv8 - Raleigh International's Glasgow based organisation to get the young and disenchanted back onto the straight and narrow. So far, I've met: Kev, Chaz, Raymond, Gaz, Ellen and Stuart. All looked like they would quite like the contents of my handbag on initial meeting, but in actual fact, they are all fab. Despite feeling like a baby gazelle in a room full of hungry lions for most of the time, I was relieved that it wasn't too difficult. Not only do I look different, I sound like the sort of person they would have no guilt about beating up for a paper backbook. But, like I say, that was slightly my preconception too. We walked to the cinema ("The wind that shakes the barley" or something - don't bother with it unless you feel like watching 3 hours of religious hatred) and I saw one of them stuffing bags of sweets into the inside pocket of his coat. They were being taken to the cinema for goodness sakes, and were already allowed a bag of sweets - the middle class in me was horrified. I'm pleased to say I exerted power and control. Without making a fuss, I looked directly at him, and in a non-too matronly way, I wagged a finger. It worked. Chastised, shaken, head hanging, he put it back. Result. If all else fails, I could be a youth worker.

One that grows good carrots.