Yesterday can be turned into an advert

Posted on Tuesday, April 1st 2008 10:09 am by menj in Blogging

Yesterday I was literally running around back and forth from the Immigration Department to the bank and the computer shop and then back again. I rewarded myself with a nice relaxing evening at Starbucks. So taking inspiration from the all-famous Mastercard advertisement, you can sum it up as follows:

Getting a Malaysian passport – RM300
Buying computer software – RM60
Applying for a Maybank VISA Debit card – RM12
A nice drink and sugar donut at Starbucks – RM18
Computer laptop – RM1999
Laying back on the sofa while chatting online with the girl you love – PRICELESS!

There are some things which money just cannot buy. For everything else, you have the moola to pay for even the services of a san diego contract attorney. Yeah, I have the money and I have no qualms flaunting it.

    19 Comments

    Comments

    Here are 19 Responses.

    • Caltel T says:

      July 16th, 2012 at 8:44 pm

      I’ve been working at Starbucks in my hometown now for almost 8 months but I’m going away to school in August. There is a starbucks about 6-10 minutes away from the university that I would love to transfer to.

      Are there any special regulations about transferring, such as age and how long you’ve been working there? I’ll have been working there over a year when I want to transfer.

    • Con Orpe says:

      July 19th, 2012 at 10:39 pm

      I fell pregnant from a 2 week fling that ended when I found out he had a girflriend. I found out I was pregnant about 3 weeks later, and the father tried to bully me into having an abortion. First he was nice, and then he got progressively worse. I have remained calm, and have constantly told him that he can have as much or as little contact as he wishes.

      I invited him to the scan a couple of weeks ago, and he ignored me. So I wrote him a long e-mail detailing my worries and fears, and asking him to make it perfectly clear what he wanted, and if he wanted nothing to do with it still, then I would respect his decision and would never contact him again. He wrote quite plainly that he still wanted me to abort, and if I didn’t then he would have nothing to do with the child emotionally, financially or otherwise.

      I don’t want his money, and as he has made that decision, I don’t want him to be a part of this either. He is in the army, is moving city away from mine, and despite still having his girlfriend he has reposted his ‘advert’ on the dating site we met in, listing that he does want children and stating that family is very important to him.

      The guy is a scumbag, and has treated me appallingly.

      The main fear I have, is him turning up in few years and insisting to see his child. Which I think would be damaging towards my child, and I am extremely scared of him then taking the child away from me, because as a father UK law states that he has equal parental rights to me. So I could potentially spend the next 5 years, raising, caring for and nurturing a child, all on my own, and then he could walk in and disrupt, upset and hurt my child.

      I face a lot of problems from outsiders looking down on me, and believing that it would have been better for me to abort. But I am 30, I have a good job, a good home, and am a very caring person. I already love my baby so much and despite the initial set-backs we will encounter I am sincerely devoted to ensuring he/she grows up in a loving, secure environment and hope to instil a healthy sense of self worth and confidence into them.

      I got attacked by a couple yesterday who said I wasn’t doing the right thing by my baby, or it’s dad (!) and that I should be open to him turning up, and to welcome him. It has really upset me and I have been crying a lot.

      I know it may sound evil, but I am seriously considering texting the dad and saying that I have miscarried. That way he will never look me up in the future, and no disruption will be caused to my child. I will likely tell the child that they were conceived from a sp*rm donor.

      What would you do? I’m terrified he will come and take my child from me, and I want to stop that happening. I am terrified that if he walks in in a few years, then my child will suffer psychologically. The man has already proved to me that he is a liar, a cheat, a coward, and has the morals of a villain. So I don’t trust him or want him anywhere near my precious child.

      Please, no judging, I am already in enough of a headache. Just your honest opinions of what you would do in the same situation would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.

    • ibjammin44 says:

      July 26th, 2012 at 6:42 pm

      I’ve asked this, but I really want more critique. how can i make it better?? rate 1-10 please

      The World Has Turned Cold

      The broken door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. My hands fall to my side, defeated, and I pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street, I see a lady walking a small dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The doors jerk open when I enter and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window, into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again, then slows to a stop a minute later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize. Now when I look at the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.

    • homerliveshere says:

      July 26th, 2012 at 7:16 pm

      I’m in the UK, and looking for a job at the moment. I posted an advert in the jobseekers section on Gumtree yesterday. Today, I had a short email from somebody stating they had a job available and to contact them if I wanted more details.

