Three Job Seekers and a Restart Officer (Part One)

It can�t be that bad. So I got chucked out of my last three jobs for voicing my opinion about the bosses. So my ever-so-efficient husband organised for me to go on a week�s restart course without telling me first. So now I�m here, not knowing what to expect, ten minutes late, about to enter a roomful of strangers. But maybe I�m being childish. It�s only for a week. A whole week to �teach� me how to stay in employment.

I shake my head violently, sigh and knock on the door. I timidly open it, and glance into the room. A plump woman is standing in front of rows of chairs and tables. Her thick, large glasses and smart but casual way of dressing make her appear kind and friendly, like your favourite aunt. But then she speaks.
�Oooh, and who have we got here then? Was Tot�s TV running late?� Her hideously pink, fat lips press themselves together to form a look of smug satisfaction, topped with a severely sarcastic smile.
�I�m sorry...�
�Don�t bother, I haven�t got time for excuses. Sit down there.� Her short fingers indicate an empty seat in the front row next to a large, moustached man. I slowly do as she says, making an extreme effort to maintain my dignity, and not to let my anger become observable. How dare this woman treat me like this? Who is she anyway? I squint my eyes and strain to read her name badge, fixed neatly onto her blue lapel. �Pauline�.

Pauline casts her eyes over the group, and begins to speak once more. I�m not listening to what she�s saying, because my mind is occupied with attempting to think up a revenge for my husband. I�ll teach him for trying to organise my life for me. I glance round the room with the faint hope that someone may be able to help me. You never knew in Royston Vasey, anyone of them could be a bomb-maker by trade, or have an infinite knowledge of how to poison a man without leaving a trace (OK, so I have an overactive imagination). As I take in the rows of people, I realise I�m the only woman. Most of them are middle-aged and overweight, but my attention is drawn to a couple seated together at the table next to mine. The one nearest me seems very young, almost too young to be on the dole. He looks like he�s just left school and should be working in McDonald�s. He is slouched over the table, his greasy, limp brown hair is cut into an old-fashioned mullet style, his skin is covered in spots and sores, and his mouth hangs open in a goofy fashion, not through intention, but through a seeming inability to keep it shut. I feel sorry for him.

The man to his right is almost the complete opposite. He sits in an attentive position, but his true feelings are given away by the bored expression on his face. His short, brown hair is combed neatly into a side parting, with his fringe brushed over his forehead, the corner of it resting on the top of his rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses. Behind his glasses, his dark blue eyes are complemented nicely with large eyelashes. His nose is small and perfectly formed, and his full, bottom lip is pushed forward, completing the impression of disinterest. His mis-matched light brown jacket and dark blue top capture my attention. I can feel myself staring at him. As I do so, with extremely unfortunate timing, he turns his head slightly, and captures my gaze. I look down quickly, embarrassed that I�ve been caught staring, and suddenly find my fingernails very interesting.

Bitch-woman from hell is still speaking. �Now then, job seekers, we were thinking today, d�you remember? About interview technique, hmmm? And what I want to do first is a little role play-so if you want to make some space, come on, chop chop!� She emphasises this remark by clapping her hands together in a teacher-like way. I feel sick.

I decide that if we�re going to be spending the next week sitting at the same table, I�d better introduce myself to Mr Moustache, and I take the opportunity of the movement of tables and chairs to do so. I plaster a smile on my face, turn round, and offer him my hand. �Hi, I�m Dawn.� He takes it and nods.
�Colin. S�a pleasure.� Well, at least he seems half normal.

I notice that the object of my attention from a few moments earlier is standing with his back to the room, in conversation with Pauline. I struggle to hear what he�s saying, then feel immediately guilty for eavesdropping. But it doesn�t stop me. He has a soft, northern accent, and all of his vowels are emphasised.
�Pauline, when are we gonna get on the computers, learn about spreadsheets, databases, something practical?�
�Piss of Ross.�

His disgusted expression but lack of comment told me I would be hearing plenty more insults from this fat, stuck-up cow over the course of the next week. She turns to her �audience� again, with a superficial smile stuck across her chubby face.
�Right, thank you job seekers. Now then, in this role play, I�m going to be interviewing...� There is a pause as she makes a decision. �Mickey here for a job.� Mickey. The gormless goof. He looks up in surprise.
�What job?� His thick, solid voice reflects his appearance, and gives him a quality of unintelligence and stupidity.
�It�s shoving trolleys round ASDA car park, Mickey love. I know it�s out of your league, but we�re only playing.� As I am beginning to suspect, no reaction to the unsubtle insult. She continues. �So come on, I want to see you really sell yourself.� He gives a toothy grin, moves from his position on the table and places himself in a waiting chair next to Pauline. �My name is Mickey.�
�Ooh, good morning Mr Mickey, now can you tell me, what was your last job?� There is a pause. Mickey looks in deep thought.
He finally answers, �Milk monitor.� Pauline is, not surprisingly, unimpressed.
�And, um, what qualifications do you have?� He mouths the word as if to clarify it to himself. �I�m a good swimmer.� I glance around the rest of the gathering to reassure myself that he�s not taking the piss.
�Uh huh...and what other work have you done apart from milk monitor?�
�Bugger all!�
�Language Mickey!�
�What?�
�Watch your language.�
�English!�
�No watch your lang..oh, never mind.� I smile to myself, and, for a moment, almost feel respect for Pauline. She dismisses Mickey casually. �Thanks very much, we�ll let you know.�
�Thanks, did I win?�
�Yeah, you did super love.� She stands, retakes her position in the middle of the floor, and faces us again. �Right, that was a perfect example, everybody, of how not to conduct yourself at interview!� She says this in an overly-enthusiastic tone, and accompanies it with a shaking of her hand. Mickey�s face falls. But Pauline continues her criticism. �He slouched, he swore, he came across generally as a man who had shit for brains, didn�t you, cherub?�

The smile is back on Mickey�s face. He nods in agreement. �Yeah!�
�Right, job seekers, what I�m going to do now, is I�m going to show you the right way. I want someone in this room to interview me. Any takers?� I seriously consider volunteering. I could have her for breakfast if I interviewed her. But my confidence fails me, and besides, I�ve only just met the woman. She may be having a bad day. There is silence from the rest of my fellow �job seekers� (how ironic that such a politically correct term is so constantly overused by a woman who has about as much respect for intellectual equality as a butcher for vegetarians). She looks at us in contempt. �Well, you disappoint me.�
�I�ll do it.� The entire room looks over at Ross, who, sitting on his table, has an unreadable expression on his face...but something about him makes me stare again...perhaps its those perfect lips, which are drawn together in an almost-pout.

