Freitag 10 Oktober 2008 19:47
The end of the week approaches, and having bought some clothes and Converse sneakers this week (not that shopping is a pastime, but it's definitely a way to kill hours) my mind has turned to it's favourite source of prolonged misery: money. I feel heartened by the fact that the entire world is, at present, sharing my woe to some extent, but my constant use of reverse logic may be about to finally defeat me. Some examples of this: I brought my street bike to Berlin, which will be near-defunct in the coming sub-zero weather, instead of my computer, which would have provided me with near-uninterrupted access to all the free pornography sites job and flatshare listings websites that I now frequent. I bought tight-fitting Converse canvas shoes in anticipation of the incessant icy rain that the encroaching winter will surely bring. And the cherry on top of my persistent stupidity? I leave England for a foreign-tongued city with a long history of unemployment and debauchery at the precipice of global fiscal collapse. I could quite possibly be the biggest fool in this town.
So as my own personal economic apocalypse nears, I struggle to compose comforting thoughts to allay my fears about the immediate future. A hasty return to England is no option, because I've never gone travelling or emigrated before, and it is ridiculously easy to arrange stranding yourself somewhere abroad. Besides, the humiliation of slowly readjusting to a life less interesting would be less preferable than a lingering death here in Berlin. Not that I would die here; I'm far too proud for that. So what, I reckon, are the remaining options for mein arbeit?
Work in animation/design: would require a computer, a good showreel and good contacts. This option will require more money and patience than I actually possess.
Work as a bicycle courier: Those of you who know me well enough will be aware that my hearing, and more importantly, my attention span, are both lax to nil. So the idea of some 50-fags-a-day courier controller barking the indecipherable names of straßes and platzes into my deaf right ear through a battered Motorola radio, as I cheat death four hundred times a day in the Russian cold, sounds a little too much like a penal sentence than gainful employment.
Street performer: I can't whistle, juggle, ride a unicycle, stand still for more than 5 seconds (in this weather, you'd only appear as stiff as a street statue if you were actually dead) or do card tricks or draw caricatures. I can however beatbox with burps, but that would more likely only draw the attention of the local polizei.
Male escort: I only brought to Berlin the clothes that portray me as the affable Shoreditch cunt. So even if I wanted to escort the rich and stupid to wherever it is they need to appear to have retained some semblance of an active sex life, they would have me dress however they chose, more likely than not in lederhosen. Self-respect is not a prerequisite quality traditionally associated with the sex industry's bastard child, so that is yet another “desperate Aussie” job I cannot do.
TEFL English teacher: Here is a job that fulfils so many aspects of my deviant persona that I'm too lazy to list every reason. But here's why TEFL (Teaching English to Foreign Ladies) is the best job in Berlin for a monolingual parasite like yours truly. My command of English is so good that I elicit blank stares from a lot of people, in particular Australian guys. Not to mention the wage - I could earn anywhere from 10 to 15, that is correct, FIFTEEN Euros an hour for pointing at photographs of people jumping over hurdles and cats on mats. Just two hours work could pay my Berlin rent for eight months. Not to mention that I would meet and fraternise with Germans who feel their English isn't up to par. They'd walk out speaking our mother tongue like Stephen Fry sucking a cueball. OK, maybe not. Teaching Mockery as a Foreign Language, perhaps.
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I'd like to curtail this sticky-fingered interaction with a communal computer now, and the warmth of the numerous stares at the back of my head from those other fifty residents who would quite like to use the terminal (one of only three) that I'm using, means that now is as good a time as any to log off, and maybe start looking in earnest for that cheap flat, shit job, or other tempting proposition that this surreal existence might afford me. Being English in London was only a slight advantage, due to my lack of qualifications or pedigree, but I am resolute that my nationality will get me in, or out of shit at some point. Like when the German ticket inspector is going to ask me why I have a student-rate monthly rail pass – I think then my lack of German could prove useful.
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