      I got back to them asking for more details, and I received this reply:

      Thanks for your interest in the job, the sole representative Handles the accounting section of the company, It doesn’t requires you to have knowledge of Accounting, You will only work on instructions base on billing functions, customer communications, file maintenance and processing of sales orders and cash receipts . The primary aspect of this position will be processing accounts receivable invoices and performing data entry into the system.We are a firm offering a personal service to our clients, we are into supplies Fabrics materials, to our customers in the UK.We are based in United State, with an enviable reputation for customer service and support. We are an independent supplier,and a subsidiary of M.I.R. Fabric Products Leader in North America {http://www.mirfabricproducts.ca/index.html}. specializing in all aspects of Fabrics products & materials.All applicants must be authorized to work in the United Kingdom.Qualifications:
      -Must be proficient in Excel, and Word.Other Requirements:
      -Must have adequate computer knowledge/Internet, as the job requires posting of report weekly
      -Good written and verbal communication skills.
      -Ability to organize, multi-task and prioritize accordingly.
      -Comfort with a start-up environment and have a sense of humor.The Job does not require any further knowledge of Accounting as the job is basically based on Instruction, just as you will be directed each time. Which means Anybody can apply for this position.Salary/Benefits:£500 weekly

      Get back fast as possible if you are still interestedThanks.
      Jose
      Mayar Fabrics
      Subsidiary Of M.I.R. Fabric Products

      I’ve emailed back asking for a bit more info and saying I’d be interested in applying.

      However it seems a bit too good to be true, mainly because of the high wage. Also, the email is from a yahoo address not a business address. I’m not pinning any hopes on it, however my thoughts were, what do I have to lose by applying… if it turns out to be a con then I’ve lost nothing, is this right? Or do I somehow stand to lose something by emailing this guy about it? Of course, if anything comes up such as ‘we need your bank details…’ or whatever, then I won’t reply! But if it’s just a case of applying, getting an interview, and then seeing if it’s a genuine offer or not, would I be putting myself in harms way by going through that process at all?
      The link there doesn’t work because it has a } on the end. Delete that and you can see the website. It’s American and has no mention of anything in Britain. I think I’ve already answered my own question to be honest… no way would somewhere pay £500 a week for someone with no experience. Hmm. I just can’t understand what the point of the con is, unless he is going to try and get my bank details off me!
      Yes, I am certain it is a con now. I just had this reply:

      Hello again and thanks for your interest, the below info is needed to start the job

      Your Full Name:
      Your Full Postal Address:
      Active Phone Number(s)
      Currently Employed: Yes/No
      If Yes, What type of work and Current Position:
      Yahoo Messenger ID: (You can create one if you don’t have already for easier communication)

      Get back as fast as possible,

      Thanks.
      Jose
      Mayar Fabrics
      Subsidiary Of M.I..R. Fabric Products
      N.B You will be doing the job in your location Leicestershire so get back to me with your details so that i can give you the instruction and information.

      He avoided answering most of my questions, and what reputable employer chats over Yahoo messenger! Don’t think so! Ahh shame, I was having dreams of being rich for a short while 😛

      I might email M.I.R. Fabrics myself and raise their awareness of this.

    • Mistry says:

      August 10th, 2012 at 7:39 am

      I have looked online at a lot of things and i’m pretty sure most of them are not relevant to myself.
      For instance, I know i’m writing something that I think is totally cool and right for me to write about. And I also want to write. I mean, i’m not adverting it. I just feel like the words just don’t want to come…they don’t come naturally, right now. Yesterday they did. I do have one explanation, but i’m not sure if it would change anything. I always write at night. By the time midnight comes around, i’m usually really intuitive with my story. Another possibility could be that i’m not sure where my story should be going and am afraid to write on that account? Well, I have always been a non-planner, write at the seat of your pants. But for this book, I did for the first time, write down a few things on a few note cards for the first…six chapters. I’m to chapter six, actually, right now. Anyway, I know the outline of my book pretty well…which will probably change like usual anyway. ( : I am however, afraid to write. I’m not sure if that’s the whole reason why I’m in a slog, but I am almost positive it has to do something with it. I think i’m afraid because I just don’t want to go off in some other direction…I’m actually, not sure if I know what to do with the story. Maybe that’s it. (I just came up with that idea.) Though, because my book is coming from two perspectives I can easily go ahead and write any chapter which will be in a whole other setting than the one I am presently in, and doing that still is a drag. But I just don’t get it. Why does this happen? It does go away…but then it comes back to haunt me every so often. I don’t know how to avoid it.
      I know you may think, Well, if it goes away then what’s the problem?
      The problem is it takes up time that I could be writing! If I could avoid this slog altogether is would be a miracle.
      I wonder if big time authors ever go into slogs too. Is that like a normal part of the writing process?
      Okay, I’m sorry for all the rambling questions. Your turn to talk, please. ( :