Pauline seems surprised, but she is not shaken out of her dignity. �Ross. Well, thank you very much, in your own time.�

Ross slowly walks over to my side of the room, and stands to Pauline�s right. In such close proximity to her, it is noticeable how short he is, standing at least a head below her. He speaks to her without attempting eye contact. �Could I have the clipboard please Pauline?�

Another surprise for the intimidating woman. �Er...yeah, yeah, you can, yeah.� She hands it to him.
�And the pen?� Ross holds out his hand expectantly, still not looking at the restart officer. Pauline observes the biro in her hand, as if reluctant to let it go. She offers it to Ross, but draws it back before he grasps it, in order to say, �Be very careful with it�. Ross sighs and rolls his blue eyes ceiling-ward. I hide a small smile. In any other village, a pen-obsessed, patronising, manipulative cow as a restart officer would have been a dream, or more likely a nightmare. But this is Royston Vasey.

Ross finally gets hold of the pen, and makes his way to the chair last occupied by Mickey. As he walks past my table, I look up hopefully, not sure what I�m hopeful for. But he doesn�t notice me. As he begins to sit down, Pauline speaks again. �Ooh, I feel all naked.�
�I�m glad you�re not.�
�What?�

Ross looks up innocently from his new found position in the chair, and gives a small, hardly noticeable smile. �In your own time.� I resist the urge to laugh out loud at his humour, and notice that most of the others are doing the same. I find myself subconsciously egging him on, urging him with my thoughts to humiliate her as much as possible.

Pauline looks at him with contempt over her thick set glasses. She looks up, plasters an obviously fake smile over her face and draws her hands towards her overly-ample chest in a gesture of calm. She then screws her hand into a fist, and makes a knocking action, simultaneously stamping on the floor with her foot. Ross looks away, an almost-amused expression briefly flits across his face, but he hides it with amazing self-control by placing his tongue inside his cheek. The slight sexual suggestion of the gesture forces me to breathe in sharply, and close my eyes momentarily. God, what was this man doing to me?

Pauline knocks again. �The door�s already open.� I don�t even bother to hide my amusement this time.
�Oh!� Pauline resumes her seat. Ross gazes at her intently with slightly raised eyebrows. �Would you like to take a seat?� The tone is overly-sarcastic. But Pauline admits to her mistake.
�Yes, I�m sorry, no, Ross is quite right.� She turns to face him for the first time. �You�re in the driving seat now.� Ross presses his lips together and once more forms the perfect pout. He raises his hand in which the pen is held, and clicks it open loudly. He pauses for emphasis, before assuring her, �I know.� His eyes are narrowed slightly behind his glasses, and his body language oozes with control and manipulation of the situation. My knees start to feel weak.

�And you�re interested in the trolley job?� His cute northern accent plays with the words, making each syllable sound happy and positive.
�That is right, I am very interested, yes. I feel my ability to work as part of a team, and yet to take individual responsibility are important factors in a job of this nature.� Her stereotypical comments are aided by over-the-top hand gestures.
�What work experience do you have?�
�Oh, I left school early, and started to work...� She is interrupted by Ross.
�So you didn�t go to college?�
�No, I felt that actual work experience was...�
�So you have no qualifications?� The repetition of the interruption once more highlighted Ross�s competence and management of the situation.
�Well if you don�t count 20 years in the employment service.� Pauline looks smug. Ross notices the smug look. He screws his face up in disgust, leans towards her slightly, and raises his voice. �Well no, no I don�t, I�m talking about academic achievement, degrees, diplomas...�

But Pauline is unfazed. �Aah, come off it Ross, shovin� trolleys round ASDA car park, a friggin� monkey could do it!� At this unexpected outburst, Ross draws back in surprise. He turns towards the onlookers with an only-just-detectable expression of amusement on his face. For a second, he catches my eye. Despite the cliché of my heart missing a beat, I attempt to smile at him in what I hope is an encouraging way.

He observes the clipboard with interest. He moves his eyes to look at Pauline, but his head remains lowered. He stares at her over the top of his glasses, the light from the window catching in his eyes, creating a new-found sparkle, and emphasising the length of his dark eye-lashes. �Would you say you�re a fairly...egregious person?� I struggle not to laugh out loud, and feel an unexplainable sense of pride at Ross�s intelligence and wit.

Pauline draws her lips together in disgust, and sucks in her cheeks. She doesn�t look at him as she says, in a monotone voice, �What?�

Ross doesn�t miss a beat. He continues with ultimate competence and ability. His timing could not have been more perfect if it had been a scripted scene. �Are you an egregious person? Do you have an egregious personality?� As he says the last word, his voice catches slightly in the back of his throat, highlighting his possibly fabricated innocence and almost-childishness. My knees feel even weaker.

