There’s some sympathy for actors in The Fosse Forest Ballet, which despite its title is a pantomime (there’s a joke in there somewhere, which I’ve evidently missed). Practically everyone else is painted in a bad light. When Bob (David Muscat), desperate to tread the boards again, pours his heart out in desperation to his agent James (Philip Joel), the latter falsely claims it’s a bad line and he didn’t hear the bulk of what was said. Bob ends the call diplomatically, emotionally spent, and must somehow summon the strength from somewhere to carry on dreaming the dream.
Such is the harsh reality of the acting profession. But it also seems grossly unfair to most theatrical agents out there, who (or so actors invariably say) work hard for the people on their books. I suppose one mustn’t take this series too seriously or think that the attitudes of the creative team behind this ballet/pantomime are indicative of everyone in the entertainment industry. The production seems doomed to fail, which probably makes better drama than a show about a show where everything goes swimmingly, and a blockbuster success is born.
The style of humour is quirky to say the least: in one scene, the pantomime’s director, choreographer and musical director (all Philip Joel), all assert in similar ways that actors are impossible to work with because they never, ever get anything right (in which case, why not pursue a vocation that doesn’t involve working with actors?). Individually and collectively, their attitudes stink, and one wonders why, if this is meant to be remotely representative of how creatives behave in the real world, actors put up with it. Perhaps it was meant to be a light-hearted poke at how creatives are sometimes perceived, and many of them may well take what they find here with good grace.
But I’m sorry to report I barely raised a smile, let alone a hearty laugh. Non-actor characters are pretty much all the same, universally extremely highly strung – the sort of people that seem to think the planet will stop spinning on its own axis if the slightest thing doesn’t go wholly and entirely in their favour. Frankly, I found much of the episode tiresome. When the narrator, Darren Day, claims, with reference to a certain point in the audition process for the panto, that “not many make it this far, but then again many do”, which is it? And I couldn’t see the need to lampoon call centre workers in a ‘punchline’ (inverted commas mine) at the end of the episode.
That the series was commissioned with the idea of supporting Acting for Others and Theatres Trust by donating its profits to such causes makes such a disagreeable portrayal of the theatre world all the more bizarre. The show, is at least, filmed to a high standard, and appearances from the likes of Kerry Ellis, Louise Dearman and Oliver Savile will doubtless be welcome to regular theatregoers. A pity, really, that I had little interest in watching any further episodes of this peculiar story.
One seems to, if one is as carefree and juvenile as I am, find the humour even in the most depressing of times. Being made redundant back in July was a shock to the system (however much I saw it coming, and I was far from alone in losing my job) but there was still an element of, “Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” Indeed, I now find myself working from home in a temporary job where nobody really cares what precise time in the morning I start and what precise time in the (early) evening I stop, as long as I get my hours in and the work gets done.
And boy, the work gets done, especially when in lockdown, and there isn’t much else going on. Stubborn mule that I am, I still haven’t subscribed to Netflix, or to Disney Plus, and I can’t see myself doing so any time soon. I have, more than ever, taken to doing online surveys (thanks to the relentless adverts for survey filling ‘jobs’ on Reed, CV Library and other places) – I’m sitting on a £20 Tesco gift card which I keep forgetting to bring with me when I pop out for groceries. Online market research doesn’t pay well at all, but in this economy, one must do what is necessary to get by.
Being out of work for so long did allow me to get a grip on other aspects of my personal life: years of correspondence, stuffed into various drawers and piled up in miscellaneous places around the house, were duly gathered and sorted through, with bags and bags of paper having made their way through my trusty cross-cut shredder. At one point, as soon as the refuse collectors had been and gone, my outside bin was duly filled up again.
As you will be aware, theatre reviews didn’t stop just because the theatres were closed for a large part of the year. This was the Year of the Stream, which began as monologues in lockdown and culminated in the likes of London’s National Theatre and Leicester’s Curve Theatre making available Dick Whittington and Sunset Boulevard respectively (I didn’t care much for the former and utterly adored the latter).
