Half past eight? The interview slot was a bit suspicious but that's the time printed on the notification. As it turned out that's the new opening hours of the Job Centre. A few waifs and strays like me silently congregated in the small plaza outside in varrious states of dishevellment. Personally I just couldn't be bothered to dress tidily at this hour of the day and for my part turned up looking like a vietnam POW. The security guard opened the doors and we all sauntered in.

Android Lady at the enquiries desk was the most vocal of all present. She is of course programmed to be polite and her cheery "Good Morning" largely went unanswered. I mean, we're all rejects for crying out loud, any sign of genial happiness and we're under suspicion of illegal earnings. My claims advisor called me over. She said it again. Okay, if she wants to call me 'Mister' then she gets no pleasantries, regardless of any attempt to cajole me into servile behaviour.

This time she made no such demand. Everything was conducted in a sort of strained business-like atmosphere. I presented my job search record, signed on the dotted line, and received printouts of various vacancies on offer. Apparently the system doesn't allow the title of 'Lord', as my claims advisor has pointed out previously as one reason for her continued dismissal of my human rights, so each page bore 'Mr' in front of my name. Nope, I'm not having it.

Have you got a pen? She looked perplexed at why I needed to use a pen after signing my name, but she passed one to me nonetheless. I then proceeded to scratch out the title on each page and corrected it manually in front of her.

"You could do that at home." She suggested, hoping the whole problem would then walk out the door as lowly as possible. No, I'm doing it here.

"I see" She replied, constraining her matronly desire to pulverise me for my outrageous defiance of her sensibilities. Okay, job done, and the problem walks out the door head held high. It's those little victories that make dole-claiming bearable.

Gone

Looking out the window I see a clear blue sky. It's strange how something so very ordinary assumes huge significance when you think about the death of someone. The tragic news of Ronnie James Dio's departure wasn't entirely shocking. I'd already heard he was suffering from cancer. Neither for that matter have I ever met him, never mind knew him personally. He was however one of those artists I enjoyed in the heyday of my musical past, and I'm saddened his work has come to an end.

Heaven or Hell? They say the devil has all the best music, but something kind of makes me think he hasn't.