Would you believe it? A damp and dreary day in Rainy Old Swindon. The rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire never let you down.

Luckily the wetter stuff happened in the night. I am told it absolutely poured with rain during the night. I wouldn't know, I was deep in snooze mode and even my neighbours door slamming in the early hours barely raised my eyelids.

But, damp or not, today was another day on the farm, so I headed out to the programme centre for another great day of learning how to apply for jobs. Did you know I've been unemployed for nearly three years? You'd think I would know how to fill in application forms by now. Funnily enough, I sort of get it more or less right. Most of the time.

I did laugh at the role play session. Before anyone wonders, no, it wasn't about warriors or wizards battling gealtinous cubes in dark tunnels, but a pair of instructors demonstrating How Not To Be Interviewed.

"So," The lead instructor asked, "What do you think the first guy got wrong?"

He had to ask. That was a red rag to a bull. So I whipped out the piece of paper and read off line after line of hopeless errors and mistakes in interview technique, sounding like a policeman booking in a criminal. The instructor fell over laughing, completely unable to keep up with the pace as he scrawlled on a paper board all the points I rattled off.

"So," The lead instructor asked, "What do you think the second guy got right?"

Dunno, really. I wouldn't hire him either.

A Strange Kind Of Dog

I passed a dog on my way to the programme centre. Odd sort of beastie. Sort of like a bulky lurcher with a massive shag pile carpet glued on. I asked the owner what it was. A crossbreed, so he told me, bought from a rescue centre. Part border collie, part something else. He said his gog was unusual.

I watched it circle, then prepare to do his business.

Looks the same as other dogs to me.