Then, of course, there were the socially distanced productions that managed to go ahead with an audience – the press reps behind The Comeback were particularly keen for me to reschedule things and see that show in the West End before Tier Three came into force in London in December (itself swiftly followed by Tier Four) but I simply had too many other things booked in. Mask wearing rules were enforced with rigour at the London Palladium and at Cadogan Hall, and rather less so at The Crazy Coqs.
Practically everything from job interviews to consultations with my diabetes consultant to church services went online: somewhere online there’s a video of a priest who accidentally activates the video filters on his smartphone while live-streaming a Mass. My next door neighbour continued the weekly Clap for Carers into, I think, thirteen weeks (it officially stopped after ten), and I found myself giving far more than anticipated towards somebody’s Movember Foundation charity fundraiser.
Black Lives Matter came to the fore, with people attending marches and protests despite concerns about the spread of Covid-19 – as the actress Audra McDonald put it, there are two pandemics going on. For the first time since I care to remember, I’m not shelling out a huge amount of money in one go for an Annual Travelcard. I don’t miss commuting, frankly, even if it did give me breathing space at either end of the working day.
I ended up blowing much of the redundancy money on repair work to the house – the ceiling in my front room started leaking, and what was initially a gutter replacement job turned into a much bigger waterproofing and roof repair project. I discovered mindfulness, and still occasionally do ten-minute meditations on the Calm app, and while it’s not for everybody, it’s certainly helped me to focus and be calmer than I otherwise would have been in a world that has well and truly lost the plot.
I also started a side hustle as a social carer on the weekends. I’ve chosen to keep doing it for a while, even though I’m back in full-time employment – I retrained (as it were) and it’s a stream of income. I’m glad I did, even if it’s for entirely selfish reasons: looking after the elderly in their own homes pushes me further up the queue to get the Covid-19 vaccine. My employer has already put me forward and I’m waiting to hear back from the NHS. We’ll see. But whether I get it sooner rather than later, the medical advice (for me) is a strong recommendation to have it if offered. If it kills me, or indeed if the virus does, I offer the same rebuttal I’ve used for decades in the face of death: dead people don’t pay council tax. (Unemployed people don’t, either, as I discovered earlier this year.)
I’m grateful to the other members of the Sharon Sexton Fan Club – there’s a fairly busy WhatsApp group to which we contribute – for letting this acid-tongued theatre reviewer continue to be part of their (online) ‘bubble’. (I wonder if they know I once two-starred Wicked.) It’s been many years since I had this many Christmas cards from people (mostly from said fan club): I honestly thought that was a thing of the past. Oh, and on a separate note, my energy bills are higher this year than they have ever been. Anyway, here’s to 2021. Love, laugh, love and all that.
There’s a shouty man on the staff of the Cadogan Hall that likes to, well, shout at people. Except the Covid-secure guidelines discourage shouting, so all he could do was gesticulate wildly at me as I had to walk past the usual door I go through to nip to the toilet at the hall before a show – like many places, the hall has one-way systems in place. I managed to order a drink on my phone – without the need for yet another app, but the £46 ticket price did seem a little steep for a gig that barely lasted 85 minutes (including bows and encore). My own fault: I suppose I could have booked to sit in the gallery rather than the stalls.
“We’re in a theatre!” exclaimed Killian Donnelly, who will probably always be Huey Calhoun in Memphis to me, especially when, like tonight, he shared a stage with one of the Felicia Farrells of that show, Rachel John. We were in a concert hall, really (imagine Cadogan Hall with a safety curtain coming down at the interval!) but we’ll overlook that – after all, the line-up comprised musical theatre actors (the other singers being Oliver Tompsett and Louise Dearman), so much of the audience was made up of theatre patrons. When host Pippa Evans (she of Showstopper: The Improvised Musical fame, as well as Sunday Assembly) asked if anyone present didn’t like musicals, only one person dared to admit as much.
