I have been here two whole weeks, and still no job. Not even a crappy retail or flipping burger position (sadly, I am qualified for the burger flipping with three years of experience, but still, one must have standards). I've gone through three recruitment agencies, and another one tomorrow. A few real interviews at real companies, and tomorrow I'm going to a pub which, if it doesn't hire me will be sadness to an extreme. I might as well just rearrange my flight back to the states.

::Sigh::

Well... there is still hope. I might once again be working at a bookshop. And there are always a few receptionist positions. Eventually someone has to hire me. Right?

Now the question is how am I suppose to meet a boy?

And how come everyone else in my flat has more closet space than I do? The new girl moved into yesterday, and proceeded to unpack so much clothing. Three large suitcases full (I remember only have the large suitcase and a duffle bag. The backpack housed the Congo). I'm luck that I was able to put some of my suits into the outer hallway closet before she took it all up. Alas, the closet stealer is a nice girl. You have to be to live in this place. It's not for the snobbish or the high maitnanced. Living with eight other people is work. Not just psychologically, but physically. The dishes can't just be left out until you feel like cleaining it, because there aren't thirty-two plates. There are only twelve. Towels must be picked up. Because a mess grows exponetially to the number of people. So that one glass becomes eight glasses on the counter quickly.

And then there's the bathroom -- think it's hard sharing with one other person? With a variety of schedules, the inevitable need to hog the bathroom in the morning has been avoided thus far. I hope that once I get a job it will continue. Because there would be nothing worse than having to get up a half hour earlier than necessary to avoid the queue.