Hey Preacher

I don't know what happened.

I was supposed to be starting my job teaching English at a private school in Saudi Arabia this week. I was pretty much ready to go when they called to say the whole thing was off; I'd got my visa, sold most of my stuff and started a blog with a silly name. On the plus side I didn't have to buy my own ticket. On the minus side I gave my landlord notice and he's found a new tenant, who's moving in next week.

Under normal circumstances I'd go to stay with my girlfriend, but we decided to synchronise our travelling, so that we wouldn't be apart for too long. Sickening, I know. I passed up the chance to go with her ‘cause of the Saudi thing. So while I'm down and out in London she's in Paraguay doing a wildlife survey in some remote gorge. Oh, well.  

Don't worry though. Things aren't as bad as they sound: I've got myself on the dole. I signed on on Friday. I listed my 'job search activities' as inquired about positions online and interviewed for catering job. I doubt the job centre staff would've been impressed if they'd known that the former activity was nothing more than a facebook update. The lady at the counter asked about the latter, and I told her about how I'd interviewed of a job in a school kitchen. I don't want to work in a school kitchen. “I like your accent,” said the job centre lady, “are you from Ireland?”

“Yeah.” I replied. I knew what was coming next.

“Where abouts in Ireland?”

“County Formaldehyde.”

There was a pause. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that. Perhaps I'd found the one English person who actually knows the geography of Ireland. Perhaps she won't give me my money, on account of my being a dick. Arses. The silence continued for a second, and then, “Formaldehyde? Is that north or south?” Beautiful.

They paid me my sixty pounds. The status update and the interview took me about forty minutes combined, so I'm technically on ninety pounds an hour.

But enough bragging about my massive wage. After signing on I walked home, trying to formulate some sort of plan as I went. The streets were dead quiet - I'd gone the long way, through a mainly residential area, looking for to let signs. There weren't any. There was a man looking for a priest though. “Reverend!” he shouted. I paced on. “Reverend!” again. I looked over my shoulder to see a short, black, middle aged man waiving his hat at someone as he ran up the road. I turned to see who he was waiving at when I realise it must be me. I'm wearing a black shirt, holding an anonymous looking book and I've just walked past the church. He calls again, “hey preacher!” He's caught up with me. “Hello,” I say, “I'm n-”

“I won't keep you. I wanted to ask you about my daughter's wedding. I'll give you a phone call when you've got a moment.”

“Well I don't actually ha-”

“I'll give you mine if it's easier”

He scribbled his number on to a till receipt from his pocket. I said thanks, but before I could add anything about my not being a priest he'd turned and gone back the way he'd come.

The next day I got an email from an old friend who said I could sleep on his sofa till I found a place of my own.

I'm still hoping the school in Saudi will call, saying that they want me after all, but if they don't it's no big deal. I've got somewhere to stay and I might have a job as a dinner lady, and in the meantime I'm earning fifteen times minimum wage. And more importantly, whether I end up teaching Arab kids or cooking for English ones, I have a week to kill and the phone number of a man who thinks I'm a priest.