In Which Max Is Frozen Out Of The Jobs Market, And Designates Me As Curator Of His Past.

"Can you help me with these job applications?" says Max, as soon as I get home from work.

I'm so pleased that he's found something to apply for, that I overlook what "helping" really means. You'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?

I seem to be surrounded by exponents of the well-disguised method of persuading others to do stuff that one doesn't feel like doing oneself - by telling idiots like me that we're "so good" at whatever unpleasant task needs to be done.

I fall for it, every time - which is why, three hours later, I'm still wrestling with online application forms, while Max is sound asleep on the sofa.

I can't understand why the hell these forms don't allow you to cut and paste information into them. It's such a waste of time, typing the same stuff over and over again, and I'm getting pretty fed up by the time I decide to wake Max up and force him to participate.

"When did you leave your last-but-one job?" I ask.

"Oh. Um. I'm not sure," he says. "When do you think I did?"

"I don't know," I say. "It was your job, not mine."

"There's no need to be like that," says Max. "I'll check tomorrow. I'm too tired now."

Huh. Random tiredness must be a sign of depression. Max is always knackered on the days when he signs on.

He gets really angry with the Jobcentre staff (who still seem to be calling people by their surname only, despite my having written to them to complain after Josh's experience); and he gets even more infuriated by the total irrelevance of the jobs that they suggest he should complete applications for.

"They wanted me to apply to run a frozen food factory today," he says, as we're getting ready for bed.

"What? Why?" I say. "What possible skills or experience did they think you had to do that?"

"That I occasionally eat it, I should imagine," he says. "I'm not entirely sure what skills some of them bring to their jobs."

He falls asleep again, almost as soon as he says this, while I lie awake and fret. So much for my early night.

Now I'm back downstairs, eating gherkins, and wondering what on earth I could do if I didn't work for The Boss. I don't even know what box to tick for "occupation"on surveys, seeing as MP's dogsbody is never listed on any of them.

I usually opt for "psychiatric nurse." That seems to be the closest I can get.