There comes a time in every person’s life where they have to start looking for a job after ten months of redundancy because otherwise they’ll be living on dust and twigs.

That time, for me, is now. I am professionally rested as much as I’ll ever be.

I could have started earlier. I should have started earlier. I have many, many excuses lined up for why I haven’t or didn’t including, but not limited to, something to do with mum and her wellbeing, getting too comfortable in my house husband role and just generally not wanting to say goodbye to lie ins and unlimited home baking.

So now I have admitted that, and with the prospect of a nice portion of egg fried dust on the horizon, without the egg, I take to the websites listing jobs.

And am bowled over by the vast array of job titles that are on offer. Some of them amazingly authentic, and other ones just bullshit ways of saying cook or waiter. Food dissemination technician, for example. But then, there was a food futurologist on the BBC news the other day, and what the frick that is nobody knows.

Do I even need to find a job? I could just assign myself a title and start charging ridiculous sums for something you don’t need but I have convinced you that you do. A food futurologist, for chuff’s sake. By that token anything can have futurologist attached to it.

Oh, wait, it turns out that I do need to find a job.

The thought of it, I’ll be honest, fills me with absolute fear. I haven’t applied for a job – externally, as they say – since 2004 and everything since then has been internal with people that I at least knew. Now I’m just faced with a wall of work options and a vague sense of unease.

I should have started earlier. I should have looked way before now.

But I can’t change that.

I can only go on from here.

Squeaky bum time.