I've been unemployed for going on eight whole months. That is, you may have noticed, more than half a year. That was perceptive of you. And it's true. I've been sitting on my ass since mid-November, applying to countless (well, hundreds, I could probably count that high if I wanted to) jobs. Did I hear back from any of them? No. Well, yes, but automated emails don't count. Admittedly better than the complete silence I got from everyone else, but that's life. In order for me to have everything I want, other people have to stop being assholes for ten minutes.

Being unemployed long-term isn't fun. I'm sure many people know this, but I suspect others think that there are people who become unemployed on purpose, as if the end goal of life is to do as little as possible and watch daytime teevee. This is not so. You find yourself becoming uncomfortably comfortable with not having stuff to do. You start staying up later, sleeping in later. You start to rationalise certain actions, such as eating too much because you don't have anything else to do, or etching all the insanely complex and eldritch super moves in Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3 into your muscle memory. There was also drinking at 9am. And I don't mean milk. At least, not the traditional milk. What I'm saying is that I have yet to find a cow that produces whiskey, but I'm totally on that, and will keep you updated.

I also recently found myself taking pictures less and less. There's two reasons for this- one, in my unemployment, I ended up moving back in with my parents for a while (awkward!), and they live in the puckered butthole of nowhere, leaving me with very little to actually take pictures of. And also flickr dun' goofed. You all know how. These two things kinda drained my creative energy.

I immediately resented the situation, and it wasn't long before I resented myself as well. I was applying for jobs daily, and my constant failure, my almost complete lack of any form of response was emotionally destructive, in much the same way as an obsidian sledgehammer could be physically destructive to adorable, helpless baby bird.

So two weeks ago the unthinkable happened, and I got called for an interview. This was an interview for a photo studio, the sort of place I wanted to work in, but had entirely given up hope on. To be brutally honest, I'd forgotten even putting in that application. The interview was in Reading. Reading is 2 hours away by train (and cost a prohibitive £37). I managed to get the scratch together and put on my best suit.

Loaded up with a suicidal confidence that comes from being so very, very hungry, and also not actually expecting it to go anywhere, I blazed the initial interview. I was aked to return for a second interview with the studio manager in Oxford later that week. I attended that too, albeit now less confident because holy crap this might actually lead to a genuine job what the hell am I even doing I don't know how to be employed clearly I mean look at me.

Turns out I passed that interview as well, which is awesome, because it means that I can still say I have never failed an interview which is something I singularly fond of being able to say. Long and short of this whole sordid affair is that I got the job. I'm a studio photographer, working for a company that has existed globally since the 1970's. It's old as balls.

I'm starting early next month. I'm moving to Oxford. I'm finally getting out Worcestershire. At last! It means being apart from my fiance for a month or so, but when she's able to move over and join me, we'll also be celebrating our third (THIRD, WHAT THE HELL!?) anniversary. Big stuff.