Eighth entry.

I signed on today. At the job centre. Why they have to put job centres in the worst possible places, I don’t know; it really takes the fun out of my career sabbatical.

I ended up getting a bit lost, so had to spend half of my 6.78 daily entitlement on a black cab, but I suppose at least I arrived in style.

The job centre seems to be full of tracksuit clad ladies with their matching velour babies, and Eastern European men hunting for redemption following benefit refusal, which drove me to realise why the front door was manned by bouncers not out of place at a house of ill-repute.

As well as the kerfuffle, I was followed some of the way home by two boys on bikes, who wished for my number and were willing to see past my refusal.

My normal approach to this inconvenience would be to deliver a swift serving of justice in the form of a head butt, but one boy was wearing a fireman’s uniform, who I can almost guarantee was not a fireman.

This got me to contemplating; perhaps he has killed a member of the emergency services for his outfit, or is a serial arsonist using the uniform as a clever reuse.

Whatever his game was, I thought it best to avoid starting a fight in Toxteth; I am only 5”3 and three quarters, and I couldn’t reap all the delicious benefits of the dole, should I start beef on the very same road...