I hate recruitment agencies

I may have mentioned this before. I have dealt with recruitment agencies from both sides of the table, so to speak. I've had to use their services to employ staff, and I've had to use their services to find work.

In the former, they phone incessantly, send muffins and chocolates (useful) and random mouse mats and calendars (not so useful since it's hard to move a mouse around on a pile of mats), and worst of all, they always ask me how my weekend was. Why? You don't know me, you don't care about my weekend. You don't care that I downed 6 tequilas then passed out, nor do you care that I stayed in and read a book (Readers, which one was it, eh?). Furthermore, why do you think I will tell you, and do you think that asking is going to make vacancies suddenly appear when you were told last week that we weren't hiring until the new year (and it's June)?

Regarding the latter, sometimes you don't have a choice since all the good jobs seem to be through agencies. So, I duly send my CV in. They call me: "great CV!", and then I never hear from them again. What happened? Was I not suitable? Say so. If I am not suitable why did you say I was? One particular agency advertised 3 roles on different occasions. The same person (whom I met: "we'd love to meet you to determine if you are in fact normal") said that he put me forward for all 3 roles and that I was to be called - all 3 times - about an interview. Readers, this didn't happen. You know who you are, Craig James.

I vowed never to use agencies ever again. (Except Richard O, because I like him and he does what he says he is going to do.) However, now I need a bit of pocket money to make Christmas more rosy, so to my horror, I've found myself registering with the temp agencies because how else will I get temp work? I devised a very special email and have spent some time this morning sending it out to all the usual suspects.

Readers: mortification. I had addressed the email as follows: People could you let me know the registration process... People? I meant had meant to say Please.

Obviously ingratiation sticks in my throat.

Woe is me

I can't help thinking that there must be another posting on this blog with the same title. It is my wont from time to time, as My Loved One frequently points out, to feel self-pity. I mean really feel it. I have a look - usually staring out of the window, a little sigh, and a pathetically small voice that goes with everything. A cup of tea?, I am asked. Deep breath, sigh, "yes please". Cue looking out of the window some more. Today is such a day, because I am unwell. I am illin', as my My Most Delicious Friend Regina Silverspoon® would say. I deplore being ill. Being ill is fine when you get time off school - although I didn't want to in case I missed something (in the playground that is) - and it's fine when you don't have that much to do at work and a couple of days off to watch Murder She Wrote followed by Diagnosis Murder followed by Midsomer Murders followed by a marathon of the King of Queens (Kevin James is someone I am contemplating adding to People I Find Strangely Attractive) is exactly what the doctor ordered. Lying about in bed is: for sex; it's for watching movies on a Sunday afternoon; it's for reading a good book; and of course for beauty-sleeping. It's not for groaning, sniffling and coughing and crying "why is this happening to me?". I want to go out tonight and I shall, if it kills me. This bloody cold.

I fought with Windows Vista and won

So, it's like this. If ever you get an error message "Windows Explorer is not working" and if that message appears on a loop FOR ETERNITY - not working, closing, restarting, not working - and if you cannot DO ANYTHING about it because you cannot access a single thing on your own computer BECAUSE OF IT, just gimme me a call: I'm your IT bitch.

You're welcome.