Altered lyrics to ‘It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ name-dropped ‘bubbles’ and other corona-related vocabulary. Mercifully, this didn’t become a running theme. In the first half, Rachel John was handed classic Christmas tunes – hymns, if you like, blowing the roof of with sensational renderings of O Come, All Ye Faithful and O Holy Night. By contrast, Louise Dearman was allocated Frosty The Snowman and Into The Unknown (from Frozen 2). Given the running time, and Evans’ comedy routines at various intervals, the show did remarkably well to rattle through seventeen numbers.
The background vocalists (Alex Conder, Sadie Harris, Callum Henderson and Phoebe Williams) got their own number, The Christmas Song. All are 2020 graduates from the Guildford School of Acting – the theatre industry has, as far as is feasible, supported recent newcomers, with Henderson already having completed a run in October at the outdoor Garden Theatre in a production of the musical Next Thing You Know. Overall, there was quite an eclectic mix, ranging from Joni Mitchell’s River to Elton John’s Step Into Christmas. The inclusion of Fairytale of New York, with unaltered lyrics, was, Evans admitted, controversial – I personally take the view that it should be performed as it was written, or not at all.
It was, I think, the best job that could have been done in the circumstances, and with so many Christmas concerts cancelled this year, to have witnessed this one go ahead is itself a remarkable achievement.
The Curzon cinema on Victoria Street was the last cinema I went to before The Great Shutdown, where I saw both Parasite and The Military Wives on the Sunday before the Monday evening when Boris Johnson advised the country to ‘avoid’ pubs, restaurants, cinemas, theatres and so on. So it’s only fair that the first port of call for my ‘return’ was the same place. Central London is still relatively quiet as people continue to work from home, or in my case (and I am far from alone) looking for work from home. And so it was that I shared an auditorium with two other people. Social distancing wasn’t exactly difficult.
I can’t relate to the experiences of Shola ‘Rocks’ Omotoso (Bukky Bakray) in Rocks – my childhood was lousy and traumatic in some ways, but it was, relatively speaking, very comfortable compared to what she had to go through. After her single mother Funke (Layo-Christina Akinlude) needs to take some time away from looking after the family home, to sort out her mental health, Rocks is left looking after her younger brother Emmanuel (D’angelou Osei Kissiedu) on her own – with limited funds.
Given that they live in a densely populated tower block (there is, apparently, such a thing as a non-densely populated tower block, particularly in prime locations where properties have been snapped up as investment opportunities, such that they are not necessarily occupied, at least not all the time), a concerned neighbour, who hasn’t seen Funke for a bit, calls in social services. Rocks is savvy enough to spot officials outside her front door and manages to evade them. Relying on the benevolence of classmates, the powers that be eventually whisk her and Emmanuel away: her to a local foster home, the boy removed from London to Hastings. That’s social services for you.
Nobody can establish where Funke has gone – Rocks calls her grandmother (Shola Adewusi), who lives in Lagos, Nigeria, but her own calls have not been responded to. Funke was, Rocks discovered, let go by her employer, although she kept leaving the house in the morning as though she were going to work. When the film ends the narrative is still unresolved, which makes the film all the more ‘real’: life is messy, life is unplanned, and throws unanticipated curveballs at people.
It never rains but it pours – a friendship with Roshé (Shaneigha-Monik Greyson), a new schoolgirl, quickly turns sour in the aftermath of a meetup which exposes Rocks to ‘how the other half live’. Rocks has her reasons to have her defences up, however much her most loyal friend Sumaya (Kosar Ali) tries to lend her support. Fiercely doing everything she can to maintain her independence, Rocks has never stayed in a hotel before. So, she loses her £40 deposit because she didn’t know she had to check out by a certain time and left for school without having packed her bags and leaving them at reception for collection later on. She’s a youngster – one would have thought she would have Googled hotel procedures or something. But she does, to be fair, have other things on her mind. It’s sort of hilarious, at least if your sense of humour is as dark as mine, but also indicative of how much she’s had to grow up, and how quickly.
