Which, I know, gave me more than a touch of the Norma Desmonds from Sunset Boulevard,but then that’s my neighbours for you. Well intentioned but cutting. Hence my long-term survival policy of avoid, avoid, avoid. Emma of course just laughed and smiled and took it all in her stride. And when she finally had to leave, she hugged me tightly before slipping into her car, zooming out of my new life and back into my old one.

And now…Ta-da!…the actual good news. I have a job. Don’t get too excited though. It’s nothing like what I used to do. At all. Not by the longest of long shots.

How it came about was thus: my emergency dole money finally came through, but honest to God, by the time I paid Sharon back what I owed her, not to mention the good people at Visa who’ve set up a ‘long-term debt repayment schedule’ for the rest of my natural life, there was nothing left over. Nada. And I hated borrowing more, particularly from Joan who’s one of those people who hold a bad debt over your head like a whip.

That aside, having feck all to do day in and day out was certainly contributing to the low-level depression I’d been going through these past few months. And, in a funny way, seeing Emma again brought it all back to me. In times past, I was just like her; always on the go, busy and active from the minute I hopped out of bed to whatever God-awful hour I crawled back into it again. And, OK, a lot of that time was spent getting myself into toxic debt, but you get the picture. Being busy = good for me. Earning cash = even better.

I rang my poor agent Roger so many times in the past few weeks that I almost formed a mental picture of him waving his monogrammed hanky at his assistant and mouthing at her, ‘If that’s bloody Jessie Woods yet AGAIN, tell her I’m not in and no, there are NO JOBS.’ And it’s not just in the entertainment industry either. No one’s hiring anywhere. NO one. Not the huckster shop down the street, not in the takeaways, not even in our local Maxol garage. Believe you me, I’ve tried them all. This is the first summer in living memory when even students can’t get part-time jobs and anyone lucky enough to have a Saturday job is politely but firmly being let go.

Plus, there’s the slightly bigger concern. I’m not exactly trained to do all that much, am I? I mean, yes, I did a certificate course in media training years ago, but since then my work experience to date has all involved doing wild and wacky dares, bits and pieces of freelance reporting, pointing at areas of low pressure on chromo-key maps and acting as general dogsbody to a lunatic. And I’m up against college graduates with BAs and MBAs and MAs hanging out of their earlobes. You know, useful qualifications.

Then there’s the other, slightly more delicate problem. Who wants to hire someone who made such a spectacular show of themselves live to the nation? When there’s a queue forming behind me of, let’s just say normal, reliable, more trustworthy candidates? The problem was driving me nuts and I was on the verge of throwing in the towel, when, not for the first time, Sharon came to my rescue.

About a week ago, she bounced home from work so delighted with herself that I thought some handsome, TV-addicted, fast-food-loving stranger had walked up to her and asked her on a date. But it turned out to be even better.

‘News for you,’ she beamed. ‘You’ll never guess, so don’t even try to. Smiley Burger are looking for a new crew member and guess who has an interview tomorrow morning? You do! I had to put in a good word for you though, but don’t let on we’re sisters or else they’ll all think it’s nepotism.’

Useless my protesting that I know as much about the fine art of burger-making as I do about flying the space shuttle, Sharon was having none of it. Think of it like one of your dares on telly, she said. A child of five could do it and in fact, if it was up to Larry the boss (who they all call Larry the Louse) he’d have the kitchen entirely staffed with underage kids like in a Chinese sweatshop, just so he wouldn’t have to bother paying them minimum wage.

Then there was the small question of wages. €9.31 an hour. Which works out at a bit more than €446 per week, if I can manage to work a six-day week. Exactly doublemy dole money. It would mean I could finally start paying my way at home and therefore be exempted from doing all the housework. And just the very thought of never, ever having to stand in that God-awful, long, snaking queue at the dole office is enough to have me grabbing Sharon’s uniform, name badge and hat and running down to Smiley Burger to start chopping gherkins right now.

Sharon even spent hours coaching me through the type of questions I was likely to be asked at the interview. Interview, I thought? Surely I just turn up, fill out an application form and get kitted out with a uniform straight away? You’d think that, but no. Apparently, I’m expected to wax lyrical about all their products and as Sharon put it, show that I actually do eat the shite.

So she gave me a crash course on every single thing they make, Smiley Burgers, Smiley Fries, Smiley Shakes; they even do a whole range of low-fat Smiley Calorie-Counter meals, all of which taste like cardboard and by the time you add on the Smiley Salad Dressing, end up with exactly the same fat content as a big, greasy burger and chips. But there again, I’m quoting Sharon.

Then, on the morning of the interview, when she spotted me getting into my usual jeans and a casual top, she almost had a coronary. ‘Jeez, smarten up a bit, will you? Larry the Louse will be interviewing candidates kitted out like they’re going to appear in court. People with actual degrees. So cop the feck on.’

I did what she said, albeit a bit sulkily, thinking, Yeah right, degrees in what exactly? How to deep fry chips? Anyway, I did manage to find a solitary Peter O’Brien crisp, tailored suit among the few clothes I’d held on to for just such an emergency, so I shoehorned myself into it and off I went. And bloody glad I was too that I wore something demure, mainly because Larry the Louse spent pretty much the entire interview staring at my chest. Honestly. He’s well named too, he actually does have a lousey look about him, with eyes that bit too close together and teeth that bit too pointy and sharp. And when he wasn’t looking at my chest he was looking at my legs, one or the other. The git never even asked me a single thing about all the crap I’d memorised; how many calories were in a Smiley Chicken Salad, was the beef in the burgers one hundred per cent locally sourced and organic? No, all he wanted to know was did I regret leaving Channel Six and whether or not Emma Sheridan was single. Dear Jaysus help me.

I must have done something right though, because the last thing he said to me was, ‘So, when can you start?’ And as I stood up to shake his hand on my way out the door, he leaned in and gave me a highly inappropriate peck on the cheek. Now there was a layer of skin I’d be exfoliating later.

So now I’m one full week in the job, it’s Saturday lunchtime and today I’m being trained on the till. At all times remembering the two Smiley catchphrases, which have been drummed into me: ‘Did you want fries with that?’ and my personal favourite, ‘You have a Smiley day now!’

Till duty is actually considered something of a promotion here, mainly because on hygiene duty, you’re expected to mop floors and clean toilets which most of the staff hate and despise. I’m not so bothered though, as let’s face it, up until a few days ago, I was doing all that stuff at home anyway, for free. But interacting directly with customers has caught me a tiny bit off guard, mainly because, new-look red hair or not, I’m quietly terrified that someone will come in and recognise me as ‘your one who got fired off the telly’.