So it seems I finally landed another job.
I’m far from elated; it’s certainly a relief.
A chicken factory in Cambuslang means as much time spent commuting as when I worked in a fish factory in Queenslie, as dull kind of work, and from the one shift I’ve already had apparently much less hurry but much more Polish. There are only five eight-hour shifts a week, which implies a reasonable amount of spare time notwithstanding the commuting, and only back shifts (my preferred kind) for me; it also means I’ll have to get by (after tax, rent &c) on eight quid a day.
Which is negotiable, at least until my stock of fags is depleted; but it wouldn’t pay to stop looking for something better. Still, it’s a living; the danger of ending up on the street seems deferred again.