He sat at the desk and shuffled in the chair. It was a comfortable chair, padded in all the right places, but today it felt as if he were sitting on gravel. His arse hurt. He stood up and took a cushion from the sofa and put it on the chair. Sitting back down he realised it had not made the slightest difference.
He sighed. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. Pushing the form away he stood up again and trudged to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and rather than return to the office while the kettle did its thing, he decided to wash up.
He hated washing up.
But not as much as filling out application forms. And this one was worse than usual. He really didn't want the job.
To be fair, he didn't want to do any job.
He was well past retirement age and didn't see why he should have to work. But choices he'd made, and things he couldn't have foreseen, had led to the current situation. There were few jobs that he could do, at his age, and fewer still that would accept an application from someone his age.
It was a shit job. But it was a job, and he needed the money.
...