The elephant in the room...

For as long as I remember, there has been a black cloud shadowing the Jobcentre. The dole is the elephant in the room, it is the awkward person in the class struggling for a place to sit. The problem is, in many cases, no matter the stigma surrounding it, the fifty seven quid a week it offers is indeed, essential.

For months now I have been looking for a permanent position. I started, like every average Jo job seeker with their head in the clouds, pestering the big guns. Buying certain magazines every week, month and season for the last eight years, left me feeling as if they owed me something. That 'something' preferably re-payable in the form of a staff writing position. However, after continuous attempts at contacting the editors, the editorial contributors, the cleaning staff...I got nothing. Nada.

I was not completely immersed in a cloudy haze, I knew experience was integral. With this in mind I completed an internship with RWD Magazine, work experience at TMRW Magazine/Exposed Magazine, became a blogger for SWIFT London Ltd and even ticked off a stint as a staff writer at MOBO Magazine - all in all earning a measly forty quid. In relatable terms, forty quid is a blue box on Deal Or No Deal, one boot in the Topshop sale or thirty three and a half jars of pesto.

When my fingers weren't skipping across the keys of an Apple Mac, they were rummaging through rails upon rails of clothing. I stumbled into assistant styling after finding myself on shoots with JD Sports and Duffer. From there I was whisked into pulling clothes for none other than Lauren Goodger who, if I do say so myself, is an utter arse. After a few months tottering round various sets I found myself, once again, unemployed.

By this time my CV was looking pretty packed, whilst my purse was looking more depressed than a cat  knowing it was bath time. The chance of paying of my overdraft or student loan seemed to creep further into the distance with each day that turned to night.

Don't get me wrong, I do not have it as hard as some and I am not one to complain but, having to work out whether buying a Chai Latte will push you into the red or not holds the ability to become a royal pain in the ass.

This being said, I still have resisted signing on.

There is something stopping me. The idea of the extra fifty odd quid a week is tempting. Is it just me? Am I the only one feeling slightly embarrassed by the concept of standing outside the Jobcentre waiting for the double doors to be pulled open?

Help...