Pauline looks at her audience as if for support. She doesn�t find any. She takes a deep breath and decides to gamble. �Yeah, yeah, I do, yeah.�

With a smug smile and look of triumph, Ross looks down at the clipboard on his lap, avoiding eye-contact with any of us, presumably in case of losing his composure. He continues quickly, without even looking at Pauline. �Right, I�m gonna say some other words to you now, and I want you to reply with the first thing that comes into your head, all right?�
�Oh, right, yes.�
�Home.�
�Royston Vasey.�
�Family.�
�Dead.� I smile to myself, before realising Pauline has not made a joke.
�Friends.�
�Pens.� Ross hesitates, and looks up. For the second time, his eyes catch mine, a look of confusion mixed with mild amusement contorting his features into an amusing but desirable expression. I shake my head slightly, and maintain eye contact with him for what seems like an eternity, just gazing into the deep dark-blueness... but he looks away, and regards Pauline again.
�No, friends.� Pauline nods in agreement.
�Pens! The best friends you can have. Everything I know about people I learned from pens. If they don�t work, you shake �em. If they still don�t work, you chuck �em away, bin �em.� I think to myself that it explains a lot about Pauline�s personality. From his expression of disgust, it is obvious Ross agrees.
�Really.� His low intonation implies a sense of bitterness. He continues. �Work.�
�Everything. My work is everything to me.�
�Love.�
�No. Well there was someone once but...�
�And can I get your age please, Pauline?� Once again, a device used purely to humiliate the over-powering presence who is supposed to be in charge of our working lives. I celebrate in my mind. Pauline looks amused.
�I think that�s a lady�s prerogative.�
�I need to know how old you are for the records.�
�Let�s just say I�m as old as me gums and a little bit older than...�
�How old are you?�

The interruption is, yet again, perfectly timed, and leaves Pauline no other choice but to cry out in defeat, �I�m 48!� The smug expression appears on his face again, reflecting the feelings of everyone in the room.

�Thank you for coming to see us today.�

Pauline rises, turns to face Ross, and offers him her hand. �Thank you very much, when do I start?�

Ross ignores her outstretched hand, looks up at her in mock surprise, and omits a soft laugh. I subconsciously find myself leaning forward. The corners of his perfect mouth are turned up slightly in genuine amusement for fraudulent reasons. �Oh, I�m sorry, I, er, can�t offer you this position.� A sense of triumph fills the whole room, pride in our intelligent peer who has allowed us to get one-up over the big bad boss lady, a feeling of collective achievement, that Ross is representing the opinions off us all by subtly and cleverly dissing her in this way

Pauline sits down in genuine astonishment. �What?�

Ross seeks eye contact with her for long enough to say, perfectly clearly and coherently, �Well, you�ve failed the interview. You strike me as a bully. You�re ill-mannered, ignorant...� he pauses momentarily, but the gap only adds emphasis to his next accurate insult, �...and foul-mouthed. You�re not qualified for this job. And, apart from anything else...you�re too old.� He leans towards her and juts out his chin. �Miss. Sorry.� He draws back again. A quick glance around the sun-filled room confirms that each individual is making an observable attempt not to fall about in hysterics.

Pauline tries to regain her dignity. �But I can...�

Ross looks away from her, and continues writing on the clipboard. I smile to myself about his unnecessary attention to detail. Pauline takes a deep breath, looks around her, and begins to work slowly away from her victor. A loud click echoes around the room as Ross closes Pauline�s precious pen. It somehow seems to emphasise his success over her. When a suitable distance has been covered to make it obvious even to Mickey that she is no longer in role, she spins around on one of her one-size-too-small stilettos, and faces us all. She begins to speak in an unnecessarily high and exaggerated voice. �Good! I think that Ross handled that situation very well...can I have me stuff back?� The last comment is directed at her interviewer, who hands back the clipboard and pen. Pauline continues. �Although it did make me wonder how well he�d handle a situation a bit more like this!� On this last utterance, she turns so her back is to her audience, and raises the clipboard to violently hit Ross in the face. Shock takes over my body, and I feel unable to move or even think. But I am snapped out of my brief surprise by the horrifying noises of agony Ross begins to omit. I can no longer see him as this unbelievable excuse for a woman is blocking my view, but his cries of pain leave me in no doubt as to what he must be going through. I stand involuntarily, poised ready to say something...but no sound comes out of my throat.

Pauline isn�t relenting. �Oh, a bully am I? Foul-fuckin� mouthed? You�ll eat those words! Egregious! Egregious! Egregious!� At this, the unbelievable entity rips off the top sheet of paper with Ross�s neat handwriting on, screws it up, and attempts to shove it into his mouth. My own mouth opens in complete horror. How is this happening? And how are people just letting it happen? I pull myself together enough to glance around the room, and notice that everyone is looking down at their desks, with an expression of near-embarrassment on their faces. I am astounded once again. I shake my head violently to try and get rid of the surrealism, and gather enough courage to open my mouth and begin to say something. But, amazingly, I am beaten to it by none other than Mickey. The whole room turns to look at him, as his low, immature voice states in an almost desperate tone: �Stop it Pauline! Stop it, you nutter!�

Pauline, who is now almost astride the squirming Ross in an attempt to force the sheet of paper further down his throat, freezes in realisation of her crime. Slowly, she straightens, and grasps the screwed-up paper, and turns her head to look at Mickey. Her own features are now contorted into a horrified and surprised expression, her bright pink lips hanging open, her eyes wide behind her large, thick glasses. The silence of the room is interrupted by Ross�s dry coughing. I can now see him clearly again, his face bruised already, a small amount of dried blood just visible in his left nostril, his fine hair ruffled and scruffy, his mouth open as he gasps for air, his skin pale from his obvious shock, his glasses slightly askew, sitting half-way down his nose, due to his distraction from his already noticeable habit of pushing them up. Just to look at him makes me feel as if someone has ripped out my heart. I feel sick from the pain he must be feeling, I feel sympathy and empathy for him, and, above all, I feel hatred for Pauline. Who does that fat monster think she is? How dare she have the right to behave like that? I bite my bottom lip in disgust, and regard her again. She is looking at Mickey, innocent look of horror at her own actions plastered across her face. �Oh Mickey...� Her voice is light and hardly audible. But her expressions change as suddenly as her mood, and, instantly, she is back to the manipulative witch of previous moments. �What is egregious?� Mickey�s goofy look of confusion and contemplation accompany my inability to be shocked at anything else this woman is likely to throw at us.

