52% intelligent. 9% modest. More monkey than bear.
Tuesday 25 September 2012
dance magic, dance....
These are hard times for us fairy folk. Oh, I’m sure the Snow Whites, Cinderellas and Sleeping Beauties of this world are probably doing okay, but it’s a sad fact of life that there simply aren’t enough Prince Charmings to go around. Boy, what I wouldn’t give for a family with a recession-proof fortune in the bank and a good, solid property portfolio. When the Wolf is knocking at the door, it’s not hard to understand why Beauty settled for her Beast.
At times like this, a good trade is worth its weight in gold, especially if that trade actually is gold. That consortium of dwarven miners is probably doing okay, right enough, but I’m telling you: that Rumplestiltskin has really got it made. Nice work if you can get it.
The rest of us? Well, the rest of us actually have to graft for a living. Let me tell you, there aren’t many jobs to go around and discrimination is rife. Don’t talk to me about Equal Opportunities when I can see with my own damn eyes that all the Fairies have to do to snaffle all the best jobs is to put on their most gossamer gown and flutter their wings. What chance do the rest of us have? Once the Fair Folk have taken their pick, everyone else is forced to scrap it out over whatever’s left. It doesn’t matter how well-qualified you look on paper, when the interviewer looks up and sees a goblin on the other side of the table, you’ve got less than a child’s chance in a Witch’s oven of getting the job. No smoke without fire, they say. They haven’t stolen babies in years, but apparently that mud still sticks. The books have long since been written and our roles are fixed. It’s hurtful, but what can you do? What can you do.
And what of us Kobolds? Hell’s teeth. Time was that we were treated with respect, fear even. Those days are long gone and nowadays the only work I can find is on a call centre, and there’s not much respect going around there, let me tell you. Appraisals are a farce and the very idea of any kind of any career development is a sick joke: when I’m not being insulted, I’m being ignored. Back in the day, either would have been more than enough justification to play a trick or two on my supervisors, but those days are past. Now I must swallow my pride and work the anti-social shifts without complaint if I want to keep my job. The pay is pitiful and the hours are long, but it pays the bills and the bills need paying. What’s a little humiliation along the way?
Work hard, they tell me. Keep your nose clean, they say. Work hard and there’s a career for you here. I doubt it, but what choice do I have? I’m too proud to live on benefits and hard work is all I know.
These are hard times indeed, my friends. Hard times.