Maybe it's because I'm an immigrant...

HELLO WEMBLEY!
I don't know who it was that last shouted that, but needless to say it wasn't me. I'm not performing in Wembley (yet) though I am plenty uncontrollably odd and lovably quirky to be a stand up comedian. Right? right? Well, in saying that, I watched that new show on BBC Three 'The Year of Making Love' and this one girl was a stand up comedian...and she got paid...and she was soooooo unfunny it's not even funny- see what I did there?? So if she can do it, then I sure as heck could take this freakshow on the road ;)

So, you're all probably wondering who I am. Some people know me as Cher. What I mean is, although I never use my name on my blog, you all had probably got to know me quite well through my frequent blog writing whilst (good word that WHILLLLSSSSST) I was abroad and now you're all thinking 'Gee Whiz, she sure doesn't write much anymore, what a pity!' and this is of course assuming you are all cast members of the Brady Bunch with that language...


Well, I am sorry. I have been cowering under a metaphorical rock, waiting for my 2013 to truly begin. The unending application to an unending stream of jobs, waiting in anticipation for the email which undoubtedly reads the equivalent of 'We kind of like you, but you aren't our usual type, so we're going to go for someone who is our normal type but thanks anyway!' Same old, same old- job hunting rejection emails are the same as my teenaged dating rejections I got- not what we normally like but pretty interesting nonetheless. Cool, thanks. That's not to say that there haven't been some highlights in my last two months.

I got my hair cut. At last. So I no longer resemble Mel Gibson as William Wallace. My mother thought I might be able to sell my hair for wigs and it was pretty long so I concurred. As it got snipped off, the hairdresser passed the clippings to my mother who was holding a Tesco bag and collecting. I felt a lot lighter as I left, swinging my bag of hair. Looked it up online, my hair wasn't long enough or in a pony tail. Gutted.

It looks a bit smarter now anyway, and hopefully won't get so in the way of bags, windows and other people's faces anymore.

My animals here at home have become pretty ambivalent. One minute they are lolling all over me, acting rather coquettish, and the next minute they're giving me looks like these.

The dog gave me this charming death glare as we watched Pointless together. I gave an answer she deemed stupid and she turned round and stared at me like this. Priceless. My cat lowered lids and slanted hips might look like a casual 'Come and Pet me' look but it actually meant 'Just Don't.'

So, as you can see, my first two months as a 22 year old have got off to a flying start.

The most annoying thing in the world has happened. I have become an immigrant without realising it. And oh the trouble it is causing me. At the start of February, I finally faced the facts that I wasn't about to get a job after all so I had to bit the bullet and sign on for Job Seekers. Itself a torturous experience in long waiting time, strange looks when you read a Kindle, and staff members asking each other questions that you know the answer to after reading the Web Page one time. But oh no, it was just getting started. After a 45 minute wait, and half a novel, I was finally called to a woman's desk. She said, 'Have you filled in the forms?' 'Yes, I have' I replied, handing it to her.
'Ah, but you haven't filled in the immigration one.'
'What? I'm clearly from here.'
'Were you out of the country?'
'Yes, but only for five months. And I was always still British then.'
'Ah, but you see, if you leave the U.K for more than two weeks, you count as an immigrant.'
All the time I filled in this form, I was thinking in my head 'What?? What?? Seriously, what??' After filling in questions such as 'Have you previously been in the U.K. What dates from and to?' and responding with 'Yes, from 19/12/1990- 05/08/2013' All of my life except the last five months. I then had to be asked questions in person such as 'Were you born in this country?' and having to say, with thinly veiled misery 'Yes.' I literally had the same accent as the woman.
So then she says, 'Have you got I.D. for signing on?' so I present my British Driving Licence. She says, 'Oh, but you're an immigrant. You need to show a passport instead. Can you go home and get it?'
'I have no car.' I reply through gritted teeth.
'Okay, you'll have to come in another time and get it photocopied. We can't process your claim until that happens.'
After another hour of feeling the shame of being an accidental immigrant and an unemployed person, and having to list my qualifications with a tear glinting in my eye, I finally left the office to race home with my father in the car. Since that, he has referred to me as an immigrant in a variety of mean ways, while the ghosts of my past life in a third world country haunt me. Not. I was born 30 miles down the road from the office. To two British parents.
I went back in with my passport, waited another half an hour, finally got it scanned and she said 'I'll send this on for you.'
Got a call yesterday from the claim processing office. 'We need a passport for you.'
'I sent one the other day.'
'We got your driving licence but not your Passport.'
'Well, I did send it.'
'Okay'
*10 minutes later*
'Did you get the inside of your passport scanned?'
'No, she just scanned the information page.'
'We need to see if there are any stamps inside that say you can't live in the U.K or make a claim.'
'There aren't any stamps. I promise. I'm from this country!!!'
'We need to know either way....can you come into the office and get it scanned again?'
'I have no car...I literally can't get in.'
'.....I'll try and process your claim without that info but can't make any promises you'll qualify.'
'Seriously? Ok then.'
'Also, why have you sometimes listed your surname on your forms and sometimes the surname Scullion?'
'What?? I have never used the word Scullion in my life. I literally have no words.'
'Ah, they must have mixed up two different applicants.'