    • Bryant B says:

      August 14th, 2012 at 3:53 pm

      I fell pregnant from a 2 week fling that ended when I found out he had a girflriend. I found out I was pregnant about 3 weeks later, and the father tried to bully me into having an abortion. First he was nice, and then he got progressively worse. I have remained calm, and have constantly told him that he can have as much or as little contact as he wishes.

      I invited him to the scan a couple of weeks ago, and he ignored me. So I wrote him a long e-mail detailing my worries and fears, and asking him to make it perfectly clear what he wanted, and if he wanted nothing to do with it still, then I would respect his decision and would never contact him again. He wrote quite plainly that he still wanted me to abort, and if I didn’t then he would have nothing to do with the child emotionally, financially or otherwise.

      I don’t want his money, and as he has made that decision, I don’t want him to be a part of this either. He is in the army, is moving city away from mine, and despite still having his girlfriend he has reposted his ‘advert’ on the dating site we met in, listing that he does want children and stating that family is very important to him.

      The guy is a scumbag, and has treated me appallingly.

      The main fear I have, is him turning up in few years and insisting to see his child. Which I think would be damaging towards my child, and I am extremely scared of him then taking the child away from me, because as a father UK law states that he has equal parental rights to me. So I could potentially spend the next 5 years, raising, caring for and nurturing a child, all on my own, and then he could walk in and disrupt, upset and hurt my child.

      I face a lot of problems from outsiders looking down on me, and believing that it would have been better for me to abort. But I am 30, I have a good job, a good home, and am a very caring person. I already love my baby so much and despite the initial set-backs we will encounter I am sincerely devoted to ensuring he/she grows up in a loving, secure environment and hope to instil a healthy sense of self worth and confidence into them.

      I got attacked by a couple yesterday who said I wasn’t doing the right thing by my baby, or it’s dad (!) and that I should be open to him turning up, and to welcome him. It has really upset me and I have been crying a lot.

      I know it may sound evil, but I am seriously considering texting the dad and saying that I have miscarried. That way he will never look me up in the future, and no disruption will be caused to my child. I will likely tell the child that they were conceived from a sp*rm donor.

      What would you do? I’m terrified he will come and take my child from me, and I want to stop that happening. I am terrified that if he walks in in a few years, then my child will suffer psychologically. The man has already proved to me that he is a liar, a cheat, a coward, and has the morals of a villain. So I don’t trust him or want him anywhere near my precious child.

      Please, no judging, I am already in enough of a headache. Just your honest opinions of what you would do in the same situation would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.

    • Nick says:

      August 22nd, 2012 at 9:09 pm

      i need some constructive criticism

      The World Has Turned Cold

      The broken door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. My hands fall to my side, defeated, and I pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk stiffly to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street I see a lady walking a dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The metallic doors jerk open and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again then slows to a stop a minute later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize, and messy-haired teen sitting next to me pulls out a book and begins to read. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.

    • Rishabh Bajpai says:

      September 3rd, 2012 at 12:55 am

      I’ve asked this, but I really want more critique. how can i make it better?? rate 1-10 please

      The World Has Turned Cold

      The broken door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. My hands fall to my side, defeated, and I pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street, I see a lady walking a small dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The doors jerk open when I enter and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window, into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again, then slows to a stop a minute later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize. Now when I look at the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.