Ross shakes his head ever so slightly, gets up, and leaves the room. His chair falls backwards with a loud bang. Pauline turns sharply to look at it. Relieved from her stare, Mickey sheepishly returns to his seat. Pauline closes her lips, and moves her chin up and down as if biding for time. �All right everybody, this session�s over. I�ll see you all tomorrow morning. Don�t be late, will you?�

The general scraping of chairs could be heard, and the gents leave in near-haste. Not wishing to be left alone with that hideous woman, I follow them. Once out of the room, I slow my pace and try to contemplate what has just happened. Shouldn�t I report it? Who to? Why did no-one else say anything? Shock seems to have overtaken my system and I can�t think clearly. I am shaken out of my reverie by a sudden movement on my left. I turn my head sharply, in fear that it might be Pauline, but I am relieved to see Ross, leaving the Gents� toilet. His cheeks are red from where he has obviously splashed water on his face, and his eyes look bright, probably due to tears of pain that may have occurred during the incident. He has made his scruffy hair slightly neater, but the bumpiness and fluffiness of it suggests his lack of comb. He smiles slightly at me.

Surprisingly, I lack a feeling of nervousness. My maternal instinct takes over, and I ask him, �Are you all right?�

By this time, the corridor is empty. �Yeah, thanks. I just need to sit down for a while.� His voice is fairly dejected, but something in his tone tells me he appreciates my inquiry. I breathe slowly to calm myself as I realise that it�s the first time he has spoken to me. A cut which the clipboard must have made on his right cheek catches my eye, and I suddenly remember the first aid kit in the boot of my car. I give a mental �thank you� to fate, and, in a hopefully sympathetic voice, manage to say, �that cut looks nasty. I�ve got some witch hazel in the car, it�ll stop it becoming infected.� Ross smiles and looks at me gratefully.
�Thank you. That�d be great.�

I return the smile, and extend my hand. �Dawn, by the way.� He takes my hand softly, and shakes it. �Nice to meet you.� Despite the cliché of the phrase, my hopeful assumption that his words are true fills me with ultimate pleasure.

On our journey to my fiesta, we discuss the hideousness of Pauline�s actions. I discover that it�s not the first time that she�s exhibited signs of violence.
�But surely, there�s someone you can report it to?�
�There�s no point. She�s in charge here, so the next step would be getting the police involved, and that seems a bit over-the-top.� I smile at Ross�s avoidance of the acronym.
�I just wish there was something I could do.�
�You are. The witch hazel will help a lot. Thanks.� We reach my old A-reg fiesta.
�It�s not much to look at...�
�Oh, at least you�ve got a car!� Ross interrupts me, light-heartedly. I smile again, and open the boot. I pull out the first aid kit, and indicate the uncomfortable looking base of the boot. �D�you wanna...�
�Yeah, sure.� Ross takes a seat on the edge of the boot. He outstretches his short legs, and crosses one foot over the other. Even at full stretch, his trousers are still too big for him, and the light brown material gathers over the tops of his shiny black shoes. Observing him out of the corner of my eye, I rummage through the case in search of the witch hazel and some cotton wool. I retrieve it, and dampen the cotton wool. Not sure how to approach an almost total stranger whilst holding a cotton pad full of witch hazel, I hesitate. Ross looks at me expectantly. I speak, and, to my embarrassment, stutter slightly. �Sh..shall I...erm...�
�Yes, please go ahead.� I am grateful for Ross�s interruption. As I bring my hand up to his soft face, he pushes his glasses further up his nose in a gesture which I have already come to recognise. I rest the base of my hand gently on his cheek to steady myself. His skin is soft and smooth, and as I draw nearer towards him I can smell his mild after shave. I can feel his warm breath on the back of my hand, steady and light. As I let the cotton wool touch his sore, red cut, he inhales sharply, and draws back from my touch.
�Sorry.�
�It�s OK.� He looks embarrassed, and reddens slightly. His vulnerability and my possible control over him momentarily crosses my mind, and I breathe slowly to steady myself. Ross changes the subject quickly. �That smell reminds me of my childhood. I was always falling over, such a clumsy kid.�

I smile at the fondness of his tone. Unfortunately, an original reply leaves my head, so I stick with, �Yeah, me too.� I let the cotton wool touch his cut again. This time, he winces, but holds his face steady. After a while of holding my hand against his soft cheek, fingers pressing lightly and not quite believing the situation, I withdraw my hand. Ross smiles gratefully.
�Thanks. You�ve been a great help.�
�It was my pleasure.� I remember to return the smile. �How are you getting home?�
�Oh, the bus stop�s only around the corner.�
�Oh, don�t be silly, I�ll give you a lift.�
�Oh no, you�ve been so kind, thank you, but I couldn�t accept that.� I decide that Ross�s declination is only politeness and not veritable distaste at the thought of accepting my lift before saying, �Why not? You said you needed a sit down, and my husband won�t mind waiting a while for dinner.� As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret mentioning my husband. Then, I feel instantly guilty for the regret. What am I hoping to get from Ross anyway? I�m a happily married woman...aren�t I? But my words don�t seem to have effected him. He is looking at me with that grateful expression again. �Well, if you�re sure...�
�Of course.� I walk to the passenger side of the car, and hold the door open for him. He nods slightly at me as he clumsily clambers in a sweet, child-like manner.

Our conversation on the journey home touches on many subjects. I learn that Ross has only been on the dole for a short while, after his last company made him redundant due to cutting staff costs. I tell him about my slight problem with authority, and he giggles in a sensual way, and I struggle to keep my eyes on the road, as he says, in a sarcastic tone, �You�re going to love Pauline then.� I simply reply, in an equally sarcastic tone, �I already do.� Our eyes lock in a glance of mutual understanding, and his rare smile is observable again. Suddenly, he points to a turning in the road.
�Oh, it�s this one here.� As I turn the car into the road, I observe the clean, red-brick houses and neat gardens.
�Nice area. Better than the dump I live in.�
�Thanks.� He opens his mouth to say something else, but apparently changes his mind.
�What number?�
�Twelve.� I pull the car up outside his house. He turns to look at me again.
�Thanks so much for your help, I really appreciate it.�
�Yeah. Look, I�m so sorry about Pauline.�
�Oh, she�s the one that�s going to be sorry.� I don�t have time to wonder what his words mean, as he pushes open the door. �I guess I�ll see you tomorrow then.�
�Yeah, see ya.�
�Thanks again for your help Dawn.� His articulation of my name leaves me almost paralysed with sudden longing for this man. My face is frozen in a smile, and I manage to nod slightly. He slams the door, and I watch him walk up the path to his house. Maybe this week�s not going to be so bad after all.

