Signing on to a bleak future?

"So what job do you want to do love?" asked Bev, my 'personal advisor' at the JobCentre Plus, peering at me through her tortoiseshell spectacles.
"I want to be a journalist."
"Yes dear, but I need three types of work to put on the form."
"Erm, put editorial assistant, reporter and sub-editor then."
Bev took her spectacles off and scowled at me.
"We need three types of work because that way They think it's more likely you will get a job. If you don't put three down, you might not get your job seekers allowance."

I scowled back. Fresh from noSWeat journalism college, all a-fire with a single-hearted desire to make it as a hack, Bev just didn't seem to be getting me. Having survived a year of working in healthcare PR, a job so dire I could feel little slices of my soul evaporating day by day, I was not prepared to switch career allegiances.

Bev cleared her throat and attempted a kind smile.
"Look dearie, all the journalists are in here at the moment. We've had people from the Sun, the Daily Mirror, they are all signing on love. There aren't any jobs in journalism at the moment."

I crumpled a little and looked around at the fellow no-hopers sitting patiently on the suprisingly dashing red sofas. It dawned upon me that the whole building was full of deliberately bright colours - vivid purples, lime greens and vomit orange. I suppose it would be dangerous to sit the down-and-outs on grey furniture, it would probably be the last straw and cause us no-hopers to slash our throats with the plastic folder of our claims booklet.

I sighed and looked back at Bev.
"I worked in healthcare PR" I offered, glumly. "I suppose you can put me down for that."
Result! Bev smiled and tapped away on her keyboard.
I left the JobCentre Plus a broken woman. If highly employable journos from the nationals were queuing up alongside me to claim the weekly 60 quid dole money, what chance did a wannabe hack like me have?

In my hands, I clutched two print-outs from the odd little machines inside the centre. I looked forward to sharing my new career prospects with my parents: 'Chimney Cleaner' and 'Dog Boarder'. Whilst I printed the former just because it made me laugh, I was actually quite optimistic about my prospects as a dog nanny. Whoever knew you could earn £50-£100 a week, just for letting a furry four-legged friend share your home? I could be onto something here.