Well, for me Horny Werewolf Day
(Thank you, Warren Ellis), turned out to be something of a Fat and Ugly Day.
Everything was fine till the afternoon, when I had to go down to the employment office that's brokering for my new Royal Mail job to give bank details and finalise a few things. There, they guy takes the details, asks how everything went, checks that I know what time to turn up on Monday (8.30am, which means I'm going to have to get up no later than 7am and probably go to sleep straight after Supernatural
)... and then re-emphasises the 'wear a suit' point.
...Yeah. Apparently it was
an issue, just not a big one. Even though it wasn't an issue with everyone else I checked with, including the woman from Maatwork who'd been working with me, who saw what I'd been wearing and pronounced it perfectly suitable. Apparently I have to look like a bloody pallbearer to work on the phones at the Royal Mail.
So, big fucking problem. I have no suit, and no viable means of getting a suit as we don't really have the money. Oh, plenty of money is coming out way, but not till next week or so. Cue stressful 'conversation' with Nick over the subject, who eventually agrees to juggle a few things financially till next week so that I can get the money to get a suit from M&S (they're doing a deal at the moment where you can get a suit for £50).
Off to town again, about half-an-hour before store closing. And there we have more fun, as I have to find a jacket that fits me - we eventually settled on a size 20, although I'll be dammed if I'm going to be able to close
it any time soon - a pair of trousers in a size 20, and a blouse. In a size 24.
In related news, I can now conclusively say that Robert Kilroy-Silk is talking out of his overly-bronzed arse when it comes to the subject of M&S changing room mirrors
(although Kilroy-Silk often talks out of his arse, it's true. I just can't prove it so easily with the other times). I've got terrible pale skin that blotches way too easily, I look like a half-deflated Mitchelin Man and the entire left side of my upper chest looks like I've been attacked by a particularly clumsy killer with an icepick (Jelli likes to climb me in the morning to give 'kisses' and the like, and she refuses point-blank to let us trim her claws. Really. She bit Nick the one and only time he was brave enough to try). And I need a size 24 in a blouse before my oversized cleavage isn't in any danger of bursting the buttons and revealing itself to the nation.
So I'm feeling rather self-conscious at this point.
Things haven't really been helped by finding out that, if the employment office had told the woman at the Royal Mail who'd been doing the assessments that I'd been off work for four years due to disability, she wouldn't have taken me on. Oh, it was all well and good the guy at the office saying that, in retrospect, she's glad she didn't know because it turns out I was really good (despite my lack of a suit), but yeah. Way to lift my self-esteem (although thank Eris for the Disability Discrimination Act which meant that the guy couldn't tell her by law). The idea that I would have been binned before even getting through the assessment for something out of my control isn't exactly doing anything for my mood.
And now, if no-one minds, I'm going to go off to bed and fret about things which are (mostly) out of my control.