There’s secondary school banter, but Rocks’ classmates are not ones to bear grudges, and things do get a little sentimental after Rocks lets it be known that she wishes to mark Emmanuel’s imminently approaching birthday in a meaningful way. But on the whole, it’s a gripping storyline, and even the worries and concerns of a global pandemic were firmly shunted away for all of ninety-three minutes as I watched this utterly engrossing teenage struggle. It’s an eyeopener: not every schoolgirl is a privileged brat, and some, like Rocks, find themselves in extremely difficult circumstances through no fault of their own. A film that left me counting my blessings.
Is £15 a bit extortionate for a concert programme? It seems to be the norm for Lambert Jackson Productions, who ran out of programmes for one of their concerts at Cadogan Hall previously, because the venue was selling them for a far more reasonable £8. LJP then sent an email to ticket bookers saying they could, if they still wanted (for a one-off concert, mind you) purchase one but it would now be £18 – the additional £3 was needed to cover postage and packing. (Packing? What did they want to ‘pack’ a programme in? A mahogany box?)
In the absence (as far as I could make out) of any other merchandise, however, and with no set, a sparse number of props and an even sparser number of costumes, I couldn’t work out who was doing what in this production of Jason Robert Brown’s Songs For A New World, or the context of each of the nineteen songs, I paid up. (I was going to say ‘coughed up’, but you try coughing in a theatre these days: everyone glares at you because you might have Rona Corona.)
Social distancing, for those interested in such matters (which are not, whatever the conspiracy theorists and well, certain Members of Parliament, think, are far from trivial) is enforced both in the audience and on stage. I’d seen it all before at the ‘test’ performance at the Palladium back in July, at which Beverley Knight did a concert, but for those coming to the Palladium for the first time under Covid restrictions, seeing every seat in every other row, plus two seats between each ‘bubble’ in rows with audience members seated, all marked with a big ‘X’, might have been a bit of a shock to the system.
As far as the show went, each of the songs is a complete mini-story in itself, which probably explains why songs like ‘Stars and the Moon’ and ‘I’d Give It All For You’ are popular as standalone songs in musical theatre concerts. Evidently, it’s been a while since these actors were on stage, and the atmosphere in the Palladium was also very positively charged.
I know there were some critics and reviewers who thought that perhaps once theatres fully reopen under ‘stage five’ of Culture Secretary Oliver Dowden’s ‘roadmap’ (that is, social distancing has ended) the initial reviews need to be kinder to take into account that actors have, to borrow a football term, been lacking in match fitness. “Bah, humbug!” is my response to that. This group simply gave first-rate performances, and I am confident this will carry through when the shows that can’t come back yet are able to do so. Put simply, there is no need to be critically more generous because productions are likely to be at least as good as they were before The Great Shutdown.
This proved the case here, with four actors (in the order listed in the programme, Rachel John, Rachel Tucker, Cedric Neal and David Hunter) who are well-suited to the principal roles they have filled in their careers to date, and yet retained the ability to sing well in harmony with one another in the roles of one another’s ensemble. Shem Omari James, a 2020 ArtsEd graduate, more than held his own among such established actors with the Act One closing number. At the end of the second half, twelve final year students from Mountview Academy of Theatre Arts joined the company, as a further nod to the stars of the future.
The explosive and comedic roles largely went to Tucker, who in the first half vented her spleen at ‘Murray’, her character’s husband, who she had clearly had enough of. In the second she is married to Santa Claus, but is highly rankled at the thought of another Christmas at home without company. As the show is set in the United States, there are rather more references to faith and Christian religion than there probably would be in a British song cycle – one song, ‘Christmas Lullaby’, almost sounds like a contemporary hymn.