Seriously, Job Centre, seriously??

I'm gonna paraphrase Marina and the Diamonds here 'I'm vulnerable, so vulnerable...I am not an immigrant!' http://youtu.be/S_oMD6-6q5Y

In other news, I might become an immigrant just to justify the amount of hassle it apparently takes for me to get £50 a fortnight. Also, I can guarantee you this: if I get a job, it'll be through my own perseverance, not from their unexistant 'support and guidance'.

Also, I'm writing articles for a website now, feel free to check out my work on www.articlereviewwriters.com! 

It's the Most Wonderful time of the year....if you're a stinky plant

As the end of November rapidly approaches, like a lion with a deer's hindquarters in his periphereal vision, so do the spectacles of the Christmas season start to appear. There is much of it that is so delightful, and the Baslers have really done a superb job of decoration with some really classy lights spread over all their shop fronts, and the streets so beautifully lit up. Plus, last week giant Christmas trees were deposited throughout the region, ready to be hung with cheer.

Tomorrow the Christmas market is starting up here and it's quite exciting to go to a genuine German market, rather than an imitation one in the U.K. Perhaps the coolest thing in my opinion though is the WunschBuch, or wish book, which is being set up in the town hall, for locals and tourists alike to write down their wishes for the future, their Santa lists, or just their general thoughts. The temptation to dedicate an entire page to me, myself and I, is pretty overwhelming. A word of caution to myself, don't give yourself too much free reign...who knows where your terrifying mind will take you! Such a lovely idea though, everybody should get to write in a wish book!

Of course, the Santa Claus equivalent for Switzerland, Nikki Nacki, is coming to town the 6th December so the children will be all sugared up and ready to go mental even earlier than they would be at home. It's interesting how the celebrations differ.

I found myself yesterday being a bit of a street cynic. There I was, rushing to Starbucks for an hour of my much loved me time, where I indulge in reading something on my Kindle, having a coffee, and usually some sort of pastry and enjoying the free Wifi for checking my emails. It's my Tuesday afternoon tradition. As soon as I got off a tram, a woman clearly addicted to drugs, struggled over to me to beg for money. I wasn't about to give away my last francs to an addict when I myself was basically unemployed and, if not for kind friends, would be homeless. I shook my head no and rushed on. Next, a man tried to get me to do a survey about something. I just couldn't be bothered trying to say 'I don't speak German' so I just ran past him to. Eventually I got into Starbucks and had my blissful time as normal, but my mood soured a bit when I was once more back on the streets. This time an entire family, I think they were Spanish, were singing some music together while the father played the guitar. Now, why do people think that children singing automatically renders a tip?? There was this one child in the family who had the most horrible nasal tone of voice who was murdering the song. If it had just been the father singing I might have tipped them, he had a lovely voice like an acoustic Enrique Iglesias but I just didn't want to tip them because then they would have assumed it was because a child was singing and I didn't want to award a lack of talent. I felt like Simon Cowell. She just didn't have the X Factor. Gimicks don't impress me much, or Shania either.


