One Of The Many Ways In Which Life Is Not Like Erotic Fiction For Women

A phone call this afternoon brought some good news that I am immediately disappointed by. I've got a job. But no, not a lovely writing job that means I can actually spend the summer lolling about the place and going to the garden centre. Following one of my regular 'I'm not disappointed in you, I just don't want you to let yourself down' chats with my dad, I applied to several clothes shops and department stores, figuring I do actually have some experience of working in a department store.

Now, here's where it gets difficult, because my terms of employment prevent me from blogging about the company in any way that's detrimental to their reputation. And I'm pretty sure just finding their name mentioned next to my happy tales of all-night shagathons would fit their criteria. So let's just say it's a large branch of a national chain of stores.

I have to report on Monday at 7.30 in the morning (dear God, who knew such a time existed?) to collect my uniform (black nylon-y top and skirt; I have to provide tan tights, black, closed-toe, non-slingback shoes; cover my tats and take my nose stud out) and undergo induction. If my life were an erotic novel for women - and I'd have better ankles if it were - induction would involve me being spied on by the sinister owner of the store as I stripped out of my own clothes and into some thigh-length PVC boots and a velvet mask. Then I'd be led through the secret door in the changing rooms into the underground vault where I'd be obliged to make all orifices available to service an unguessable number of men, before being allowed to get changed into my uniform and go onto the shop floor, where the male employees would rake me up and down with their eyes while I blushed shamefully at the thought of what they might have just done to me and the certain knowledge that worse awaited me that evening when the store closed. But in fact I'm expecting a quick canter through corporate values and being shown where the fire exits are.

I feel like slouching round the house and slamming doors, yelling "It's so unfair!" But that's because I'm an ungrateful brat...blah...blah...worst recession in living memory...blah...blah...think of all the people starving in India...

OK, OK, even my interior monologue blogging voice is turning into my dad now. Where do you even buy tan tights (well, in the shop I'm about to work in, I suppose).