At ninety minutes, it could have run through without an interval, though it may have been a bit much to take in all in one big gulp, so I’m grateful for the opportunity to come up for air halfway through. Jason Robert Brown tunes are not the easiest to navigate, whether one is sat in the audience or stood on stage bringing it to life, but there’s no doubting the superb quality of the harmonies and performances here, in which there is as much ballading as there is belting.
Some people are still wary of opening their windows, let alone leaving the house, let alone descending into the bowels of the London Underground and going to one of the few theatres in the capital putting on productions at the moment. There’s not that many of us active theatregoers right now, and it’s proving difficult to persuade others to come along, even on a Friday or Saturday evening, thanks to the 10pm curfew on pubs, bars and restaurants. Standing on the pavement a short distance away from a Tesco Express (open until 11pm) in the rain having a post-show drink is just not the one.
Of course, if one displays symptoms of Rona Corona, one doesn’t venture out. If one does, one is likely to be turned away at the theatre doors anyway, because the stun gun (sorry, portable digital thermometer) just might register a high temperature. And I’ve not yet come across anyone stupid enough to cough in a theatre since The Great Lockdown was lifted.
Southwark Playhouse has Perspex partitions between each ‘bubble’, so their rows are full, even if the capacity is still much reduced because a number of rows have been removed, such that there is a two-metre gap between each row. I used to try to book an aisle seat when deciding to see a show there that I wasn’t reviewing – as the millennials like to say, I’m not gonna lie: the extra legroom the Covid-related restrictions provide will be missed once social distancing ends, whenever that will be.
Southwark is currently resuming its run of The Last Five Years, the Jason Robert Brown two-hander musical about a married couple whose relationship eventually peters out: the wife’s story is told in reverse chronological order, and the husband’s in forward chronological order. Which sounds ingenious on paper, but the ending is revealed in the first line, iconic amongst The Last Five Years fans: “Jamie is over, and Jamie is gone”. If you don’t like to know the end before the end, this isn’t the show for you.
The first time I saw The Last Five Years at Southwark was the weekend before the Prime Minister took to the airwaves and advised that theatres and other public places were to be ‘avoided’. Lydia White had stepped into the role of Cathy at extremely short notice, reading from the book in place of an indisposed Molly Lynch. Without taking anything away from White’s remarkable achievement, it was worth the wait to see Lynch’s Cathy, running the full gamut of human emotions so incredibly convincingly.
The following evening, I went from the (almost) sublime to the (utterly) ridiculous – an outdoor performance of the Stephen Schwartz musical Pippin. This show has never really made much sense to me, but I think I understand it more than I have ever done thanks to this pared down version that adhered to the ‘rule of six’ even before the rule of six was implemented. It was absolutely pouring throughout the evening, although both the seating areas and the performance space were both covered with sheeting. Hallelujah.
The cast’s unamplified voices, however, were not only competing with the sound of passing Vauxhall traffic but the patter of the rain. Whether you caught every word of every line depended, to some extent, on where you were sat, and in which direction an actor’s voice was projecting. Some of Schwartz’s lyrics are quite rapid, too. They were also occasionally competing with themselves – in the large ensemble numbers, with much dancing, the semi-wet floor led to squeaks from the cast’s shoes as they swiftly changed direction. The company made much of the trying circumstances, with amusing references to the ‘new normal’ – Charlemagne (Dan Krikler) rushes to embrace his son Pippin (Ryan Anderson) but immediately stops himself from doing so. Joanne Clifton’s Berthe, Pippin’s paternal grandmother, brought the house down with audience interaction and some ad-libs, including, “Is this bench wet or have I had an accident?”
Billed to run for ninety minutes, it actually ran closer to two hours, mostly because of what was meant to be a five minute comfort break that turned into a full blown interval – we were all very good at socially distanced toileting. At Southwark, too, the curtain fell later than it should have done, as it took longer to get everyone seated in the first place: the 7.30pm start time came and went with many of us still stood outside waiting to be ushered in. Goodness knows how it all worked out at Southwark Playhouse on the rainy night I was at the Garden Theatre – the Southwark staff had their iPads out outside checking people in on the pavement the night before.