    • have faith says:

      September 6th, 2012 at 7:04 am

      I know I’ve asked this, but I really want more critique on my writing.You can say whatever, just try to be helpful.

      title: The World Has Turned Cold

      The broken door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. I put my hands down, defeated, and pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street, I see a lady walking a small dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The doors jerk open when I enter and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window, into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again, then slows to a stop a minute later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize. Now when I look at the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.
      Rikki- thanks, but i this was intended to be a short story. im not going to write any more, other than just revising it. thank you though! 😀

    • Hannah says:

      September 8th, 2012 at 12:57 am

      I’m in the UK, and looking for a job at the moment. I posted an advert in the jobseekers section on Gumtree yesterday. Today, I had a short email from somebody stating they had a job available and to contact them if I wanted more details.

      I got back to them asking for more details, and I received this reply:

      Thanks for your interest in the job, the sole representative Handles the accounting section of the company, It doesn’t requires you to have knowledge of Accounting, You will only work on instructions base on billing functions, customer communications, file maintenance and processing of sales orders and cash receipts . The primary aspect of this position will be processing accounts receivable invoices and performing data entry into the system.We are a firm offering a personal service to our clients, we are into supplies Fabrics materials, to our customers in the UK.We are based in United State, with an enviable reputation for customer service and support. We are an independent supplier,and a subsidiary of M.I.R. Fabric Products Leader in North America {http://www.mirfabricproducts.ca/index.html}. specializing in all aspects of Fabrics products & materials.All applicants must be authorized to work in the United Kingdom.Qualifications:
      -Must be proficient in Excel, and Word.Other Requirements:
      -Must have adequate computer knowledge/Internet, as the job requires posting of report weekly
      -Good written and verbal communication skills.
      -Ability to organize, multi-task and prioritize accordingly.
      -Comfort with a start-up environment and have a sense of humor.The Job does not require any further knowledge of Accounting as the job is basically based on Instruction, just as you will be directed each time. Which means Anybody can apply for this position.Salary/Benefits:£500 weekly

      Get back fast as possible if you are still interestedThanks.
      Jose
      Mayar Fabrics
      Subsidiary Of M.I.R. Fabric Products

      I’ve emailed back asking for a bit more info and saying I’d be interested in applying.

      However it seems a bit too good to be true, mainly because of the high wage. Also, the email is from a yahoo address not a business address. I’m not pinning any hopes on it, however my thoughts were, what do I have to lose by applying… if it turns out to be a con then I’ve lost nothing, is this right? Or do I somehow stand to lose something by emailing this guy about it? Of course, if anything comes up such as ‘we need your bank details…’ or whatever, then I won’t reply! But if it’s just a case of applying, getting an interview, and then seeing if it’s a genuine offer or not, would I be putting myself in harms way by going through that process at all?
      The link there doesn’t work because it has a } on the end. Delete that and you can see the website. It’s American and has no mention of anything in Britain. I think I’ve already answered my own question to be honest… no way would somewhere pay £500 a week for someone with no experience. Hmm. I just can’t understand what the point of the con is, unless he is going to try and get my bank details off me!
      Yes, I am certain it is a con now. I just had this reply:

      Hello again and thanks for your interest, the below info is needed to start the job

      Your Full Name:
      Your Full Postal Address:
      Active Phone Number(s)
      Currently Employed: Yes/No
      If Yes, What type of work and Current Position:
      Yahoo Messenger ID: (You can create one if you don’t have already for easier communication)

      Get back as fast as possible,

      Thanks.
      Jose
      Mayar Fabrics
      Subsidiary Of M.I..R. Fabric Products
      N.B You will be doing the job in your location Leicestershire so get back to me with your details so that i can give you the instruction and information.

      He avoided answering most of my questions, and what reputable employer chats over Yahoo messenger! Don’t think so! Ahh shame, I was having dreams of being rich for a short while 😛

      I might email M.I.R. Fabrics myself and raise their awareness of this.

    • Bryan J says:

      September 10th, 2012 at 12:54 am

      You can say whatever, mean or nice, just try to be helpful. im not asking for critique on the story, just my writing and how i can improve (though you can comment on the story, too if you’d like)

      title: The World Has Turned Cold

      The lopsided door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. I put my hands down, defeated, and pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street, I see a lady walking a small dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The doors jerk open when I enter and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window, into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again, then slows to a stop a minuet later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize. Now when I look at the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.

      if you’re interested, this is my first draft: http://answers.yahoo.com/quest.....115AAs4TaM

      it’s changed a lot. I think i’ve been improving.
      im not going to give you a brief summary. what would be the point? i want my WRITING to be critiqued, not a summary of my writing. im sorry that you’re too lazy to read a few paragraphs.

