Five Syllable Hell

There used to be a time when I thought life was sweet and simple. In fact, I still do in my own little way. Good people win over villains, love conquers all, and if you are skilled and willing, people will give you a job.

But as I'm approaching my 13th week of job-seeking allowance, my belief is being worn down. Cruelty is one five-syllable word: Overqualified.

Let me take a moment from the point I have just made, to make a second, related point. Bare with me though, the transition won't make sense to start with.

I live in Bracknell. Don't apologise for not knowing where Bracknell is; no-one does. I spent all three of my uni years telling people that I lived 'near Reading', and the only reason that Reading is on people's radar is because an awesome music festival is held there every year.

Anyway. Bracknell is a shit-hole; a town so gloriously low-brow that the focal point is a complex with houses a cinema, a bowling alley, a bingo hall, and a pseudo-Italian/American restaurant. This is a town where the average mother is too young to drink in America. A town which has the award 'Chaviest place in Britain' as its only claim to fame.

Most of my friends don't even live in Bracknell, since I went to school in an adjacent village. Here, I have a girlfriend and a family, and in just over a week 50% of them are leaving.

So let us now examine the job choices available in the hell-town in which I reside. The current list runs like this: shop-assistant at a hair and beauty salon, bar-tender at a down-and-out pub, or a cleaner. All the other jobs are variations on this theme.

But none of these jobs are me. Trying hard to avoid snobbishness, I'm above them. I don't want a career in washing people clothes, and my messy appearance puts me out of the hair and beauty shop assistant parameters. What worries me is that I'll reach a point, very soon, in which I'll be forced to accept on of these jobs and I'll spend the rest of my life sobbing into dry-cleaning.

There are some jobs that seem alright. An IT assistant at a school, or working in a library. I like computers and books, so I'd be passionate. I'd turn up to work on time every day, work hard, and be good at my job. But, alas, I have a degree.

People with degrees can't work the little jobs apparently. They can't stack books on shelves or fix computers. They're too good for that. They must get big careers, in office buildings and with high wages. They have a degree, dammit! They deserve the best.

I refer you again to points three and four again. I live in Bracknell. Bracknell is a shit-hole.

The types of careers available to me are office jobs with companies I don't give a damn about. There is no creativity. Just pencil-pushing and paperwork. The types of dead-end careers that will have me trapped in purgatory forever.

In a perfect world, I could search for jobs in London, a mere hour's journey by train. But I'm stuck in the lame catch-22 in which to get a job in London I need money to live there, and to get money to live there, I need a job.

It's infuriating, soul-destroying and really quite rubbish.

What's an overqualified BA meant to do?

:(

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