Some will no doubt disagree, but my experiences this week (including those I’ve written about separately in reviews) strongly suggest to me that theatre is back. Thank goodness.
I don’t, I must confess, listen to my copy of the Before After cast recording nearly as much as I should, especially given that I contributed several hundred pounds to its production budget. I did so a few years ago after I had re-mortgaged the house and found I still had some money left over, and as I have never been used to having money in the bank (you could say I’ve rediscovered the old me in these Covid days) I thought I’d find better uses for it. Besides the fundraiser for Before After, there were some production costs for a one-act play called Sid which I put some money towards, and a fundraiser for a teenage actor called Lucy-Mae Beacock, born with spina bifida, and later diagnosed with scoliosis (curvature of the spine). At the time, the best surgical option was some new-fangled technique or other in the United States. The long and the short of it is that the operation worked, Sid had a run at Above the Arts, the Arts Theatre’s upstairs studio space in the West End, and Before After got its cast recording. Not so much win-win as win-win-win.
Ben (Hadley Fraser) and Ami (Rosalie Craig) – as everyone who moves in London’s musical theatre circles knows, we’re talking about a real-life couple here, in case anyone watching was wondering why they weren’t two metres apart as per Covid-secure guidelines – are going through a rough patch in their relationship, not helped by the show’s critical incident, in which Ben was in a road traffic accident, resulting in a severe case of amnesia. Meeting Ami again some time after being discharged from hospital was (from an audience perspective, anyway) both amusing and awkward: he really doesn’t remember very much, even to the point of having to relearn socialising.
The narrative is largely expanded through exposition, so it’s plain clothes costumes throughout and nothing at all in the way of props. There’s no choreography to speak of either, so the show may come across to some as a play with songs rather than a musical. A few still images at the appropriate points are useful, and the show doesn’t feel unnecessarily complicated even as it jumps around between ‘before’ (the car crash, that is) and ‘after’. I suppose the show would work just as well if it were told in forward chronological order, but to do that would make the show just another one of those productions where everything is ticking along reasonably well between the characters before a car crash or other life-changing incident suddenly comes along and tears everybody’s lives apart. And we hardly need any more of that kind of story in 2020.
By ‘revealing’ the crash at the start of the show, it can then move quickly to an exploration of its consequences. There’s nothing new in a highly significant event leading to a richer and deeper appreciation of life, but the full gamut of human emotion expressed in ninety minutes nonetheless leaves the audience feeling hopeful. Some soaring melodies and tremendously profound lyrics come together to make this triumph over adversity love story a worthwhile and valuable experience.
Photo credit: Mark Senior
I caught the 2020 production of Jesus Christ Superstar at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre very late in its run – I wasn’t going to go at all, originally (I mean, it’s not like I don’t know how it ends) but got talked into it by various people who (separately) thought it was worth seeing. The problem on the night was that the temperature had plunged in late September 2020 by about as much as the economy had in March and April of the same year. Added to this, the show, apparently in concert format (or so it has been marketed as such), ran at ninety minutes without an interval, so there wasn’t even a chance to stamp one’s feet and get some warmth going somehow.
So, I found myself sparing a thought for Jesus (Declan Bennett). It wasn’t because of my borderline puritanical Protestant upbringing (at one point many years ago, my family decided they would ban cling film from the house because “the pastor said so”. Demonic cling film!) Towards the end of the show, for obvious reasons, the Messiah is largely unclothed. In the cold autumnal air, it must have been challenging to say the least. (A strict interpretation of the crucifixion account would actually have Jesus on the cross completely nude, which I find rather ironic as it’s something on stage that the religious people would find unacceptable. But that’s the hypocrisy of religion for you.)