There is some soft chatter around the room, but my attention is far too caught up with Ross to make conversation with Colin. He and Mickey aren't talking. The bored expression has already taken its place on Ross's face. The redness of his cut seems to have died down slightly, but it still draws attention away from oher features of his perfect visage.

My thoughts are interrupted by Pauline, who loudly and uneccessarily makes her presence known with a shrill "Okey cokey, pig in a pokey, good morning job seekers." There's hardly any pause as Pauline launches into her act, and easily takes up her role as "The Boss". "Now, we were thinking yesterday, weren't we, about jobs, d'you remember? And what did we conclude?" I smile at the ridiculousness of her question. Ross answers it dryly. "There aren't any." Although his bored tone is back in place, there is no hint of maliciosness in his voice. He has obviously forgiven Pauline for the events of yesterday, something I doubt I'd be able to do. Revenge is my natural tendency.

Pauline clamps her lips together and moves her chin slightly up and down, repeating her rather unpleasant habit. She answers in a sarcastic tone. "No, Ross, we concluded that there are so many jobs out there, we need to know what our options are, mm,?" I don't remember her even mentioning job options in yesterday's session. I glance around the room for confirmation, but none of my peers appear to even be listening. The only alert person in the room is Mickey, who is staring unblinkingly at Pauline in rapt attention. I smile slightly at the innocent expression on his face, and avert my eyes so I can gaze subtly at Ross. But my line of vision is broken by the immense form of Pauline who has wandered over towards their desk. She speaks again. "So today, we're going to have a little brainstorming session...don't worry, Mickey, it doesn't hurt." At this, Pauline leans her face closer to Mickey's and lowers her voice, as if she genuinely doesn't wish the rest of the room to hear her scornful remark. Mickey, unaware that Pauline is speaking out of anything but genuine concern for him, grins and looks relieved. I see Ross roll his blue eyes slightly. Pauline straightens up, but doesn't move from her position in front of their desk. Instead, she talks over their heads to the rest of us. "First up, who can tell me what this is? Mmm?" She holds up a fat board marker in her left hand. I find myself thinking that this woman's death should be somehow caused by pens. It would be a way of getting rifd of her unhealthy obsession wit them.

No-one is answering her question, which I take to be rhetorical. But apparently, I am wrong, and she leans down once more, placing the object in front of Ross's perfect nose and looking at him expectantly, presumably waiting for an answer. Ross, obviously deciding that it's easier to humour her, averts his eyes as he says, monotone, "it's a pen." Triumphantly, Pauline stands up and resumes her place in the centre of the room. Raising her voice to nearly full volume abnd turning the sarcasm on full flow, she says, "Yes Ross, it's a pen, one of Pauline's pens. And me and Mr Pen, we're going to go for a little walk down the high street, where we're gonna see lots and lots of people doing lots and lots of jobs." I wonder if she actually believes that we have the collective mental age of an infant school class. Ross looks sideways at Mickey and says something quietly which I don't quite hear. But judging by Mickey's confused look and the slight shake of Ross's head, I figure it's a wasted joke. I make a mental note to ask him about it later, and then realise what a stupid idea that would be. I don't want him to think I'm some kind of stalker watching his every move, although I'm aware that I am behaving like that. I foce my gaze away from him, determined not to look at him for a few minutes at least.

Pauline has moved to the window, and is enthusiastically looking out onto the Royston Vasey hillside. "Oh look, there's Mr Pastry." She turns back to face us. "What d'you think his job could be, gents?" I frowm at her use of the collective gender term, and she catches my eye. A brief expression of understanding flashes across her face as she realises her mistake, but she makes no attempts to look apologetic. My companion Colin speaks to the room for the first time, obviously eager to get this pointless cherade over and done with. "Baker." His tone is just as bored and disgusted as Ross's, if not more so. But Pauline either doesn't notice it or expertly ignores it as she actually runs over to the large pad of paper she has mounted on a stand at the front of the room. When she speaks, she sounds like a teacher congratulating a normally quiet pupil. "Yes, good, baker, so I'm gonna write that up on the board...baaaaaaaaakeer..." Her articulation of the word as she writes it is something that I've only ever seen on kids' TV programmes. She has turned to face us again, the white board behind her now blemished by her large, clumsy handwriting. She continues her act. "Oh, look who's over there, it's Mr..." she pauses, obviously trying to thinkof another job title. "Cabbages, and his job is..." The intonation of her voice and wild hand gesture indicates that she wants someone to finish her sentence. Someone does.
"Fireman." Everyone in the room turns to look at Mickey, who is staring even more intently at Pauline, an expression of pride in his eyes. I shake my head in amusement mixed with amazement at his stupidity, then guiltily hope that nobody saw. Pauline is also quite surprised at the bizarre answer. "No, Mickey love, he is a greengrocer. But his good friend is Mr Flames, and he is a..." she gestures at Mickey, who replies, "Greengrocer." Even Ross looks amused, his eyebrows raised slightly over his glasses, his eyes clear and reflective.

