Week 9

This week’s good news is that the teenager has finally been offered a part time job. She has been applying for jobs for ever since we got back from the US.  No longer mixing with the rich and spoilt of Beverly Hills, I felt the amount of pocket money handed over every month could now be decreased. What better incentive could she have?

To give credit where it’s due she has been an avid  job hunter – but the frustration of on-line applications, and a standard procedure designed to cover everything from prospective store managers to a Saturday girl - has had her thwart. My teenager does not fit the norm; she hasn’t had a standard UK education, nor has she any work experience.

Apart from the major stumbling block of no GCSE’s and very often no room on an on-line form to explain their absence – ie three years in the US education system – I imagine most of these applications are assessed  by a rigid tick-box short-list criteria at company headquarters, and quite naturally on paper she doesn’t look like the ideal candidate.

Back in the old days when I was a girl Saturday jobs could normally be procured simply by going into a shop and asking, or at the very most handing in a CV.  Today’s job market is very different.

She has no work experience – she is a student.  One on-line application absolutely refused to let her move onto the next page without putting in a date she left her ‘previous employment’.

My teenager is intelligent and articulate – I knew if she could just secure an interview she could probably secure a job, and thankfully, eventually it has happened. It’s only temporary but it’s a start, and at least it will be something to put on the next application form even if this one doesn’t work out.

 I recently met up  with an old college friend also the mum of two daughters, for a chick flick and a long walk in the countryside.  We reminisced about the good old days - how different our teenage years were. Life really was so much simpler then.  I'm pretty sure it was also a lot quieter. 

I want my teenager to bring her friends home  – I’d much they were where I could see them than wandering around the streets at night. What I don’t want to do, however, is hear them.  The teenager is pretty good at turning up with waifs and strays, and to be honest, I don't mind. We've a big house - we need to fill it. However, last weekend I was sorely tempted to send a text upstairs at 2.00 am in the morning asking when chatty man was finally going to quieten down.

‘You should be glad we were only talking,’ was the teenager’s cheeky retort when I complained about the noise the following morning.

Yes I know I should be thankful for small mercies –  as my health visitor once told me when I complained a certain baby only slept for twenty minutes at a time.  Be grateful for those twenty minutes she said.  However I never  anticipated that seventeen years later I'd still be struggling to get a  decent night’s sleep.....