Social distancing is very much evident on stage, and everyone stays at what looked to me to be two metres or more from everyone else. Only occasionally does this affect proceedings – Mary Magdalene’s interactions with Christ, for instance, could have been more convincing: when I saw a previous version of the show back in 2016, they were indeed much more intimate. But that’s Rona Corona for you.
Although billed as a concert, it’s probably best described as ‘semi-staged’, with much of the production’s choreography retained. Then again, the production’s previous incarnation (if I may use that word) had the feeling of a rock concert in any event. The inventive use of props is still there, too, particularly when a group of Jewish clergymen make their opinions about Jesus known.
Declan Bennett’s Christ was (lovingly) lampooned in the 2016 run of ‘Jest End’, a parody song cycle making light of theatrical shows and events very much like ‘Forbidden Broadway’, for holding back and being a bit lacklustre, especially when contrasted alongside Tyrone Huntley’s powerhouse Judas Iscariot. The same accusation cannot be levelled at Bennett this time around, and his take on ‘Gethsemane’ was nothing short of remarkable.
As a fellow theatregoer put it, David Thaxton’s Pontius Pilate has a way of making counting (that is, the thirty-nine stripes, or lashes of the whip, that Jesus is said to have received) interesting. Shaq Taylor’s Herod was suitably flashy and extravagant in a number providing light relief from the intensity of Christ’s Passion. Nathan Amzi’s Annas was a delight every time he had a line or a verse to sing, and overall, this was a thoroughly decent if chilly night out.
Well, I have nothing to lose by indulging in networking, although I have no idea how to really do it, particularly at a time when face-to-face job fairs and meetings with recruiters are out of the question for the foreseeable future. But it’s one of those things I’ll never get good at unless I begin somewhere. So here goes.
I’d like to be back in work sooner rather than later – the mental/psychological impact is just as bad as the financial hit, frankly, so it is of concern to read about people who have been out of work for as long as eight months and counting. Then there’s an army of self-employed people, some of whom haven’t had a penny (not being eligible for any Government support whatsoever) in income since The Great Lockdown. In that regard, I should count my blessings, having been back in work recently, albeit just for a fortnight’s holiday cover to keep a construction site going.
And the phone has, occasionally, been ringing. Not nearly as much, of course, as it did the last time I was out of work for anything longer than a month. I was even cold-called a couple of times last week by recruitment consultants (funny how that happens when one is actually working – nobody’s ringing now that I’m sat at home again). I’ve perused the job boards so much I’ve practically run out of jobs to apply for. A pity I don’t drive and have zero motivation to learn to do so – on the day I got my redundancy notice in the summer, the two major companies with vacancies were Amazon and Ocado.
I have signed up to something I never thought I would: care in the community. Not having had much experience (meaning, none) in that field, it’s been an interesting ride so far, with an initial glut of training and some excellent support from a couple of ‘fieldcare supervisors’. But even that’s come to a stop for the time being. So now what? I’m going to pop out in a bit to the barbers. I passed by there on Saturday but there’s some sort of discount if I go during the week. And I need to pop into Tesco because, well, it’s cheaper than Sainsbury’s. Gotta look after the pennies when on Universal Credit.
Oh, and if there are any suitable job vacancies going, please let me know.
#JobSearch #JobHunt #Job #Jobs #Careers #Employment #Work
Goose bumps, those pimples on the skint hat we sometimes experience when we get chilly, stressed or excited, evolved to keep us warm. Muscles in the base of each hair follicle, called arrectores pilorum, make the tiny hairs on your body stand up on end, trapping a layer of warm air next to the skin.
In modern humans, who have relatively little body hair, the effect is negligible, but for a shaggy caveman, it must have been like instant thermal underwear. Facial hair – even coarse beard fuzz – doesn’t have enough arrectores pilorum muscles to make the hairs stand up. That’s why your face doesn’t go pimply when the weather’s cold – though you can get goose bumps on the scalp, and, of course, on the back of the neck.
London lad, loving life and all that it has to offer.