It's obvious that Mickey has succeeded in surprising Pauline, as she has to miss a beat before continuing. "No..." she speaks the word slowly. From beside me, Colin interrupts again, amusement mixing with boredom in his voice to give it a comical-sounding tone. "Fireman."
"Good." Pauline irritatingly points her pen in our direction before indicating the white board again. "Come on gents, shout out more jobs, let's get a list going."
"Fireman." I find it impossible to be amazed further at Mickey's stupididty. The only reaction his absurd comments are evoking in me now is sympathy.
"Yeah, we've got that one, Mickey love." Pauline humours him. The room is silent for a while. I take the opportunity to glance at Ross (even though I promised myself that I wouldn't). His head is down, his eyes invisible behind his dropped lids, his dark fringe falling softly across his face. I feel the strong need to brush it away. I hear a sharp sound and realise that Pauline is clicking her fingers. I laugh under my breath as I ponder whether or not this woman could be any more stereoptypical. Ross looks up, disgusted look already permeating his features as he observes Pauline's gesture and comprehends her obvious wish that he donate a job title. He narrows his blue eyes and speaks in a tone of contempt, his strong, Northern accent making the word seem more powerful. "Newsagent."
Pauline seems unaware of his tone. "Good, newsagent..." Ross interrupts her.
"Policeman, carpet fitter..." Pauline turns round, a look of encouragement on her face. "Yes, that is a job, isn't it?" Ross continues, unperturbed.
"Doctor, vet, tennis player..." My amusement and pride at his intellect mirrors my feelings of the day before. Colin, obviously enjoying this game, joins in.
"Football player." Pauline is hurriedly scribbling on the white board, and beginning to get frustrated. "Just a minute gents, tennis player..."
"Fireman." Mickey helpfully adds to the conversation in earnest. But Ross is in full flow, and, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table, he is reeling off his list. "Window cleaner, gardener, architect..."
"Yeah, slow down..."
"Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy, butcher, baker, candlestick maker, fisherman, builder, labourer..." But Ross is cut off by Pauline, who whirls round to face him.
"All right clever dick. That's enough now." She slowly straightens up to retain her dignity. I unwittingly close my eyes, sensing the tension in the small room, magnified by the extortionate amount of cigarette smoke, and hoping, almost praying that Ross will not be beaten, will manage to have the last word. I hold my breath, and there is silence in the room as Pauline begins to turn back to the white board again. The unnecessary importance I have placed on Ross's comeback is not in vain, as I hear his voice from the corner of the room. It washes over me, relieving me like water would relieve a thirsty desert traveller, and it says, "An astronaut." Ross's infallible style is becoming familiar to me now, and I smile with pure happiness at the way he has come up with an amusing job in order to add insult to injury. But even before he has finished speaking, Pauline interrupts him with what seems to be becoming her catch phrase.
"Piss off. You can shout out as many jobs as you like Ross, you're never gonnabloody get one you worthless dole scum." Her voice is unnecessarily loud, particularly as she is leaning over his desk, practically on top of him, forcing him to lean back in his chair away from her ubiquitous presence. He determinedly keeps eye contact with her, mouth set in a firm line, refusing to let any emotion other than stubborness show upon his face. A change comes over Pauline as she ends her visual battle with Ross and turns to regard Mickey. In an overly happy voice, and as if she were talking to a small child, she says, "Can you think of a job, Mickey love?"
Mickey is too unintelligent to notice her patronising tone, and answers her simply. "Yeah." He hands her a sheet of paper that had previously been sitting unnoticed on his desk. Pauline takes it absent-mindedly, and turns to Ross, her scornful tone once more penetrating her speech. "You see Ross? This poor bastard can't even spell job, but at least he tries." Ross remains unfazed, until he hears Mickey's small voice beside him, attempting the phonetical spelling of "job". Mickey becomes stuck on the last letter, and he screws up his face in deep contemplation. This time, his cretinism does amaze me, and I surprise myself by turning to glance at Colin in a look of mutual shock.

Pauline has busied herself by reading this strange piece of paper, and now, she feels the need to comment. "What's this? Dear Mr Mickey, we would like you to come in for an interview this afternoon?" It is her turn to be amazed.
Beside Mickey, Ross also looks surprised, but he speaks encouragingly. "That's brilliant Mickey, what's it for?" The wonder in his voice causes him to subconsciously raise his pitch, and the soft, last word is almost inaudible. The way his accent shapes his speech so gently causes my mouth to drop open in desire. I feel myself leaning towards him, anxious to her him speak again. But it is Mickey's immature voice that answers the question. "Fireman!"

Pauline rolls her eyes and disinterestedly throws the letter back in Mickey's direction. She glances at her watch. "OK job seekers, my stomach's telling me that it's time for lunch. I want to see you all back here in an hour, and don't be late, I know what you're like!" The guys in the room quickly file oput of the door, which is the most movement they've made so far today. Mickey walks past my table, insane grin plastered across his face, showing his unhealthy-looking teeth. Ross is behind him, also grinning, but his smile is infinitely more sensual, his full bottom lip parted from his top ever so slightly to reveal a line of white teeth that are irresistably wonky, but not in a noticeable way. It takes me a while to realise he's grinning at me, and smile back naturally. I search my mind for something intelligent to sday, but it seems that communication is unecessary. I give him an encouraging look, and he nods very slightly, only just detectably. He understands my congratulations on his handling of Pauline today, and I understand his appreciation. He turns his head away, but I notice his eyes remaining locked with mine until the last minute. He is the last to leave, and I remain in my chair, a sort of numb sensation overtaking my body. Pauline brings me back to reality.
"Dawn? Did you want something?" Her tone is not concerned, but as usual, scornful and mocking.
"No, I was just leaving." I get up hurriedly, and exit the room. I feel a strong sense of regret that I hadn't thought of a witty and sharp retort to Pauline's enquiry, as Ross would have done. But we can't all be perfect.