    • nick s says:

      October 6th, 2012 at 1:57 am

      I have looked online at a lot of things and i’m pretty sure most of them are not relevant to myself.
      For instance, I know i’m writing something that I think is totally cool and right for me to write about. And I also want to write. I mean, i’m not adverting it. I just feel like the words just don’t want to come…they don’t come naturally, right now. Yesterday they did. I do have one explanation, but i’m not sure if it would change anything. I always write at night. By the time midnight comes around, i’m usually really intuitive with my story. Another possibility could be that i’m not sure where my story should be going and am afraid to write on that account? Well, I have always been a non-planner, write at the seat of your pants. But for this book, I did for the first time, write down a few things on a few note cards for the first…six chapters. I’m to chapter six, actually, right now. Anyway, I know the outline of my book pretty well…which will probably change like usual anyway. ( : I am however, afraid to write. I’m not sure if that’s the whole reason why I’m in a slog, but I am almost positive it has to do something with it. I think i’m afraid because I just don’t want to go off in some other direction…I’m actually, not sure if I know what to do with the story. Maybe that’s it. (I just came up with that idea.) Though, because my book is coming from two perspectives I can easily go ahead and write any chapter which will be in a whole other setting than the one I am presently in, and doing that still is a drag. But I just don’t get it. Why does this happen? It does go away…but then it comes back to haunt me every so often. I don’t know how to avoid it.
      I know you may think, Well, if it goes away then what’s the problem?
      The problem is it takes up time that I could be writing! If I could avoid this slog altogether is would be a miracle.
      I wonder if big time authors ever go into slogs too. Is that like a normal part of the writing process?
      Okay, I’m sorry for all the rambling questions. Your turn to talk, please. ( :

    • Mr SoLo DoLo says:

      October 12th, 2012 at 10:49 pm

      I fell pregnant from a 2 week fling that ended when I found out he had a girflriend. I found out I was pregnant about 3 weeks later, and the father tried to bully me into having an abortion. First he was nice, and then he got progressively worse. I have remained calm, and have constantly told him that he can have as much or as little contact as he wishes.

      I invited him to the scan a couple of weeks ago, and he ignored me. So I wrote him a long e-mail detailing my worries and fears, and asking him to make it perfectly clear what he wanted, and if he wanted nothing to do with it still, then I would respect his decision and would never contact him again. He wrote quite plainly that he still wanted me to abort, and if I didn’t then he would have nothing to do with the child emotionally, financially or otherwise.

      I don’t want his money, and as he has made that decision, I don’t want him to be a part of this either. He is in the army, is moving city away from mine, and despite still having his girlfriend he has reposted his ‘advert’ on the dating site we met in, listing that he does want children and stating that family is very important to him.

      The guy is a scumbag, and has treated me appallingly.

      The main fear I have, is him turning up in few years and insisting to see his child. Which I think would be damaging towards my child, and I am extremely scared of him then taking the child away from me, because as a father UK law states that he has equal parental rights to me. So I could potentially spend the next 5 years, raising, caring for and nurturing a child, all on my own, and then he could walk in and disrupt, upset and hurt my child.

      I face a lot of problems from outsiders looking down on me, and believing that it would have been better for me to abort. But I am 30, I have a good job, a good home, and am a very caring person. I already love my baby so much and despite the initial set-backs we will encounter I am sincerely devoted to ensuring he/she grows up in a loving, secure environment and hope to instil a healthy sense of self worth and confidence into them.

      I got attacked by a couple yesterday who said I wasn’t doing the right thing by my baby, or it’s dad (!) and that I should be open to him turning up, and to welcome him. It has really upset me and I have been crying a lot.

      I know it may sound evil, but I am seriously considering texting the dad and saying that I have miscarried. That way he will never look me up in the future, and no disruption will be caused to my child. I will likely tell the child that they were conceived from a sp*rm donor.

      What would you do? I’m terrified he will come and take my child from me, and I want to stop that happening. I am terrified that if he walks in in a few years, then my child will suffer psychologically. The man has already proved to me that he is a liar, a cheat, a coward, and has the morals of a villain. So I don’t trust him or want him anywhere near my precious child.

      Please, no judging, I am already in enough of a headache. Just your honest opinions of what you would do in the same situation would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.

