Attacking (Student) Finance - With a Big Hammer

Apologies in advance for the awful Americanism. But I have heard that Student Finance are big "douches", and I found out for myself this week, that most people's sentiments were with foundation and completely justified. Quite frankly, I'm surprised most people haven't trekked all the way to their headquarters to literally hit them with a hammer. As far as I can tell, their offices are either in Watford, Darlington or Bristol. I have yet to figure out which, as they insist on telling me to send, "evidence", to different places.

Quite frankly, if I, and my family and all of my friends develop an acute case of dementia in the next few weeks, then I'm going to have nothing to prove who I am. And then we're in trouble. Student Finance England, (for we are not sheep, haggis or leprachauns), want me to send my passport, which I can't because it's about 7 years out of date and has a picture of me with curtains, (yep, THOSE curtains), so instead I must send my birth certificate to prove I am not Alfrazi Al-Alfaraini from Saudi Arabia and in fact, me. I must also send two copies of an 18-page form that somehow proves that Father Mitten is not the Director of Kelloggs and Mother Mitten is not Karren Brady and then maybe, I get some money from David Cameron. Maybe. Well... probably, but it will never come in time.

And to make matters worse, I have only really filled out the easy application bit. We are awaiting the massive forms from Mr.Postman as the senior Mittens of the household wish to conduct this major operation in the same fashion as when they did the same for Sister Mitten, 3 years ago. We attempted to do it online, but Father Mitten forgot where he met Mother Mitten, much to the sarcastic disgust of Mother Mitten, so we went down the classic route of paper and pen. I envisage some horrible times ahead.

As for the subject of University itself, it has been a hot topic in this household in the past week. It has lead to some... debates, in which Mother Mitten got her point across much better than I did, and we have come to the conclusion that I need a job. Mother Mitten will regret it when I come home after EVERY SHIFT, and complain to her how useless it is, and then when she tells me to shut up, I will remind her it was her idea. Ok, I won't.

However, despite attempting to wriggle round important decisions with my now, famous, silences, this is a subject I find difficult to defend myself on, and rightly so. I don't want a job. And ok, I know most people dislike going to work, but the only route I can go down these days is the call-centre malarky, and quite frankly, after my brief experience in such an environment, the idea makes me physically sick. I can handle footballers shouting at me, because I have weapons I can use. Over the phone, if someone shouts at me, (which they did in my briefest of experiences), I know I will be reduced to a quivering wreck because I have very little backbone, and will do what I always do when criticised. Run away.

I will be brutally honest. I seriously don't see myself lasting 6 months in a call centre. I worked for Autoglass as a temp, (very briefly), and I honestly cannot describe a more traumatic experience. Unless you count the time I was used as a taxi to Birmingham. And yeah, I know "it's just for the money" and I know, "it won't be forever", but it's for long enough and I don't want to spend my time talking to people who don't want to be talked to.

Father Mitten tried to make me see how much University will cost, by using pen and paper. Despite his original estimates, that I would be £1000 short with just Student Finance, we eventually worked out, I will be ever so slightly short, if I just existed. I get the feeling Father Mitten's maths grade wasn't so high back in the day... However, I will admit, it was at this point that I knew I needed something to go with. BUT, I am going to try everything in my damnest power to avoid a call centre. Seriously.

Back to today, and it was largely uneventful until I decided to go and support Dassy in his battle with the electronic board as 4th official in his County Cup final. He did well, despite spending most of the game chatting to me, and despite his electronic board displaying that Number 87 was being replaced by Number 87 at one stage. Otherwise, there was little hiccup. I managed to pick up an appointment from Master Bob and another possible one for the end of the month aswell. It's all money at the end of the day. We went for a cheeky chicken and chips afterwards, described by Dassy as, "Food Poisoning in a Box", and then drove home with the radio up to a very, very high volume and me bobbing my head in a fashion that suggested I was a duck with an avid obsession of drum and bass, before getting home.

I had pointed out I was going to watch the Comic Relief drama unfold, but I was put off by Sickipedia, and Kettle's attempt to show me the worst song in existence, to which I promptly agreed.

And now, after a conversation or 4 with many drunken beings, I have just looked at the clock to find it is 03:52. Why, oh why, do I stay up this late? Warming up for university? At least I'll be good at that!