The list goes on until Pauline raises her hands. "OK, I think we've got enough there." She pauses before continuing. So, job seekers, when we think about what skills you've got, we can narrow this list of job options down to...bay sitter, and...bramble picker, dunno where that one came from." As she speaks, she crosses off 99% of the jobs scruffilly noted on the board. Her unsubtle put down of her proteges goes unnoticed, hidden amongst other frequent insults. She continues. "Right, I'm gonna dish the pens out again..." Pauline wanders around the room handing out her precious objects. My gaze is automatically drawn to Ross and Mickey's desk. They are having a hushed conversation which involves Mickey showing his watch to Ross and Ross apparently telling him the time. I smile slightly at the absurdity of it all, but I am getting used to the strangeness of the situation now. The weird personalities of both Mickey and Pauline cease to astound me. Instead, my mind is taken up by how attractive Ross is looking. He is leaning forward over his desk, resting his chin on his folded arms. His rectangular glasses have fallen slightly down his nose. I sigh with contentment and try to stop myself staring. My view of Ross is suddenly blocked by Mickey getting to his feet and pulling on his black jacket (which is at least two sizes too small for him, as are the rest of his clothes). Pauline notices the disturbance, and addresses Mickey. "Erm, just a sec, where do you think you're going?"
Mickey looks momentarily confused, and says, "interview," in a tone that conveys his realisation that he is stating the obvious. "You're going nowhere, buster. Sit down." My ability to be surprised by Pauline is rekindled, and my mouth drops open. I notice my actions mirrored by Ross. Pauline continues, seemingly oblivious to the distinct irony of a restart officer refusing to let her "job seeker" go for an interview to land himself a job. "Right, job seekers, as I was saying, I want you to take a look at this list..."
Mercifully, she is interrupted by Ross. His courage and obvious ability to stand up to her impress me, as they have done previously. I find myself surprised that I've only known him for two days. "Just a second, how's he gonna get a job if you don't let him go for his interview?"
"How's he going to get an interview if he doesn't know his job options?"
"He's already got an interview!" Ross's high-pitched tone reflects the contemp and amazement felt simultaneously by everyone in the room at Pauline's comments.
"Ross, that is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to turn all of you into job seekers. Where would I be if you all got work before the end of this course?"
Colin speaks in an amused voice. "On the dole."
"Exactly! I'd be sat here, next to Mr Waddylove, stinkin' of shit. This is my job we're talking about." She is gesticulating wildly. Ross speaks again, the surprise and amazement in his voice replaced by a dogged determination to get his point across, to ram it home, to make Pauline aware of the stupidity of her actions. "No it's not, it's Mickey's job, you go Mickey." Mickey glances at Ross, clearly aware of his natural authority. Almost as if he's been given permission, he turns towards the door. But Pauline, unsurprisingly is not beaten easily. She speaks slowly in a warning tone. "Mickey..."
"Go!" The anger in Ross's eyes is evident in his tone of voice.
"Mickey!" This time, Pauline speaks sharply, barking out his name viciously. Mickey pauses, unsure who to obey, unsure whether to leave and follow his dreams or whether to pay attention to this formidable figure who he has a strange degree of affection for. The look of despair on his face evokes a strong feeling of sympathy in me, an unexplainable affinity with him and immense anger towards Pauline. She stares at him, her small eyes behind her thick glasses focussed on him. She speaks almost dangerously softly. "If you walk out that door, I will have no option but to stop your benefit." There is a pause as Mickey's look fo despair becomes deeper. His face is contorted, and he looks as if he could burst into tears at any moment. Pauline clarifies her threat. "Yeah. Birth claims."
Determined that Mickey is not beaten, Ross speaks again. "She can't do that." His accent emphasises the word "do" and makes me suck in my breath involuntarily, despite the drama unfolding in front of me. Pauline does not take her eyes from Mickey, even though she addresses Ross. "Try me."

Mickey speaks, for the first time fighting for his own cause. But his dejected intonation indicates only a faint flicker of hope. "Please, Pauline, I feel...confident."
"Well you look ridiculous. I know they've put monkies in space, but d'you really think they'll have one driving a fire engine? Sit down." I am genuinely shocked at the harshness of Pauline's words. It is the first time she has spoken to Mickey in this way, the first time she has unabashedly put him down. Although her snide remarks have often been aimed at Ross, she has an odd habit of sticking up for Mickey, nurturing him despite his cretinism.
Ross speaks again, his voice remaining determined. "Go!" The room falls silent, all faces turned towards Mickey, observing his lanky figure intensely, anticipating his decision. But the pressure is obviously too much for Mickey. He knows he is beaten. He shakes his head slightly, and slowly returns to his seat. Ross's expression is one of pure disgust. His mouth is held open and turned down at the corners as if he can taste poison in his mouth. His forehead is crinkled and his eyes narrowed. He regards Pauline with utter distaste as she speaks. "That's right, Mickey love, you stick to what you know, eh?"
Mickey's voice is small, and only just audible as it emanates from his hunched figure and lowered head. "Pauline's right. I am stupid." Ross's tut and sigh is plainly discernable above the silence in the room.

Pauline clasps her hands in front of her in a stance of victory, a sickeningly smug look spreading over her face. Having won the battle, she continues with her cause. "Right, the rest of you, I want you to split yourselves into two groups, baby sitters and bramble pickers, and we're going to look at the second stage, getting an interview." She speaks triumphantly, aware of the morbid irony, and I begin to wonder if she had added the last part specifically to rub salt into Mickey's proverbial wound.

The gents in the room begin to mill about in silence, obviously too shocked at the recent event to attempt conversation, but still eager to carry out Pauline's request so as not to become a victim of her intolerable personality. Taking the opportunity, I leave my seat without a word to Colin, which I have no time to feel guilty about, as I have instantly crossed the small room, and am standing in front of Ross and Mickey, neither of whom have moved from their positions. I lower my voice to ensure that I am out of Pauline's earshot. "Listen, Mickey, I'm really sorry about Pauline. I can't believe she did that to you." Mickey glances up at me, his eyes as innocent and appealing as a puppy's, appreciating my concern but still hurt from Pauline's outburst. He speaks in his clumsy voice. "Thank you."
"Yeah, no problem. I just wanted you to know you have my sympathy." I glance at Ross who is nodding. He catches my eye and smiles as if to thank me for my concern towards his friend. I smile back, and change the subject. "Well, the old bitch wants us to get into groups, and, as I'm here..." Ross looks over his shoulder to where half of the group have assembled at the back of the room. Colin beckons us. Ross regards me expectantly. "Shall we join them?"
"Sure." The pair get up, causing their chairs to simultaneously scrape along the floor. Mickey trundles off towards the gathering in his normal childish amble. Ross pauses to let me in front, and follows me down the narrow aisle. We join the group just in time to face Pauline's wrath.