    • liza says:

      October 12th, 2012 at 10:49 pm

      i need some constructive criticism

      The World Has Turned Cold

      The broken door of my New York apartment building creaks when I open it. With my briefcase in hand, I’m wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons and snow pants I bought on sale at the thrift store down the street. As soon as I’m outside I feel the frozen draft stinging my cheeks and see the white, gentle mist of my breath curl as it disappears into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them, silently cursing the person who stole my only pair of gloves last week. My hands fall to my side, defeated, and I pull out my cell phone. 8:00 am, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit.
      Negative thirty degrees. That must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk stiffly to the curb, throwing a dime at a sleeping homeless man who looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which faintly smells of something burnt. Across the street I see a lady walking a dog, like she does every morning. I wave at her, and then, just like every other morning, her eyes dart to the ground, ignoring me as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left and advert my attention to the approaching bus. The metallic doors jerk open and a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back.
      The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again as an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early; maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
      The bus comes to a halt and more passengers file in. I peer out the window into the streets. There’s a homeless family: a wrinkled mother and three young children, refuging inside a building neglected and abused with shattered windows, peeling paint, and graffiti. They’re huddled around a fire that is without a doubt what kept them alive last night. The bus starts again then slows to a stop a minute later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with a grave, hushed tongue in a language I don’t recognize, and messy-haired teen sitting next to me pulls out a book and begins to read. Bored, I gaze at the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he tells the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street where the temperature is one hundred and thirty-two degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
      When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady a row behind me, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
      After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.

    • David says:

      November 8th, 2012 at 11:12 am

      It’s for an assessment at school (I’m in year 10). Is there anything that could be improved? Do I need to change my vocabulary or punctuation?

      Khadiza

      As dawn approaches, the realisation that time is running out for Khadiza becomes all too apparent. Will she be forced to be stuck in a loveless marriage forever?

      In my head I keep going over what happened yesterday evening: hurrying home from Shazzad’s house, petrified that Dad will give me another black eye or whack me with his heavy belt “for being late.” He’s always hurting me. There are deep scars and purple bruises covering my back. I worry what the other girls will say in PE, although I do manage to hide them one way or another.

      Ever since Mum died Dad went off the rails, becoming vicious, violent and even turning to alcohol. Hypocritically he says I’m a bad Muslim “for being out with friends all the time.” Slaving away like Cinderella, I really ought to be stuck in the prison I’m supposed to call home.

      Lying in Shazzad’s arms crying, most of the time I just dread the thought of going back to that prison. However he manages to comfort me just by holding me close and wiping my tears away with a red handkerchief and gentle kisses. He’s the only thing I’ve got. I’m always telling him he’s got the patience of a saint because he’s just always there for me. Like some kind of psychiatrist, all he ever does is listen to me. A lot of the time I feel guilty because it’s as if his whole world revolves around me. I think that instead of my miserable life he deserves to be happy. Sometimes I have terrible nightmares where he’s left me for another girl, a happier girl. Not just a miserable girl with a pretty face. Despite my thoughts, he says he is happy and wants to put me first. Shazzad is very obsessive. He’s even got me a spare sim card so I can secretly contact him whenever I like and tops my phone up for me all the time. To be honest I don’t really understand why these feelings of doubt occur. Maybe I’m just so scared of losing him. I love him too much.

      I remember the first time I met him, the first time my eyes locked with his in the peaceful work room at school. I was already obsessed with this chocolate dream and always looked out for him. Marching around by himself with his head held high, he seemed really confident. Gobby girls giggled and whistled at him. He’d never be interested in getting married, I sadly thought. But it was impossible for me to choose my own Husband anyway with a Dad like mine, and I did need to concentrate on becoming a Doctor.

      That all changed when he approached me. Slowly, he sauntered towards me, his deep eyes locked with mine, communicating. He’s so close! I thought as the smell of his lynx dark temptation travelled with him. New feelings were awakening – I had the worst kind of butterflies I had ever experienced, even worse than when Dad turned into an aggressive monster. However this feeling was different, it was just nice rather than threatening.

      He sat down. As bold as soldier, I barely reached up to his broad shoulders. Now is the time to get a good look at him, there’s no point in subtly pretending he’s not there anymore, I thought. His square jaw was just right for a bic razor advert. There was a scar on his otherwise flawless face which ran vertically through the arch of one of his perfect eyebrows, and red, sore marks all over his knuckles. I found myself wondering how he had got them. Bad fights perhaps? He did look a tough lad. He touched his right eyebrow with his fingertips, as though reading my thoughts. I then realised I had been staring at him. After what seemed like several minutes of gazing, I forced myself to look down.

