Well that's torn it

It's that time again. What time, you ask? Well, it's that peculiar time where it doesn't matter what time it is. For I, dear reader, am unemployed again. I've made my share of fuckups over the last four years of drug-sprinkled poverty in Belfast, and by and large I like to think I've learned something from them. These things are best handled with a sense of humour, and humour works best when it has a point. But then I do something so staggeringly fucking daft I feel like I've been kicked in the back of my head by my own drunken spastic self.
This something happened (probably the wrong word; 'happened' sounds like it could be someone else's fault) on the 15th of this month. I'd been drinking the night before, not caning it you understand, but because I was working the next afternoon and didn't want to inadvertantly shout at anyone, had drunk sensibly and gone home at some point. Now up I get at one-ish, and out I dash to take calls from people picking bones with Vodafone. Dandy I thought. So down I sit, ten mintues early for my shift, and down I settle to read the BBC website through again. Well at least I thought I was early.
I checked my online worky schedule-checky thing, and found to my bewilderment that I was supposed to be in from 9 that morning, and since there were no managers in the shithole they'd marked me down as AWOL. Again. Then I recalled that I'd made a note of the shifts I was supposed to have been working about three weeks in advance, and not bothered my balls checking it over the last week for any changes. Then, even more bedevillingly, I remembered that because I'd done this sort of thing a couple of times before, and was on a final written warning for this other similar silly-buggery, I was sacked. And I had a cunt of a hangover.
So I decided to cut my losses, and fucked off for a Snickers.
Two plus sides: one, I was paid the Monday after that, and so was able to square up my current landlord for the last of the months' rent I'd not paid the last time I was habitually bothering librarians, and b) I managed to get an interview with Abbey the day I got fired, and as such have only two weeks or so to kill while very skint. An an eye over my shoulder in fear of a Richard Hammond-esque jinx, how hard can it be?