"Right, job seekers, now we're all sorted, I want you to do some practise interviews. Some of you in the groups can be the interviewers, and the others can be the interviewees. It's a bit like what we did yesterday, only this time, you're gonna be doing it amongst yourselves." She pauses dramatically to stare pointedly at Ross. "I've printed out some question sheets so the interviewers don't ask pointless questions..." her gaze remains fixed on Ross, who tactfully refuses to succumb to her and avoids her stare. Pauline continues to bark out her instructions. "I don't care how you do it, if you wanna get into pairs or small groups, but baby sitters must notmix with bramble pickers, do you understand me?" We all nod like a class of infant school kids.

Her hideously large form wanders over to our group and places a huge pile of papers on the nearest desk. As she approaches the other group, I feel a tingling sensation in my left ear. Before I can turn round, I hear Ross's voice and realise he is whispering to me. "Are we baby sitters or bramble pickers?" I can feel his warm breath on the side of my face as he speaks, and the proximity of his lips as they almost brush the skin of my ear. I have to bite my lip before I giggle at his question, turn to look at him, and shrug my shoulders. He shakes his head slightly and grins at me, keeping eye contact with me for what seems like longer than necessary.
Pauline's voice snaps us back to reality. "Right, job seekers, when you're ready, you may begin." The room is silent for a few moments, either because we are unsure where to start or simply because our apathy and learned helplessness prevents us from actually doing anything. After a brief discussion amongst ourselves and a hushed conversation with the other group, we decide to be the bramble pickers, and work in pairs. The ridiculousness of our proposed activity suddenly hits me. I'm going to pretend to go for an interview for the position of bramble picker. Great. Pauline actually believes that in some way, this role play will help us all find jobs.

I feel a hand on my forearm, and before I even look up, the warmth and softness of the skin informs me that it's Ross. I turn to face him, but he doesn't remove his hand. His grin is still fixed in place, and he says in an almost cheeky tone, "Partners?"
"Of course." I wonder if my reply was too quick. The noise level in the room is higher than it's been before, due to everybody finding partners and commencing the preposterous task. I am amused when I realise that Colin and Mickey have paired up. Pauline is sitting in her normal position at the front of the room. The expression on her face is one that I've not seen before. She is observing us witha vague sense of longing, almost jealousy. I nearly feel sorry for her, but check myself before the idea has time to turn into a veritable emotion.

I notice that Ross has grabbed a question sheet from the pile and is reading over it with interest. I take time to notice his small hands as they grip the white sheet, his short fingers and clean, rounded fingernails suiting his petite but perfectly formed body exactly. He glances up at me and I am caught observing him. I look down, embarrassed. But he doesn't seem to notice. He speaks softly, presumably so Pauline doesn't hear him. "OK, let's get this over with." I await hid first question. "Can you tell me your full name?"
"Dawn Hannah Gardener."
Ross looks up with mild surprise. "Woah, quite a mouthful," He says, grinning. I smile back in what I hope is a flirtatious way. Ross continues. "Can you tell me why you're interested in this job?" I remember Pauline's clichéd answer of yesterday and decide to avoid it. "Well, the position of bramble picker has always appealed to me. I'd be in the open air which is something I truly love, the hours may be flexible, I'd probably get long holidays when the season's out. I think I'd be perfect for the job because I've always seemed to have a strange affinity with fruit." I'm babbling in a desperate attempt to say something amusing. Ross's grin increases, but he doesn't look up. His glasses are sliding down his short, straight nose again.
He continues. "Are you qualified to be a bramble picker?" The absurdity of the task is becoming more and more apparent. I shake my head and decide to go with the flow. "Oh yes, I have a BSc in Fruit Collection." This time, he laughs out loud, his giggle clearly audible above the dull chatter in the room. His Adam's apple moves up and down beneath the skin.
"Use three adjectives to describe yourself."
"Well, I'm generous, reliable and easy-going." I felt like I was placing an adver in the "classifieds" section. I begin to picture myself on a date with Ross.
"What are your worst points?"
"Erm...I suppose I'm quite greedy...so you'd better lock up the berries as soon as I've picked them!" This lame attempt at humour was received well by Ross, who giggled again, but in a more gentle fashion.
"What are your other interests outside work?"
"Well, I like reading, keeping fit, all the usual stuff really."
"Uhuh." There was a pause as he tried to stifle a laugh before reading the next question. "How many light bulbs in this building?"
"You're kidding? She hasn't actually written that has she?" I lean closer towards him so there's no chance that Pauline hears me. Ross doesn't reply; he merely shows me the question sheet and points at the line, a photocopy of the same scruffy writing that is now on the white board. I shake my head in a mixture of amazement and mirth, and answer, "I don't see how that matters. You don't pick brambles inside. Or in the dark."

Ross bites on his full bottom lip, and looks completely relaxed for the first time. The amusement has not left his eyes, and the blueness almost seemes emphasised by his delight. "Thank you very much Dawn. Do you have any questions for me?" I suppress a smile as I imagine many questions I would like to ask him. But I only shake my head. "No. I don't think so."
"OK, well, I'm happy to offer you the position." He extends his hand towards me. I gratefully take it. His skin seems softer than ever, and his light grip sends electric-like pulses down my arm. I am about to start a conversation about something other than bramble picking, but I'm unable to due to Pauline's interruption.
"Right, job seekers, I hope that all went well. Now, if you really want to impress me, you can go home and do some research on your new job, be it baby sitter or bramble picker...those of you that got the job." She stared meaningfully at Mickey, who slouched further into his seat and looked ashamed. "OK, I'll see you all back here tomorrow morning if you can force yourselves out of bed before dinnertime. I'm afraid you're gonna have to miss Trisha."

I offer Ross a lift home, and he accepts without argument.

I wake up on Friday morning and realise that I'm actually sorry to be leaving. I'll miss Mickey and Colin, not to mention Ross. My conversations with him throughout the week have gradually become less and less guarded, but I constantly get the impression that he wants to tell me something, but never goes through with it. The fact that he hardly talks to me about his work history, or what he plans to do with his future worries me. But I always dismiss it, telling myself it's none of my business. I sigh, and drag my clothes on.