      We sat there in a tormenting awkward silence for what seemed like several more minutes. Suddenly, he slammed my biology book shut! He didn’t even look like he was joking because he had such a straight face. Uneasily, I looked up at him as my butterflies flew out of the window. That’s what he intended to do, I realised once his warm smile reached his usually hard eyes. “Just thought I’d break the ice a bit,” he said in his Oldham accent.
      “Oh. Well I’ve lost my page now, you idiot.” Embarrassed I regretted my first ever words to him as soon as they left my mouth, but he looked a bit relieved.

      Drifting off to sleep in bed, I had always imagined purposely dropping my books near him or even throwing them in the air, just so he could “help me pick them up” and then we’d go for coffee and chocolate cake, just like those cheesy romantic films. Day one was far from what I had imagined, although similar in a way.

    • callofduty5123412 says:

      November 13th, 2012 at 1:26 am

      I just bought my first ever horse yesterday after 6 years!! 😀 So I just thought I’d ask some questions about you and your own/lease horses 😀
      PS. Please put the questions in your answer; it makes it easer to understand :’D
      Thanks! 😀 Have fun 🙂

      1) What is the name of your horse(s)?
      My answer: Magenta =)

      2) How old are they?
      My answer: five and a half.

      3) How long have you been riding?
      My answer: 6 years.

      4) How long have you had your horse(s)?
      My answer: A day xD

      5) How did you get them? Avertisement, friends, etc….
      My answer: Advertisement.

      6) What colour are they?
      My answer: Magenta is a palomino 🙂

      7) What breed are they?
      My answer: A thoroughbred cross.

      8) What do you work on with them? Flatwork, jumping, dressage, barrel racing, etc….
      My answer: I’m going to be working with mainly flatwork and jumping.

      9) Do you have any horsey relatives or friends? If so, who (if relative just say mother or something xD), and do they have horses?
      My answer: No family, just a friend. :3

      10) What is the best memory with you and your horse(s)?
      My answer: We don’t really have any yet, but when I went up to take her out of the trailer and put her in her new stable, she started nibbling my hand :’D I thought it was cute xD (I know it can become a bad habit but I’ll make sure she doesn’t do it again :P)

    • Jonathan says:

      November 13th, 2012 at 4:31 pm

      ok yesterday i went into my local argos and got: http://www.argos.co.uk/static/.....+ULTRA.htm

      It turned out it wasn’t HD , even though it says so in the title. On the bottom of the box it says : Video Resolution: VGA 640X480 which is NOT HD , and the qualitys nowhere near either, apparently this is excluded from 30 day money back “Please note that this product is excluded from our 30 Day Money Back Guarantee. This does not affect your statutory rights.” But surely as it was a falsely advertised product i would be able to get a refund?

      Please can you tell me my chances and opinion 🙂

      Thanks
      Jerome
      EDIT: But still it says HD , and its VGA , im not expecting 1080p , but VGA is not any form of High Definiton of any kind

    • Jason says:

      November 15th, 2012 at 4:05 am

      It’s for an assessment at school (I’m in year 10). Is there anything that could be improved? Do I need to change my vocabulary or punctuation?

      Khadiza

      As dawn approaches, the realisation that time is running out for Khadiza becomes all too apparent. Will she be forced to be stuck in a loveless marriage forever?

      In my head I keep going over what happened yesterday evening: hurrying home from Shazzad’s house, petrified that Dad will give me another black eye or whack me with his heavy belt “for being late.” He’s always hurting me. There are deep scars and purple bruises covering my back. I worry what the other girls will say in PE, although I do manage to hide them one way or another.

      Ever since Mum died Dad went off the rails, becoming vicious, violent and even turning to alcohol. Hypocritically he says I’m a bad Muslim “for being out with friends all the time.” Slaving away like Cinderella, I really ought to be stuck in the prison I’m supposed to call home.