Last Friday I went out to Paddys with my Hungarian friend Rita. We wanted to go to the nightclub. We arrived at 9 something and enjoyed a drink or two and talked to some people. Then we decided we would go outside for five minutes to get some air. In the mean time the bouncers had arrived. So we need to go through them to get back in. One of them asks me for ID. Bit unusual but I hand it over. He looks in confusion at it so I say 'It says I'm 21. I'm 21' thinking to myself, I'm legal in every country! Then he says 'Sorry, you have to be over 23 to come in.' What??? What sort of a stupid cut off age is 23?? Furiously we stand outside, watching everybody else get in no problem, majorly annoyed that if we hadn't gone outside, we could have gone straight into the night club no problem. We contemplated whether someone would help us climb up the wall in through the smoking room, without getting caught by the bouncers. We saw some blonde girls standing smoking. We go over and Rita asks 'Can we borrow your ID?' They instead give us an idea. Handing our coats and bags over to the girls inside, we tied our hair back and marched towards the bouncers in our bare arms in one degree temperatures. Looking casual, we saunter around the queue and say 'We just stepped out for a minute, can we just go back in?' They reply 'New policy, you have to re-queue' No mention is made of previously seeing us there, or us being 'underage'. We queue. When we reach the front, we are waved through no questions asked, to the tumultous anthem of 'Celebrate, good times, come on!' Laughing hysterically, we are set to enjoy an evening full of Fake Gyllenhall, coincidental Hungarians, hair touchers, fights and lots and lots of shouting of 'Cheers!' What a good night. This Friday: me and the girls are going out again. 

On the radio, we were all in hysterics over, amongst other things, puppets and stinky plants because, that's right, Basel is the proud owner of the world's biggest and most stinkiest plant. Apparently it smells like rotting flesh. Delightful. Must pay that one a visit!

In other news, I had such a relaxing shower this morning that by its conclusion, I literally felt like that Buddhist monk who meditated for so long that his legs simply dropped off. He is real. Look him up. So is the guy who is responsible for dressing street gods in their day time clothes and night time clothes in their little box. 'Do street gods wear pyjamas?' The title of my autobiography, coming soon to a back alley near you.

I'm just soaking up the last few weeks of my time here, which feel like they are passing by as fast as seconds. I'm majorly gutted to be leaving so many great people here before I've really had a chance to see what Switzerland has to offer for an entire year. Plus it's an absolute nightmare of a headache to try and cancel stupid obligatory health insurance and if I wasn't leaving then I wouldnt have to cancel it...but on flipside, would have to keep paying it. Hmmm...okay, maybe it's not so bad to try and cancel it.

I wish I wasn't stressed out about terminating my employment early, cancelling health insurance, baggage allowances, de-registering as a citizen because if I wasn't, I'd be able to completely let loose and go mental for these last four weeks- four weeks today actually aaaaah what??? Even so, I'm going to let loose. No flipping way am I going to work that last Monday and Tuesday. Nosiree, definitely stopping work the week before. I have to seek assurance from important people in my life that I am allowed to let someone down. I am, right? They fired me! Left me up Shizzstream without a paddle! I can not work those days, yeah? I don't really feel like getting insulted by two children as my last memories. There's places I'm dying to travel to before leaving...

a trip to Lucerne is on the cards, pleeeeeease yes let it happen!
and a trip to Bern hopefully
and a leaving party? I feel like I want to say goodbye to people, but can't be bothered organising an event if nobody is actually going to show up. There's probably only about five people who actually want to say goodbye to me here and they probably know who they are.

I definitely accidentally threw a glass of water at myself today. Perfection. Billy Joel was standing in the corner of the room, as I desperately mopped up the mass of water in soggy socks, gently strumming his guitar and singing 'She's Always a Woman to Me'. And he was right.