Half conscious you begin to waken. Morning. Monday or Tuesday? Tuesday probably. Lie still, dull and drowsy, putting off the inevitable.

Sounds downstairs, footsteps and dish rattling, and then the radio. That's your cue, better get up; it mightn't be so bad today. Finally wander down to breakfast and bid a hearty good morning to them. Yes, "them"--that's what they've become in the last three months.

They were your brother and his wife at first but now they're just--them. You're living on them, feeding on them, depending on them. They give you your cigarettes, your bed, look after your laundry, and give you whatever pocket money they can spare.

As soon as you see them at the breakfast table it hits you again. A sort of floating looseness inside, and your first bite of food is tasteless, insipid, wooden. The only good thing is the cigarette that follows.

The ritual begins--the newspaper comes over and you turn to the Situations Vacant. Though they really don't, you feel that the others are watching you as you reads the notices. It doesn't look promising, nothing in your own line but a few that you could handle--if you were lucky, if you could only impress, if the advertiser wasn't so firmly settled on "previous experience essential".

You "borrow" some more notepaper and envelopes and for the umpteenth time start off: "Dear Sir/Madam, In reply to your advert....I beg to apply for the favour of an interview." You beg all right. You don't request any more.

Then the envelopes, three or four box numbers, to be delivered by hand to save postage. The brother gives you the bus fare and a couple of bob he can't afford, and off you go.

It's a relief to get out of the house, and you settle down on the ride to town, speculating on the business of your fellow travellers. You've got time for that. They are the fellows starting off for another day's work, equipped with newspapers and exchanging early morning chit-chat. There are a few housewives already on their way to shopping, and the odd leisurely holiday-maker or tourist.

But they're all in the category of "them". They've got money in their pockets, they've got jobs to go to, they've got something you'd give your heart and soul to have, for they have some measure of independence.

Off the bus and in with your letters. You have one firm appointment, an interview at eleven, so you drop into the nearest Church and ask for help. Then to the tobacconist's for ten fags to give you a lift, and arrive with a quarter of an hour to spare.

Sweat it out and in you go trying to appear normal, fighting desperately to control your feelings, trying to present yourself in the best possible light. The man with the job to give is nice, pleasant, courteous; he listens and questions, and before it's over you sense what's coming. It's no go, you are not just the man he wants.

Out again, another cigarette, and drift. There's still the rest of the day to get through. People are swarming past on either side; you keep your head up and try to make-believe you're one of them. Twenty minutes, half an hour, and the pretence wears thin. They begin to swim before your eyes and you want a rest and a bit of quiet.

Head for the nearest public library and an hour goes by in the reading room. Then time to leave and your stomach starts calling for food. More walking around studying cafe menus to see what elevenpence will buy, and you settle for a cup of coffee and a bun. Some days for a change you make out with sweets. Chewing them they can be made to last longer, but today it's coffee and a bun. You linger until the waitress begins to look your way too often, then slip out when she isn't, 'cause you can't leave a tip.

Cigarettes are now running low--five left until breakfast tomorrow. One every two hours should do it, and no sooner do you fix a schedule than the longing for another puff becomes an incessant craving.

More walking, more people, and hurriedly you dodge once or twice as you see in the distance someone you know. You can't meet them on their ground any more; they're a part of "them" too.

A shower of rain, into another Church, and then it starts to fall in torrents. Lucky you still held on to the raincoat, the only single pawnable article left in your possession.

In your hip pocket you carry the rest of your personal belongings in the form of pawn tickets. That was one "easy" way to raise a few shillings, but even that's gone.

You don't hold your head up high by this stage. It's down, and you're walking on the edge of the footpath, taking furtive glances at the gutter. Maybe you'll have the luck to find a lost pound note, a lost ten shillings, or perhaps a lovely fat, round half-crown. You did once--a green pound note. You couldn't believe it and had walked past before you realised that it was what it was. It was wealth untold for about a week.

It's evening and the rain is over. Street lights are on and you feel a bit freer, a little more indistinguishable for that chance meeting with an old acquaintance.

Then it happens. "Hello! How are you? It's been a long time." You reply you're delighted, it's wonderful, then bang, you're sorry, got an important appointment and must rush.

"Them". Can't they leave you alone? In their smugness can't they realise the barrier that exists between you? What barrier? The one you've erected yourself, and then you start blaming yourself. It's your fault, but it's not really. A man can take so much, but three months of taking, of being without a job, has driven you into that frame of mind and you can't get rid of it.

Late evening and it's time to call it a day. Your brain suddenly comes up with an idea. It's a sixpenny bus ride "home" to the brother's, so you'll walk and save the fare for tomorrow. Of course you won't tell "them" and you'll start tomorrow sixpence up. A good idea, but after two miles it's not so good. You've been going since morning and tiredness descends with a blow. A halt, and off you go again, but it's no good. You wait for the next bus and feel cheated when you've only saved thruppence.

You don't like talking too much when you do get in, but a full meal leaves you in better form, and so off to bed with brighter hopes for a new tomorrow.

Morning. Wednesday or Thursday? What does it matter? You won't get anywhere anyway, and there's still "them" to face.

The End

Note: The above describes the joy of job-hunting in the Dublin of the 1950s. I am forever indebted to my brothers, Charlie and Barry, for their support during a six months' search. And to their very understanding wives, Mary and Gladys.
John Ward