      Lying in Shazzad’s arms crying, most of the time I just dread the thought of going back to that prison. However he manages to comfort me just by holding me close and wiping my tears away with a red handkerchief and gentle kisses. He’s the only thing I’ve got. I’m always telling him he’s got the patience of a saint because he’s just always there for me. Like some kind of psychiatrist, all he ever does is listen to me. A lot of the time I feel guilty because it’s as if his whole world revolves around me. I think that instead of my miserable life he deserves to be happy. Sometimes I have terrible nightmares where he’s left me for another girl, a happier girl. Not just a miserable girl with a pretty face. Despite my thoughts, he says he is happy and wants to put me first. Shazzad is very obsessive. He’s even got me a spare sim card so I can secretly contact him whenever I like and tops my phone up for me all the time. To be honest I don’t really understand why these feelings of doubt occur. Maybe I’m just so scared of losing him. I love him too much.

      I remember the first time I met him, the first time my eyes locked with his in the peaceful work room at school. I was already obsessed with this chocolate dream and always looked out for him. Marching around by himself with his head held high, he seemed really confident. Gobby girls giggled and whistled at him. He’d never be interested in getting married, I sadly thought. But it was impossible for me to choose my own Husband anyway with a Dad like mine, and I did need to concentrate on becoming a Doctor.

      That all changed when he approached me. Slowly, he sauntered towards me, his deep eyes locked with mine, communicating. He’s so close! I thought as the smell of his lynx dark temptation travelled with him. New feelings were awakening – I had the worst kind of butterflies I had ever experienced, even worse than when Dad turned into an aggressive monster. However this feeling was different, it was just nice rather than threatening.

      He sat down. As bold as soldier, I barely reached up to his broad shoulders. Now is the time to get a good look at him, there’s no point in subtly pretending he’s not there anymore, I thought. His square jaw was just right for a bic razor advert. There was a scar on his otherwise flawless face which ran vertically through the arch of one of his perfect eyebrows, and red, sore marks all over his knuckles. I found myself wondering how he had got them. Bad fights perhaps? He did look a tough lad. He touched his right eyebrow with his fingertips, as though reading my thoughts. I then realised I had been staring at him. After what seemed like several minutes of gazing, I forced myself to look down.

      We sat there in a tormenting awkward silence for what seemed like several more minutes. Suddenly, he slammed my biology book shut! He didn’t even look like he was joking because he had such a straight face. Uneasily, I looked up at him as my butterflies flew out of the window. That’s what he intended to do, I realised once his warm smile reached his usually hard eyes. “Just thought I’d break the ice a bit,” he said in his Oldham accent.
      “Oh. Well I’ve lost my page now, you idiot.” Embarrassed I regretted my first ever words to him as soon as they left my mouth, but he looked a bit relieved.

      Drifting off to sleep in bed, I had always imagined purposely dropping my books near him or even throwing them in the air, just so he could “help me pick them up” and then we’d go for coffee and chocolate cake, just like those cheesy romantic films. Day one was far from what I had imagined, although similar in a way.

    • timq3dimensionscom says:

      November 15th, 2012 at 4:17 am

      J= my crush
      So to summarize everything, on the last day of school for a picture, I put my arm around J and he did the same back but he was shaking, sweaty, and breathing hard. A lot of people thinks J likes me including my friends and a girl that used to like him. When I was visiting friends, he was there and his friends too and one of them told me to say hi to J. But J got a facebook a few weeks ago and I tried friending him but nothing :/ He didn’t respond to it. And I got his number and tried calling and texting but nothing either. And I think I left him a voicemail. And when I visited my friends at camp, he was there and his friend told him to say hi to me and he did. And then we were inside and he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
      At school (we’re back at school now) we don’t have classes together 🙁 But I think he was smiling when I went up the down stairs (Rebel right hereee) And he might have been looking at me too.
      What doesn’t make sense is at lunch, I went up to him (He was with his friends) and I said hi and he waved hi back but when I tried to keep talking, he wouldn’t say anything but his best friend says J doesn’t say much. But J was eating jello and I think it was shaking a little more when he was eating it, if you know what I mean. Oh but this guy at his table asked why I was there and so did J So a. why wasn’t he at least trying to talk to me then? and b. does he still like me? THANKS!!!!! 😀 Should I try friending J again or would it just be too much? Because he hasn’t blocked me but it just says that he hasn’t responded to it yet. THANKS!!!!!! J was just on facebook yesterday :/ Oh and my guy friend (who’s friends with him) tried texting him a couple months ago but nothing.

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